To Go Beyond

Chapter Two - Te Recuerdo

"It's never what they want, and if we give them what they think they want they like it less than ever."

~Neil Gaiman, Sandman #57

***

Hermione shivered, wrapping her cloak tightly around herself as she climbed the stairs to the seventh-year boys' dormitories. "Harry?" she called softly outside his room. The door was shut and there was no sound. "Harry?" He didn't reply.

Hermione pushed the door slowly open, a little reluctant to be quite this intrusive. Now that they were older, they had all become much more conscious of their differences, and Hermione knew that Harry, who had lived so long with the Dursleys watching over his shoulders like hawks, valued his privacy. Still, the way he had vanished from the Ball so early - she had known he didn't enjoy such events, but he usually bore up quite well. It worried her; for Harry to simply run off without a word was uncharacteristic. Something might be wrong with him - he hadn't fought with Ginny, who had been tearfully confused by his absence, but he might be ill, his scar might be hurting again, he could have hurt himself or been hurt by someone else... Hermione knew she was a little overprotective of Harry, knew that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself in far worse situations than could possibly have arisen tonight, but still...

The tiny room was dark, the little stove in the corner unlit and the window left uncurtained so that moonlight seeped around the edge of the frame, pooling in the corner of the sill. Hermione had taken three steps into the room before she realised that Harry was sitting there on the bed, arms wrapped around his knees and staring into the darkness. She had seen him sit this way many times, almost as though in his childhood he had become so used to minimising the amount of space he took up that it was now a habit. Still, Hermione thought his manner was different this time; not thoughtful or dreamy but fixed and almost... scared? What could her Harry have to be scared of, here and now?

"Harry?" She sat down on the bed beside him, careful of her expensive robes, and reached out to touch his shoulder. His reaction was spectacular and startling; he jumped and flinched away from her hand, staring at her wildly. It reminded Hermione of the summer after their fourth year, when Harry had still been filled with the memory of the Tournament, of Voldemort and the Death Eaters - and Cedric.

"Hermione?" he quavered, and she knew that once again she had been right, and there was something very wrong here. Looking more closely Hermione realised that his hair was mussed and tousled, and his robes knotted thickly about his fingers.

"Harry, what is it, are you all right?" He stared at her for a long moment, wild-eyed and with a look on his face that seemed a mixture of terror and loathing and confusion and something else that she couldn't quite define, something she had never seen in Harry's face before.

"I... No," Harry said in a wobbly sort of voice that brought a lump to Hermione's throat because never in six and a half years had she seen Harry let himself get any closer to tears than this, and that meant that whatever this was, it was very serious indeed. Hermione leaned in, unable to help herself, and put her arms around him. Harry didn't resist, but neither did he move to return the embrace.

"Harry, you can tell me," she murmured into the top of his head. "What's happened?"

He exhaled a long, shuddering breath. "I - I... Malfoy."

Despite being not at all surprised, Hermione vowed inwardly that a slap would be the least the pointy-faced little rat would receive if he'd hurt Harry at all. "What did he do, Harry?"

"Kissed me," Harry mumbled thickly, and for once Hermione's mind drew a complete blank.

"Ah... And what did you do?" she asked, wondering whether she would have to go and clean blood off the floor, or help him hide the body.

"...kissed him back..."

"So why are you up here in the dark?" Hermione asked, privately boggling.

Harry laughed with a complete lack of humour. "Because I came to my senses and realised what I was doing and ran for it..."

"Oh." Hermione thought about this for a while, and made the logical connection. "Why? I mean, if you kissed him back you must have, well, been enjoying it," and she was blushing now and very glad that it was dark in here. "Why did you run?"

Harry pulled away from her, wrapping his arms about himself defensively. "Because, because - Hermione, he's a boy! And he's Malfoy, and we hate each other!"

"If he kissed you, then I doubt he does actually hate you, Harry." She regarded him thoughtfully. "And as for him being a boy - that's the real problem, isn't it?"

"Hermione, I'm not gay!" Harry burst out in a flood of tumbling words. "I like girls, I never even thought about any boys that way, except now Malfoy's kissed me and I can't stop thinking about it...!"

"If he was a girl - would you kiss him again?"

Harry was silent for a long moment. Then finally, "Yes," he whispered, staring down at his knees. "But - he's not, and I can't, I won't...."

