Congenital Magnetism

Harry was already out of bed when the first weak rays of light colored the eastern sky, and he easily convinced Madam Pomfrey he was well enough to leave. Once he had retrieved his Invisibility Cloak from his room, Hogwarts Castle was at his disposal. Since it was early on a Saturday morning, the Hogwarts greenhouses were deserted, including the one where Professor Sprout housed her storage containers. Harry looked through every container that could possibly contain items that had been lost over the years. Although he saw a number of objects students must have lost in years past, his Herbology workbook was nowhere to be found. But nothing was going to stop Harry; he was single-minded in his resolve to unravel the mystery of his dream and find that stupid workbook. Harry’s next destination was Professor McGonagall’s office. He had no problem finding the Time-Turner, remembering Hermione’s description of its location from third year, and he slipped the hourglass pendant into his pocket.

 

* * *

 

By midmorning, Harry and Draco were in Dumbledore’s office informing the Headmaster and Snape of their plan to roam through the forested areas to the south of the castle and search for the final ingredient for their Potions project. Since Harry and Draco would be nowhere near the Forbidden Forest, which lay west of the castle, Dumbledore had no qualms about allowing them a sojourn in the countryside and instructed them to return by Sunday evening.

Harry and Draco left the castle that morning and were soon flying over a landscape much like the one that had first led them to the wetlands where they had collected most of their plant specimens. On their first trip, they had flown southeast toward the bogs. This time, though, they proceeded directly south, and their passage took them across hills and quiet fields. Finally, they reached a terrain of oak woods, the remnants of the ancient oak forest that once covered the west coast of Scotland. The wooded areas were interrupted by occasional grassy clearings, and they used one such clearing to make their landing. The warm September sunshine cast a soft, golden glow across the woodland clearing. The wild daffodils of spring were no longer in evidence, but a profusion of bluebells still sprinkled the tall grass.

Draco looked toward the darkness of the deep woods. “So we’re looking for a certain type of hellebore, right?”

“The mutated variety,” Harry said, “with red flowers instead of green flowers. I think hellebore likes to grow in the shade of oak forests, so this would be a good place to start looking.”

Draco smiled at Harry as he draped his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “Someone’s been doing research on this, I can see.” The two of them advanced toward the edge of the forest.

“Yeah, but I just wish I hadn’t lost that Herbology workbook at the end of first year. I’m sure I wrote some notes about good locations around Hogwarts for finding hellebore.”

Draco stopped and took Harry by the shoulders. “That was so long ago, Harry…” Draco slid his arm around Harry’s neck, bringing him closer, “… just let it go. We’re living in the present, not the past.” Draco took a chance and planted a soft kiss on Harry’s lips.

“You’re right.” Harry was basking in the simple affection Draco was showering on him, and he nestled his head against Draco’s shoulder. “What’s done is done.”

Harry and Draco had come to an understanding that their project was a cooperative effort, and it was unrelated to anything that had happened in the past. This worked out well since they had spent the last five years at Hogwarts mainly getting on each other’s nerves.

They whiled away most of the day exploring the woods, although without much success, and sunset was approaching. Even though there was still light in the western sky, the woods were dark and secret, and only little patches of light broke through the oaks. They had journeyed into the deepest, most remote end of the forest. No noises could be heard, other than a few birds in the treetop canopy; the fox and the hare must have already bid each other good night and retired for the evening. Draco was just on the point of suggesting that they head back to the clearing where they had first landed, so they would have a place to eat dinner and lay out their sleeping bags, when they spotted a small, weather-beaten hut in derelict condition. The little shack lay in the tiniest bit of clearing.

Draco took Harry’s arm. “This will do for the night, don’t you think?”

Harry went in first, and the small door was just big enough for him to walk in without stooping. As Draco entered, the top of the doorframe brushed against his hair and he lowered his head slightly. The hinges of the door had come loose from the frame, and the door had to be dragged into place when it was opened or closed. There were no windows, so Draco just left the door open to let the light in. They both threw their backpacks onto the single piece of furniture in the hut, a low workbench, and then set their brooms against a wall. The interior of the hut was paneled with plain pine boards, and the floor was covered with many layers of pine needles, which felt surprisingly comfortable underfoot. A pile of twigs and branches sat beside a brick fireplace in one corner. Harry walked over and tried to scoop up a handful of the smaller twigs to put in the fireplace, but the kindling material had been left there for so long that the twigs crumbled apart at the touch of Harry’s hand.

