Choices

Chapter Nine - Possession

Into this night I wander; it's morning that I dread

Another day of knowing of the path I fear to tread

Into the sea of waking dreams I follow without pride

'Cause nothing stands between us here and I won't be denied.

~Sarah McLachlan, Possession

***

The kiss was soft and gentle and utterly innocent, and yet the sweetness of it was overwhelming. For a long moment Harry lay there utterly still, desperately trying to convince himself, as Draco's mouth lingered on his own, that the other boy was dreaming. Hallucinating. Thinking of someone else.

Then, slowly, Draco slipped away from him, and snuggled back down against his shoulder. Harry felt curiously bereft at the loss of that beautiful, intimate contact; was surprised by a tiny, traitorous wish to extend it. And then, just as he had begun fitting together the bits of his soul that the kiss had broken, Draco murmured "Harry," against his shoulder and all Harry's pieces shattered again, the splinters stabbing and slicing at his mind.

Oh. My God. He - he kissed me. Harry couldn't have moved if his life depended on it; he was pinned, frozen in position by the weight of Draco's body against his own and the weight of shock in his mind. His lips still tingled in memory, like a brand on his skin. Suddenly Draco felt far too close to him; a hard, involuntary shiver passed through Harry as he fought not to pull away from the sleeping boy.

What should he do? Harry didn't have the first clue - should he wake Draco and ask what the hell that had been about? Leave now and make some excuse not to come back? Pretend it hadn't happened? His usual recourse in such situations - thinking what his father would have done being plainly inappropriate here - wasn't an option. Common sense was needed, but Harry had never felt further from logic in his life. As for what Hermione would do, Harry could imagine what she would say if she knew about this. The thought made him shudder a little, remembering her face when she had slapped Malfoy in third year.

Malfoy. Draco. Gods, this whole thing made just no sense at all. Harry wondered how it was possible that Draco had developed two such distinct personalities in his mind. There was Malfoy, the old enemy of the ceaseless taunting and picking of fights, and then there was Draco, who shared his dreams and was quietly terrified of Voldemort. It was beyond weird already, even without adding this latest complication into the mix.

Harry snorted to himself. Complication, hah. The whole part where we were having the same dreams, that was a complication. This - this was... I don't even know what this was. Instinctively, he shied back from the idea of waking Draco to demand explanations. He would either be hugely embarrassed or hugely sarcastic, and Harry wasn't sure which was worse. Neither would be exactly easy to deal with when added to his own confusion, and Harry wasn't sure he even wanted to think about that kiss, let alone discuss it.

He kissed me. My God. He can't have meant it - he was just asleep, it was some kind of weird dream. There was no way Draco could have actually wanted to kiss Harry - he didn't even like him! They weren't friends - they were barely beyond enemies, for goodness' sake.

Harry's first, mad impulse was to run. Leave now and get back to Gryffindor where he belonged, forget about all this. He had always known that mixing with Slytherins was a bad idea; this proved it. He should get out of here, leave Malfoy well alone. He could make some excuse - that he was losing out on his own sleep, that he had too much work to do...

How could he leave? Harry knew first-hand what the nightmares were like; the idea of abandoning anyone to them, even Draco, was repellent. Before Harry had begun to intervene, before he had asked for help, Draco had looked so - so lost. Haunted. Despairing. Harry remembered worrying that the other boy would lose himself in nightmare some day, would let the situation rise up and smother him until he drowned in it, until he was forced to desperate measures. He remembered the sudden sharp pang of anxiety that had shimmered through him in a Potions lesson when Draco had picked up the knife he had been using to chop leaves, had tilted it so that light ran like water along the blade, staring and fascinated. No, he couldn't abandon Draco, not to that, not even after this.

This. God. Surely, surely Draco could not have meant that kiss the way it had seemed. He hated Harry - it must have been some kind of dream, some irrational impulse built out of the strange situation they were mired in. Harry wriggled his toes in his slippers, torn between wanting to creep back to Gryffindor Tower where he could think about this in peace, and staying perfectly still so as not to wake the sleeping Draco lying against him.

Oh, surely it must just have been some silly dream - there was no way it could have actually meant anything. Harry told himself firmly that it was just his bad luck that he'd still been awake when Draco decided to start having weird dreams. Still, he felt - uncomfortable. Gingerly, he slid out from beneath the other boy, listening to him grumble in his sleep, until there were once again empty inches between them. No, he would just have to ignore this and hope the issue didn't come up again.