Hermione worried her lower lip between her teeth. Harry - well, he was Harry. And if he said he wasn't interested in boys, he could be believed. And Malfoy, after all, was Malfoy, and she wouldn't have put it past him to have slipped Harry some kind of charm or potion on the sly. Why, though? The first and most obvious conclusion was that he must have wanted to humiliate Harry, but then why...? No. No, Hermione realised, there was more to it than that... "Harry, what did he do when you - " ran away - "left?"

"I don't know," Harry answered dully. "Just stood there."

"He didn't try to go after you?"

"No..."

Oh. Then maybe he doesn't, after all... but then why would he do this in the first place? There has to be more to this... "Harry, stand up a minute, I'm going to check you for hexes." Hermione pulled her wand out of her sleeve and centred herself.

Harry scrambled to his feet with alacrity. "You think he might have used magic on me?" She could see the rising hope in his face, and couldn't bear to answer it directly.

"I just want to check - Revelatus Occultus!" A blue light spread out from the tip of her wand, wrapping around Harry's body. As it settled around him, it began to pulse gently in rhythm with his heartbeat, indicating his natural innate magic. Hermione got up off the bed and walked around him slowly, checking for any changes in the colour of the light or the speed of the pulse that might indicate that a foreign magic was acting on him. Nothing. "Finite Incantatem." She sat back down on the bed, biting at her lip again.

"Well?" Harry asked, flinging himself down beside her.

"Nothing," she said shortly. "Harry - he was probably just trying to embarrass you. The best thing for you to do is ignore him, forget about it." By the hopeful look on Harry's face Hermione could see that he wanted to believe it. So did she.

***

Slamming the door of his room behind him, Draco yanked his robes roughly over his head and flung them against the wall. Throwing himself onto his bed, he burrowed his face into the pillow and tried to forget what he had just done. The trouble was that he couldn't forget. Couldn't even think about anything else. The memory of Harry's touch was imprinted on his body like currents of fire beneath his skin; if he closed his eyes he could still feel the echo of Harry's lips against his own.

How could I be so stupid? Draco beat one clenched fist viciously against the inoffensive pillow. How could I possibly be so stupid? It wasn't as if he'd never been alone with Potter before, wasn't as if tonight was in any way special. But something about that moment, when Harry had looked at him - Draco had lost control. And the result - well, this was why he'd been avoiding the issue all these years. Harry had been disgusted.

Draco swore and squeezed his eyes tight shut. Harry was probably laughing about this right now with his little Gryffindor friends, laughing at Draco and his ridiculous, childish crush. By tomorrow he would be the talk of the school, by New Years his father would have heard and summoned him home to face the music. Draco wondered if he could convince Lucius that he had been attempting to humiliate or blackmail Potter. Although if tonight had been any indication, his powers of pretension where Potter was concerned were pretty much nil.

Draco groaned into the muffling softness of the pillow. The whole scene with Harry was branded on his memory with sickening clarity, replaying itself in an endless loop of longing and reproach. The hesitant, uncertain look on Harry's face, half-invisible in the darkness with moonlight reflecting from his glasses. The sweet softness of his mouth beneath Draco's, forbidden and far too desirable. The horror and revulsion on his face as he pushed Draco away and stumbled out of the room.

It hurt. That was what Draco hadn't expected. It had always hurt; ever since he had realised that his feelings for Harry weren't actually hatred after all, the indifference and derision he saw in Harry's eyes had hurt him. It had hurt that Harry Potter hated him when all Draco wanted was to grab him and kiss him until everything stopped and all the pain went away. Except now he'd done that, and the pain hadn't gone away at all, had become worse than ever. He felt bruised all over, as though Harry had stomped on his chest with heavy, hobnailed boots; felt slightly sick at the thought of what he would have to face tomorrow. Perhaps, if he were lucky, Voldemort would break into the school and murder him before then. But then Harry would be in danger, and that was just unthinkable.

Draco stifled a dry, humourless laugh. No way out; it was inevitable, and he would just have to face whatever Potter had in store for him tomorrow.

***

What Potter had in store for him, it seemed, was nothing. He ignored Draco utterly; it was as if the previous night's events had never occurred. Draco even caught himself wondering, over the drawn-out torture of Boxing Day and the days leading up to the New Year, whether he had dreamed the whole thing after all. But then, at suppertime on the thirtieth of December, just as Draco was walking into the Great Hall for dinner, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering in tow, he was brought up short as the seventh-year Gryffindors pushed past him to exit the Hall, Potter in their midst.