Harry was kneeling by the fireplace and looked up at Draco. “No one’s used this shack for ages.”

Draco knelt down on the floor, right beside Harry, and wound his arm behind Harry’s neck. “That means the shack is ours, angel eyes.”

Harry started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s not that it’s funny,” Harry said, smiling, and laced his fingers with Draco’s. “It’s just that… you’re the first person who’s ever called me that.”

Draco held Harry’s chin and slowly moved closer until their lips were touching. “Angel eyes,” he repeated. Harry’s lips opened at the touch of Draco’s mouth, and Draco kissed Harry’s lower lip, holding it gently between his own lips.

There was no mistake about it, as far as Harry was concerned. Draco liked him, and it was in a physical way too, but this was utterly different from anything he would have ever expected. Draco’s hands moved across Harry’s face and neck with such care and gentleness. No one had treated Harry like that before—no one, ever.

“All right, Harry, I like calling you angel eyes.” The corners of Draco’s mouth curled up. “It’s not just because your eyes are so beautiful.” Draco hesitated, and then his tone turned more serious. “I want to remember never to hurt you. I was there at that hateful house in Little Whinging where you grew up. I talked with your aunt and I saw your tiny little upstairs bedroom. I even sat in the broom cupboard under the stairs, that terrible place you slept in for the first eleven years of your life.

“I was drawn to you from the first moment I ever saw you, when you were being measured for your robes in Madam Malkin’s shop. But I guess I misunderstood you completely. I thought you’d want to be my friend if I showed you how powerful and influential my family was. My parents always told me that family connections impressed people. But I can see now that was the worst thing I could have done. It only put you off and made you think I was just someone else who would try to hurt you, like your uncle and aunt had.”

Draco got to his feet, moved uncertainly to the workbench, took Harry’s backpack and brought it back to where Harry was still kneeling by the fireplace.

Draco’s smile was unsure. “I’m hungry. You want to perform the charm to unshrink the food so we can make dinner?”

Harry was spellbound by everything Draco had told him since they’d entered the hut, and he ignored Draco’s question about dinner. Instead, he rose to his feet and wrapped his arms around Draco in an embrace so fierce that Draco found it difficult to breathe. After a long while, when he’d regained his presence of mind, Harry unshrunk the food he’d packed, and the two shared dinner as the sun set and the light streaming through the door became fainter.

After they’d finished dinner, Draco got his wand, took Harry by the hand and led him outside the hut. “I know we haven’t found this plant we’re looking for, but I have an idea.” Draco led Harry just beyond the clearing, and they both peered into the underbrush.

“What I’m thinking,” Draco said, “is that this mutated hellebore… with red flowers?”

“Right. We’ve only seen hellebore with the usual green flowers so far.”

“It might be one of those species you mostly see at night,” Draco continued.

“Could be.” Just then, a hare, sensing their presence, shot away from them. “I love to watch animals,” Harry said, looking in the direction the hare had gone, “but the ones in the forest always run off before I can catch sight of them.”

Draco put his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “I told my mother the same thing when I was a child because Malfoy Manor is surrounded by woods and meadow, and I love to watch all the animals just like you do. So she taught me a spell that makes animals’ fear of humans disappear for a short time. Watch.”

Draco raised his wand and recited an incantation. Then he slowly walked with Harry through another area of brush not far from the hut. They stopped short because a couple feet ahead of them, lit by the rays of the setting sun, were two foxes resting under an oak tree. The foxes were spooned against each other and cast an aura of pure bliss—the simple joy of each other’s company.

“See?” Draco smiled, knowing the spell had worked. “They aren’t afraid of us.”

“Look at them,” Harry said. “I’m envious. They’re so snug and happy with each other. It’s foolish, I guess, to envy them…” his voice broke and died down to a ragged whisper, and his eyes glistened a little too much, “… but I do envy them.” There was a yearning in Harry that bespoke someone who was alone and abandoned, which no longer surprised Draco, knowing what he did about Harry’s childhood.