Even the idea of talking to Draco about this made Harry's skin crawl. 'Hey Malfoy, you kissed me last night.' No. Just - no. Draco would be utterly mortified, and might refuse to let Harry help him any more. No, there was no way Harry was mentioning this, ever. Nor, unfortunately, was there any way he was going to get back to sleep that night. Harry suppressed a sigh, rubbing tiredly at the bridge of his nose. Well done, Malfoy. You really surpassed yourself this time.

***

Draco woke at the sound of the alarm to a lovely warm feeling in the pit of his stomach and a nice patch of residual heat in the empty bed beside him. Harry must only just have left. He turned over, rubbing his face against the pillow with a yawn, then froze as fragments of dream came slipping back to him.

Harry? Oh my God. Distinct in his mind like the residue of old wine were the lingering, dreaming impressions of someone else's mouth against his. Of Harry's mouth. Of Harry's body, too, pressed against him in a way that made Draco distinctly uncomfortable to think about. Only a dream, he reassured himself hastily. Still, though - he had dreamed of kissing Harry? What twisted mockery of fate had brought that on? Perhaps he had eaten too much rich food at supper?

Draco blinked, remembering that he hadn't had any supper last night, in fact nothing since dinner. He had been too busy with homework even to toast bread over the fire in the common room. And the dream-memory of Harry's lips beneath his own had been - so sweet...

Oh. Oh my. Draco mentally prodded himself, reminding himself that this was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Was Everything He Hated. Even in harmless dreams - that wasn't right. Shame flickered through him like knife-edged wings, and he clutched at the pillow. Not this. Not now. Not on top of everything else.

At least it was only a dream. Only a silly dream, Draco reassured himself, breathing deeply. It had only been a dream, a random collection of images and thoughts that didn't have to mean anything at all. But - what if it did? It had been so sweet... What if, after all there was a grain of truth in this dream? The nightmares of Voldemort felt random and chaotic, yet Draco knew that they were rooted in his fear of the Dark Lord, in his paralysing shame and terror. God, why couldn't it have been one of those, just a nightmare? Why this, why Harry?

He hated Harry. Except, Draco admitted to himself with a sigh, he didn't. Not any more. And the idea that hatred might have been replaced with - with attraction - urgh. He shuddered, hugging the pillow and inhaling its scent before he could stop himself. It smelt of cloth, of dusty velvet with a faint hint of fabric freshener, and overlaid on that was a deep, slightly musky sort of smell that Draco's mind associated with Harry. A smell that reminded him of Quidditch and grass and broomstick polish and summer, that brought green eyes and messy hair and ridiculous glasses before his mind's eye.

Draco thrust the pillow violently away from him, flinging it across the room. It hit the opposite wall with a small squashing sound and slid down to rest on the floor. Draco glared at it; it seemed over-innocent to his eyes as it sat there, taunting him with its head-shaped dents and Harry-smells. Briefly, he considered hexing it, or even burning the thing, but it was too much effort, and far too childish. He was more mature than that. Even if he had inexplicably memorised the way that Harry Potter smelt.

Oh God. Draco lowered his head into his hands. He had dreamed of kissing him, he knew how he smelt - this was worse than intolerable. Perhaps he had gone insane, cracked under the pressure of fear and nightmare and impossible expectations. Perhaps Fate had abruptly decided to make him pay for all the good things he'd received in life - Malfoy blood, superior looks, an abundance of money, magical talent... Oh, God. What am I going to do? About any of it?

He had thought, after the nightmares had become less of a problem, that having bent his pride enough to beg Potter for assistance he would find it easier to deal with the rest of it. Now Draco knew that that had been a naïve assumption. The fear had not been banished with the dreams it inspired; it twisted within him, feeding off the shame and the bitterness and the indecision until he thought he might choke on it.

The alarm clock bleated again, and Draco realised that he was going to be late for breakfast. Damn. On the other hand, of course, breakfast would mean having to stare across the Hall at Harry, and Draco wasn't really sure that was a good idea right now. Let alone something he wanted to do... Perhaps he would just stay here and skip breakfast. Groaning, he pulled the covers over his head. Perhaps he would just skip his lessons too and to hell with it. It was tempting, but Draco knew he would turn up to his classes just the same as usual. Spending the day alone - all he would end up doing was thinking, turning the whole situation over and over in his mind until it made him sick and dizzy and he still hadn't come to any kind of conclusion. No, he would carry on as normal, however difficult it became.