Their eyes met, green to grey, and Draco choked off a gasp as lightning seemed to flash across that shared glance. Harry's eyes widened in shock and he faltered in midstep. Draco stopped too - he couldn't have moved if his life had depended on it, trapped and drowning in Harry's green gaze - and he might have spoken, might have reached out a hand if Goyle hadn't blundered into him at that exact instant and broken the thread of connection between them. Thrown off balance, Draco had to turn and berate the thick-headed lunk for knocking into him (not that Goyle would have been quick enough to stop even if he had been paying attention, but that wasn't the point), and when he turned back again Harry was gone.

Maybe, Draco thought dizzily as he settled into his seat at the Slytherin table, maybe I didn't imagine what happened at Christmas. And maybe - maybe he's interested after all? He ducked his head over his plate, not wanting his thoughts to show on his face. Not that Crabbe or Goyle had ever been able to identify anything in his features beyond displeasure (with them, usually), but it paid to be careful, and there were still a few Ravenclaws at their table, chattering over piles of textbooks and parchments. They were Ravenclaws, they were clever, and Draco didn't want anyone to know what he was thinking. Ever.

But if Harry was interested after all - and the way he had reacted to Draco in the doorway seemed to indicate that there was something there - then why had he run from Draco so precipitously, after Draco had kissed him the night of the Yule Ball? Draco blinked, slowly, realising that Harry might have run away from him, but before that, when Draco had kissed him - Harry had kissed him back. Oh. So if he is interested, why the fuck did he run away?

***

Harry glanced around himself surreptitiously, convinced that this was a bad idea but at the same time unable to stop himself from opening the door and slipping into the room. The immediate drop in temperature was marked; outside the long windows snow fell like a thick blanket obscuring any trace of the darkness beyond. It was quiet here, beyond the gentle hiss of the falling flakes, silent and chill. Harry wrapped his cloak more securely about himself, crossed the room to stand by the window, staring out at the dancing whirl of the snowfall.

It had been here. Draco had stood where Harry was standing now, and had mocked him. Had kissed him. And Harry, unable to help himself, had kissed Draco back. Now here he was, five days later, back in the same place despite everything, because however hard he tried to ignore Malfoy and pretend it had never happened, Harry could think about nothing else. The memory of Malfoy's lips on his own was as impossible to ignore as his own heartbeat; it seemed to tingle beneath the surface of his skin. Harry had caught himself wondering more than once whether subsequent kisses from Draco would be as shattering and awe-inspiring as the first.

He didn't understand this. When he considered it rationally, it made no sense at all; he wasn't gay, he didn't have any interest in boys, and surely he'd have realised by now if he did after six years of shared dormitories and Quidditch changing rooms. After Draco Malfoy had inexplicably decided to take up residence in his every waking thought, Harry had mentally run through the entire list of boys in his year, trying to picture them and see whether he had any reaction to them beyond friendship. Nothing at all, except in the case of a certain pale, blond Slytherin who he didn't even like... did he?

Once Harry had started thinking about Malfoy, he found it utterly impossible to stop. He couldn't get his mind off the strange, soft look he had seen on the other boy's face, the desperate way Draco had kissed him, the attractive picture he made in his casual holiday clothes. ...Attractive? Since when did Harry find Draco Malfoy attractive? This was just getting worse and worse. He groaned, leaning against the wall with folded arms, pressing his forehead against the cold stone.

"I wondered if you'd be here." Draco's voice behind him should have been a surprise, but although Harry jumped a little, all he really felt was a sort of gnawing inevitability in the pit of his stomach. He didn't turn, didn't want to risk looking at Draco's face.

"Malfoy, I..." Harry began, but was unable to continue. There weren't words. Hadn't he always been certain that he hated this boy, secure in the knowledge that his loathing was reciprocated?

Soft footsteps behind him, moving closer until Harry thought he could imagine Draco's breath on his neck. It made him shiver and tense his shoulders. The touch of a hand on his arm seemed to burn even through his robes, and Harry jumped a little, fixing his attention on the snowfall outside the window rather than the pale, wavering reflection that swam in the glass. Draco's eyes looked very wide in the window, huge and dark and full of knowledge that Harry didn't want.

"Do you want to run, Harry?" Draco whispered, and Harry realised as the sound of the other's voice twisted within his stomach that this was the first time Malfoy had ever used his name. "What are you afraid of?"