Draco closed his hand around Harry’s arm and brought him closer, torn between protectiveness and raw desire, then reached his arm around and covered Harry’s head with his hand. Harry leaned in, grateful to find shelter. Draco’s resistance crumbled, and finally, he submitted to fate and said, “To hell with the rest of the world. We have our own world.” Draco slipped his other hand up under Harry’s shirt, and the hand happily prowled everywhere within reach. “There’s no avoiding it, so let’s have it.”

Draco gently took hold of Harry’s shoulders and led him back inside the hut. By this point, Draco knew how to use the unshrinking spell on the sleeping bags and pillows, and he spread them out next to each other across the soft pine-needle floor. Harry lay down, content to have someone else take care of him for a change, rather than having to fulfill his usual function as savior of the wizarding world. Draco bent over the pile of kindling, gathered some of the thicker branches that were still useable and arranged them in the brick fireplace. Soon he had a fire going that provided the windowless hut with both warmth and light, and wisps of smoke curled out of the chimney. The feeble, rapidly dying light of dusk that filtered in through the door was no longer necessary, and Draco shut the door tightly. He looked down at Harry, who had propped himself up on his elbows, and then knelt down beside him.

Draco stroked Harry’s cheek deceptively with one hand while the other hand was pulling at the buttons on Harry’s shirt. “How does this come off, I wonder?” The question was absurdly rhetorical since Draco already had half the buttons undone. A shirtless Harry was exacting his own revenge on Draco’s shirt, and shortly, liberated articles of clothing flew in random directions. Draco’s hands were softly groping Harry’s face and loins. He planted reverent kisses on Harry’s face and neck as he stroked Harry’s ribs, one after the other. All the while, Harry was clutching Draco’s arms with wild abandon, finally satisfying his curiosity about what those hard, corded muscles would feel like. Draco showed not the slightest hint of roughness, although his movements were crude and to the point. With infinite tenderness, he held both sides of Harry’s chest as the two naked bodies melded into one.

No matter which position they ended up in, it was clear that Draco was wild about the idea of holding Harry by his chest. This was an obsession Draco had developed over years of watching Harry beat him to the Snitch in almost every Quidditch game they had ever played against each other. At first, it was maddening. Gradually, frustration at losing Quidditch games was replaced by fascination with watching Harry’s lithe body maneuver about in mid-air with the agility of a hummingbird. What accounted for that agility? What else? Harry’s upper body was a study in efficiency; his torso displayed streamlined beauty, lightness and strength with not a bit of extra bulk. During Quidditch games, that exquisitely beautiful chest often gave Draco a hard-on that he had a hell of a time concealing.

When the frenetic blur that was their two bodies had turned tranquil again, a silence overtook them. Draco let his eyes linger over Harry’s body, noting that although the paleness of Harry’s skin was similar to his own, it was so much more striking in contrast to the soft, loose waves of black hair. My Harry, Draco thought, as he studied Harry’s face, certain that each feature was stamped with an otherworldly perfection. Draco held the other boy fast and scrutinized deep green eyes, pale skin and hair as dark as night; he decided that beauty like this was the stuff of legend.

Harry interrupted Draco’s thoughts. “You remember the fights we used to have in the middle of Quidditch games, don’t you?”

“That was only during the first few years at Hogwarts,” Draco replied. “After that, I started to admire your body. I couldn’t keep myself from staring at you.”

“My uncle and aunt always called me scrawny.”

“No, Harry. Beautiful. Your body has superior aerodynamics for playing Seeker position in Quidditch. That’s why you always won. It’s that perfect, graceful body of yours, especially that beautiful chest. They say that hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backwards.” The corner of Draco’s mouth curled up. “Can you fly backwards?”

Harry had to laugh. “No, but I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”

Draco’s next words came out of nowhere, drawn out of him by some curious spell Harry’s presence was working on him. As honest as the words were, Draco would never have spoken them if he had taken a moment to review them beforehand.

“Harry, do you think it’s possible to fall in love when you’re eleven years old? Because I think I did, the very first moment I saw you… in that robe shop.”

Harry was taken off guard by something so unexpected. “Back then? Really?”

Draco swallowed hard, then answered. “Yeah, really.” He cradled Harry in his arms, covering his face and neck with soft kisses, and if it were possible to fall in love at the age of eleven, then Draco was falling in love all over again. He ran his fingers along Harry’s ribs again, caressing each one. “Winning those Quidditch games really meant a lot to you, didn’t it?”

“It was the only thing I did better than anyone. You and Hermione were always the best students, and I was excited as hell when Professor McGonagall picked me for the team.” Harry considered Draco, his voice turning shy. “I guess you resented it, eh? Me winning all the time?”

“Maybe the first year or two, but after that, no.” The faintest tinge of pink appeared on Draco’s cheeks, and Harry just assumed it was the warmth of the fire. “I was too busy leering at you, I think.”

“With the spectacles and everything? Aunt Petunia finally talked me into getting contact lenses this past summer, but before that, everyone at Hogwarts reminded me how goofy I looked with those spectacles.”

Draco drew Harry very close, until their chests pressed against each other. He spoke carefully, as one might speak to a foreigner, since Harry clearly didn’t grasp what was perfectly obvious to Draco.

“Harry, when I met you in first year…” Draco was almost at a loss. “Something as beautiful as you… beauty like that is not something anyone expects to find in an entire lifetime. Do you really think a pair of spectacles would conceal it?”

“But all the fights in the middle of those Quidditch games. You must have at least been sore at me because of that.”

“No,” Draco said, looking away, “it didn’t bother me all that much.”

“How could it not have bothered you? We always wound up wrestling on the ground with our hands around each other’s throats—until McGonagall or somebody broke it up.”

Draco was now blushing quite red, and Harry realized it had nothing to do with the fire. The guilt was plastered all over Draco’s face, as plain as though the words “Out-Of-Control Sex Fiend” were written directly on Draco’s forehead. Lying was not an option.

“You were always giving me a hard-on. I egged you on so we’d wind up wrestling over the Snitch or some other stupid reason just so that I could… er…” Draco seemed to be full of unexpected information.

“You liked me that much back then,” Harry said, and smiled in sheer wonder. “I wish you’d told me.”

“So do I, Harry.” Draco sat up in the bed, and his hands were prowling Harry’s naked body again. “And all I did when I first met you was scare you away with all that blather about how important and powerful my parents were. All you need is tenderness. Just tell me what else you want.”

Harry had heard quite enough from Draco to banish any sane thoughts, so he just threw his arms around Draco’s neck and brought his weight down, sending them both crashing back onto the pillows.

“I want round two.”

Harry, it seemed, had finally connected with his inner libertine, and it was much later in the evening when Draco, rather drained of energy, was attempting to answer a question Harry had put to him.

“You want to know more about that Ravenclaw girl? I told you she wasn’t really my girlfriend—not for long, anyway. Our families fancied us together, we tried it out, but we just didn’t click.”

Harry was drawing figure eights on Draco’s chest with his finger. “The two of you didn’t hit it off at all?”

“We got along well enough, but I was expecting passion of some kind. She thought of it all as a pleasant stroll in the park, with some fringe benefits from an advantageous family alliance. Somehow I think that love is more than just a pleasant stroll in the park.”

This explanation rang true, Harry decided. There was a new urgency to learn more about each other, and they both indulged their curiosity.

“So your uncle and aunt had no intention of sending you to a wizarding school before Dumbledore forced them to.”

“That’s right,” Harry answered. “They were going to send me to Stonewall High. It’s a Muggle school.”

“Stonewall…” Draco’s left eyebrow arched up. “Rather odd name for a secondary school. For some reason, it sounds like something from American history. Was it the 1960s? No, wait. I think it was one of their generals from the American Civil War. Stonewall Jackson, was it?”

They continued talking about their respective families, and the conversation somehow drifted toward the Death Eaters that Lucius associated with and what they might know about Voldemort and his operations.

“Yes,” Draco was saying, “from time to time I’ve overheard conversations at Malfoy Manor between my father and other Death Eaters about some form of dark magic to attain immortality. I know it has something to do with using objects to store parts of the wizard’s soul. Remember when you viewed my mother’s stored memory in Dumbledore’s office, the part about Voldemort’s diary?”

“Yeah, Voldemort was going nutters about your father putting the diary in Ginny’s backpack instead of keeping it safe.”