You. Me. "Nothing," Harry said, his voice unnaturally loud in the still room, but it was a lie and they both knew it.

"I never intended this to happen, you know," Draco's voice was so soft Harry had to strain to hear it. "And if you really wanted, we could pretend it never did. But I don't think you want to, do you?" He touched Harry's arm again, tugged at his sleeve. "Look at me, Harry."

And Harry, that same sense of inevitability dragging at his muscles, turned.

Draco's face was barely a foot from his own, and his features were pale and haughty in the darkness, his eyes dark and shadowed. Harry, unthinkingly expecting the same surge of hatred that he had associated with this face for six years now, was a little nonplussed at the strange, shaky hot-cold feeling that spread out from the pit of his stomach. He blinked uncertainly, and something must have shown on his face, because Draco made a satisfied sort of sound and leaned in and suddenly they were kissing each other again and it didn't matter that Draco was a boy or even that he was a Malfoy because there was only sensation and it was the most perfect thing he'd ever experienced.

***

Hermione looked up from her book as the portrait hole creaked open. The common room was dark, the firelight casting a flickering glow across the comfy sofa where she sat, and empty except for her; the younger students had gone to bed a while ago, and Ron had made off not long after, muttering something about wanting to write a letter. The quiet dimness was comforting.

Her eyes narrowed as Harry stepped through the entrance, into the little circle of firelight that she inhabited. He had vanished almost immediately after dinner, just left without a word to her or Ron, and Hermione was very much afraid that his absence had something to do with what he had told her on Christmas night. These last five days, she had had to work to leave Harry alone about it, to follow her own advice and let him ignore Malfoy and his mysterious kissing. Harry had been quieter, more withdrawn than usual, ever since that night. Damn Malfoy, Hermione thought.

Then Harry walked closer, and the light illuminated his face, and Hermione's book fell to the floor with a heavy thud. His face... Harry's usually fair skin was flushed, his eyes half-lidded and dreamy, and his mouth dark and bruised-looking. Hermione's eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down. His robes were rumpled, his shirt collar undone beneath the thick green jumper, and Hermione thought she could see bite marks on his neck. "Harry!" she exclaimed in shock before she could stop herself. "What have you been doing?"

Harry blinked at her dazedly for a moment, then looked down at himself and blushed furiously. "Um..."

"Never mind, I know what you've been doing," Hermione sighed, grabbing a handful of sleeve and pulling him down beside her. "I thought you were going to ignore him, Harry, honestly!"

"Yeah, well." Harry shrugged, beginning to look resigned. "I was having trouble with that anyway, and it got a lot more difficult when he actually walked into the room." He fiddled with a loose thread in the sleeve of his robe, twisting it around his fingers.

"Oh, Harry. So you kissed him again. What are you going to do about this?" Hermione folded her arms across her chest and regarded him sternly. This whole mess - well, it was Malfoy's fault that it had begun, but Harry wasn't doing anything to end it. It was entirely inappropriate.

Harry merely shrugged, that dreamy look coming across his face again. Hermione heroically suppressed a scream of exasperation.

"Well, are you..." her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before she could actually get the words out - "going out with him now?"

"What? No!"

"You're just being all kissy for the hell of it, then?"

"We're not 'all kissy.'"

"Oh, so you talked? Was that before or after he chewed on your neck?" Hermione demanded, trying to rein in her temper. Harry clapped a hand over the bite marks on his neck, blushing again and glaring at her. She sighed. "Well, put it another way. Did you enjoy your evening, Harry?"

He was silent for a few moments. Then, "Yes," he said simply.

"Then why are the two of you not a couple?"

"Because... he's a boy, Hermione! And I hate him," Harry added, but without much heat.

"And yet this didn't deter you from kissing him again? This is the second time, Harry, it's not like it's a one-off thing."

"I..." Harry sighed, and scrubbed one hand through his hair. It was such an endearing, characteristic gesture, Hermione thought. The idea that Malfoy might have been touching that hair not long ago was vaguely unpleasant in some way that she couldn't really define. "I didn't plan on this, you know. It just happened. And it was..." he trailed off, eyes lit with invisible starfire. "Wonderful," he whispered, so softly that Hermione suspected the words weren't meant for her at all.

"Well it's done, I suppose," she grudged. "So what are you going to do about it?"

Harry shrugged and pushed his glasses up his nose. "I have no idea."