“The only thing I ever learned from listening in on those conversations was that Voldemort somehow split his soul in two and then stored the separated part of his soul in an object, so I guess that must have been what the diary was for.”

“And you never found out how Voldemort did it? How he split his soul.”

Draco shook his head. “The operation required intense hate as the driving force, but I never found out anything more than that.”

An odd look came over Harry’s face. “I wonder if anyone’s ever attempted the reverse operation.”

“The reverse operation? How do you mean?”

“I mean if anyone ever tried to merge two souls into a single soul.”

“I’d never considered that,” Draco said. “But from what I overheard, I know there was some sort of catalyst for Voldemort’s soul-splitting operation, and it had to be something involving hate as the magical energy. What kind of catalyst could accomplish what you’re talking about—merging two souls into one?”

“I suppose there would have to be a catalyst, something beyond two people just loving each other.”

“Probably a trauma of some kind.” Draco smiled softly and shook his head. “Where do you come up with these ideas?”

Harry shrugged. “It was just a hypothetical question.” Now he saw Draco’s smile. “You know, for scientific research.”

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry and kissed him soundly. “I’ve found a scientific researcher with angel eyes.” After a long time, Draco released Harry and got out of bed. “I’m going out to look for hellebore plants. We might have better luck at night. Coming with me?”

Harry was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open. “Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I woke up at five o’clock this morning.”

“On a Saturday?”

“I wanted to take a look at some books in the library,” Harry lied, not telling Draco about stopping at Professor McGonagall’s office to borrow the Time-Turner. “I just want to take a little nap. You can wake me up in a couple hours and I’ll join you.”

“You must be dead tired,” Draco said, and he kissed Harry on the forehead. “I’ll come back later and see if you’ve had enough rest.”

Draco left the hut, and as he opened the door, Harry could see that night had fallen and the forest was enveloped in darkness. Harry put his shirt and pants back on since he wanted to be dressed and ready to go when Draco got back. Just a quick nap, then he’d join Draco to look for hellebore out in the woods.

Harry stretched out on the bed, quietly ecstatic. He never imagined that anyone would have made love to him the way Draco had, that anyone would have touched him and cared for him like that. Draco’s words were still running through his head: “I was drawn to you from the first moment I ever saw you.” He let the thrill of those words wash over him. Then some annoying inner voice reminded him that Draco had extended his hand in friendship at the beginning of their first year at Hogwarts, but Harry wouldn’t even shake Draco’s hand. Could that rejection have stung a little? The practical side of Harry’s nature now took command, and he coped, as he always did, by forging ahead without making a fuss about past actions.

Draco has so much confidence, Harry thought. He probably just shrugged it off when I wouldn’t shake his hand, right? And everything’s worked itself out, hasn’t it?

Along with Harry’s admirable coping mechanisms for getting on with life, came his amusing habit of sweeping any inconvenient doubts under the rug. But now the annoying inner voice wanted to know why Harry was so suspicious of Draco when they first met, as if inner voices had any business asking cheeky questions like that. All right, there was Ron’s advice about every wizard-gone-bad coming from Slytherin house, but Ron probably heard that from his family, and there was never any love lost between Ron’s father and Lucius Malfoy. So was that particular prejudice about Slytherins ill-advised? Harry continued tidying things up and getting on with life by sweeping further items under the rug.

Harry’s annoying inner voice cut in with one last bit of critique. Didn’t the Sorting Hat even engage Harry in debate in second year and try to show him how ridiculous his anti-Slytherin prejudice was? Didn’t the Sorting Hat suggest that he might have been better positioned for success (and love?) if he had been in Slytherin House? By this point, Harry had swept enough under the rug to form some fair-sized hillocks.

Harry finally lost patience with annoying inner voices and reached into his pants pocket. He took the Time-Turner out and slipped the chain over his head and around his neck. He wrapped his fingers around the hourglass pendant, hoping that maybe his recurring dream would return if he took a nap. Even if it didn’t, it wouldn’t be very many nights before it did, and Professor McGonagall certainly wouldn’t miss the Time-Turner for a few days. Harry couldn’t help but smile, thinking how shrewd he was to have asked the spirits from the Eastern Shore Network for advice. Of course the Time-Turner would work during dreams. Devastatingly brilliant. Draco would be so proud of him when Harry found out what happened to his Herbology workbook and discovered the location for mutated hellebore—and Harry longed for Draco to be proud of him. Harry could sense Draco’s soul and his own soul growing closer and closer. Couldn’t two souls merge into one, like Harry had suggested when Draco told him about Voldemort’s soul-splitting experiment? And what was up with Voldemort’s crackpot scheme? Splitting your soul in two so that you wouldn’t die. How crazy was that? Leave it to Voldemort to come up with something that weird. What was the catalyst again? Something involving intense hate, and from the information Draco had overheard, there would have to be something equally traumatic involving love in order for two souls to merge into one. Obviously, that wasn’t going to happen between Harry and Draco. They were simply falling in love, and it was turning out to be a very agreeable journey. So what was wrong with love being like a pleasant stroll in the park? Nothing at all that Harry could see.

Harry let his mind drift, waiting for sleep to overtake him. He knew by now that part of his dream was actually a vision of real events—the conversation with Hermione in the train carriage was an accurate record of past events, exactly as they had happened. But the scene with eleven-year-old Harry crying on the train platform was clearly a fabrication Voldemort had created just to mess around with his mind. Harry always hated the prospect of going back to the Dursleys’ at the beginning of summer vac, but he’d never cried about it. So this nocturnal experience was a hybrid, part dream and part vision. Whatever. Harry would get to the bottom of it and nothing would stop him. He knew what he was looking for, he’d gotten expert advice from an association of very knowledgeable spirits and he’d even brought a time-travel device with him. Harry had thought of almost everything. The only thing he forgot was to be careful what he wished for, but it was too late for that because Harry had already fallen asleep.

All at once, Harry is back in his dream observing the events at the end of first year, and he sees his eleven-year-old self in the train carriage with Hermione, telling her he forgot his suitcase. Harry-the-observer gives the Time-Turner one turn, setting it back one hour, just to see what he was doing when he left his suitcase on the platform. Maybe the Herbology workbook fell out…

Harry is now observing from the train platform, and Harry sees his eleven-year-old self a few yards away, in the middle of the platform. There is no one else in sight, and the boy is sobbing his heart out, inconsolable. The face is still hidden under his hood, but he is kneeling next to the suitcase and caressing it as though it were an object of great affection. Harry looks over at the train, expecting to see Hermione alone in the carriage—but she isn’t alone. Eleven-year-old Harry is sitting in the seat opposite, chatting away. Wait—that’s impossible. How can eleven-year-old Harry be in two places at once? Harry-the-observer looks back at the boy on the platform and sees that the hood has finally fallen back, although the boy is looking down toward the ground. The hood is off the boy’s head to reveal the light blond hair, and twelve-year-old Draco raises his head, tears streaming down his cheeks, misery etched on his face.

Harry, the dream observer, is in panic, runs back into the train carriage and hears Hermione and his eleven-year-old self carrying on the exact conversation he remembers from first year, word for word, and Harry realizes beyond any doubt that what he is seeing—everything that he’s seeing—is an accurate recounting of past events. Harry runs back onto the train platform. Draco is still crying and softly says, “Harry.” Draco pulls a paperback volume out of the deep pocket of his robe. The paperback is large and slim, about the size and thickness of a notebook, and it had been rolled up to fit in the robe pocket. Draco unrolls it now, and Harry instantly recognizes it as his missing Herbology workbook.

Then Lucius appears on the platform and surprises Draco, coming up behind him. Lucius says something to Draco, extends his hand toward the boy, and Draco hands the workbook to his father. Lucius then hauls Draco up onto his feet and leads him away. Harry looks at the window of the train carriage and sees that Hermione and eleven-year-old Harry are still talking, and they haven’t even realized Harry’s suitcase is missing yet.

Draco and Lucius are walking away, and Harry is screaming at the top of his lungs. Harry is dreaming and he knows no one in his dream can see or hear him, but he’s screaming anyway.

“Draco, wait! I have to talk to you!”

Draco, proudly holding a large bunch of hellebore with red flowers, was making his way through the dense forest, not far from the hut where he thought Harry was still asleep. He was using the Lumos charm with his wand to light his way—then he heard Harry’s screams. Moments later, Harry came crashing through the brush, tripped and fell a short distance away from Draco, who rushed up and grabbed Harry by the shoulders.

“I’m not dreaming anymore, am I?”

“No, Harry, you’re not.”

Harry was crying and shaking, and then he seemed to recognize Draco and his surroundings. Harry felt for the chain around his neck. He lifted the Time-Turner up toward Draco with shaking hands.

“This is Professor McGonagall’s Time-Turner”—Harry was choking out the words—“Hermione used it during third year to go back in time a few hours so she could take more classes.” Harry’s voice became more even, although he was still crying. “I asked the Eastern Shore spirits if it would work when you were dreaming, and they told me it would… I wanted to find out what happened to my Herbology workbook at the end of first year.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. “Why, Harry? What good would it do?”

Harry couldn’t stop crying, but his voice grew stronger. “The dream I kept having… it wasn’t a dream at all, it was a vision of something that really happened. The boy who was always crying—but his face was hidden by the hood—it was you. It really happened, didn’t it?” Harry launched himself at Draco and grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt. “You can’t lie to me, Draco. I saw you next to my suitcase—holding my Herbology workbook—saying my name.”

Draco knew that lying was futile and his smile was a little sad. “Yeah, it was me, Harry, a foolish boy with wounded pride. I think you can figure it out. I loved you from the very beginning, when I saw you in that robe shop.”

Harry let go of the shirt and wound his arms around Draco’s neck, looking into the iron-colored eyes that he’d grown so accustomed to.

“Why did you take my workbook?”

Draco didn’t have a ready answer. “I…” He seemed to consider his words carefully. “I wanted a keepsake, something that would remind me of you.”

Harry held on to Draco tighter. “Why was your father there?”

“He’d come to review my end-of-term exams and meet with my teachers.”

“And your father took my Herbology workbook away from you.”

“He took it away from me, but I don’t know what he ever did with it. He probably just threw it away.”

Harry moaned into Draco’s chest. “I wanted to look at my notes in that stupid workbook so much… the notes about mutated hellebore. Now I’ll never find out what I wrote down.”

Draco held up the bunch of hellebore he’d been holding, the red flowers clearly visible by the light of the Lumos charm from his wand. “It doesn’t matter. I found it, the mutated hellebore with red flowers.”

With that last piece of information, Harry slumped against Draco and closed his eyes in pain. “I always thought it was Voldemort who was sending me this dream, but it wasn’t. Voldemort was giving me hell while Trelawney had me asleep for a week, but he had nothing to do with my dream.” A few more tears escaped Harry’s eyes. “I never gave you a chance, did I? I never thought you’d be able to set your own course and make your own decisions. I believed all that house rivalry stuff. I wouldn’t even shake your hand when you offered. You must have hated me for it.”

Draco leaned in until his mouth crashed into Harry’s, and he tried to memorize the sweet taste and the warm softness before breaking away.

“I forgave you long ago, Harry… and as I recall, I was no prize when I was eleven years old either.”

“I couldn’t figure out that you really liked me. Why didn’t you just tell me flat out?”

“I was too proud. Ingrained Malfoy pride. And you had all your preconceptions about Slytherins that kept blinding you.”

“So what happened?”

Draco smiled softly and said, “We grew up.”

“But I can’t forget you crying like that…” Harry’s voice was still ragged, “… and how miserable you looked when you were on the train platform.” An agonized, inarticulate sound tore out of him, then words. “I don’t understand.” The pain shone out of Harry’s eyes. “How could I hurt you? I love you.”

Words were useless at this point, so Draco just caressed Harry and gently rocked him. The two had fled away to these remote woods, which were lit only by the Lumos charm from Draco’s wand, and there was no one but the fox and the hare as witness. For now, the ancient Caledonian forest was an ally; it protected Harry and Draco like a vast cloak and provided them with a temporary haven from a less than sympathetic world. Neither one of them had a clue as to how they were going to explain all of this to people who were often inclined to be critical. First, they had to face the truth honestly before they would ever be able to explain it to anyone else. Harry and Draco had embarked on their passage together, and somewhere along the way, they had discovered that love was not just a pleasant stroll in the park, but a furnace in which two souls were forged into a single soul.