And Harry. That was a more pressing problem. Draco still couldn't quite believe that he had dreamed about kissing Harry. Kissing Harry and liking it. He turned his mental image of the Gryffindor over in his mind, trying to analyse whether he had some kind of feelings for the boy. Draco didn't think he did - no more than usual, anyway. He'd always had an intense sort of relationship with Potter, but that wasn't anything to do with kissing.

Draco remembered the only other person he had ever kissed (Other? Get over this, Malfoy, it was a dream, that's all!). Pansy, in fourth and fifth year, when they had gone out for six months or so. He had found it uncomfortable, messy and awkward, and had avoided her when possible, actively seeking out excuses to taunt the Gryffindors instead. To taunt Harry - hating Harry had been much more enjoyable, much more of an adrenaline rush than spending time with Pansy and her giggles and her shrill demands. He had never felt much for Pansy, truth be told - he had certainly never felt any kind of attraction to her. And after their brief dalliance had fizzled out - after Pansy had thrown a spectacular tantrum and announced herself no longer his girlfriend - he had spent a brief period half-heartedly examining others to try and root out some shred of attraction in himself.

Draco sighed and rolled over, tucking his knees up to his chest. It had just been so much easier not to think about things like that, to get on with his life and gratify himself by goading Harry - and more frequently Weasley - into fury. What is this? he wondered half-heartedly, dragging himself out of bed and over to the mirror. Why did everything keep coming back to Potter? Draco's face in the mirror was pale and wavering, and he stared into his own eyes as if he could read the truth in them. If I don't hate him any more, does that mean I like him? Why am I even thinking of him this way?

***

Snape was prowling around the classroom inspecting cauldrons and making his usual biting comments. Harry kept his head down, wondering how he could feel glad that the Potions Master was back safely and yet passionately wish that the man would stay away. His quill scratched against the parchment as he copied down notes from the blackboard; Harry made a mental note to trim it later, before it drove him out of his mind.

Of course, he was starting to feel that way anyway, what with Draco sitting next to him and the way his eyes seemed unstoppably drawn to the Slytherin boy. It just - it had been an accident, irrelevant. A mistake. So why couldn't he stop thinking about it? Lately it seemed like all his mind was doing was circling around that kiss - sooner or later it would pop back into his mind and Harry would start and bite his tongue and hope no one noticed the way his eyes flinched from theirs.

Harry looked down at the list of ingredients, reminding himself of what he had to do next, and reached for the Mandrake leaves. His hand collided with Draco's and they both started back, turning involuntarily towards each other. Harry blinked stupidly for a moment, then realised that he was blushing and turned hastily back to his cauldron, letting Malfoy take his share of the leaves first. After a moment, he heard the sound of chopping beside him, and risked a glance from beneath lowered brows; Draco's long, pale fingers were efficiently wielding the knife, slicing the thick leaves into even strips.

Harry looked hastily back at his own hands as Snape arrived to hover over the pair of them. He chopped his own leaves carefully, knowing that the professor would seize on the slightest mistake as an excuse to vilify him before the whole class. Sweeping them into the cauldron, he grabbed a handful of frog livers - they squished unpleasantly between Harry's fingers, oozing dark blood - and dropped them into his mortar. As he took up the pestle to begin mashing them into paste, Harry heard Snape move around to stand behind Draco.

"Mr Malfoy." His voice was quiet.

"Sir?" Draco spoke almost silently; if Harry hadn't been sitting next to him he would never have heard it amidst the other sounds of the classroom.

"See me in my office after dinner tonight." And then Snape was gone, sweeping off to loom menacingly over the already-trembling Neville, and only Harry heard Malfoy's reply.

"Yes, sir." Blinking down at his cauldron, Harry was slightly amazed by the range of emotions that Draco could infuse into those two simple words. He sounded - resigned, bitter, slightly fearful. As he reached for the oil of cloves, Harry glanced up and met the other boy's eyes, fixed on him with a sorrowfully amused half-smile. For a long moment, Harry floundered, trapped in that clear gaze, and then Draco dropped his eyes and turned his face back towards the blackboard. Harry bit his lips, which suddenly seemed to be tingling with remembered sensation, and berated himself for letting Malfoy get to him.

Harry stirred his Vision-Distorting Potion half-heartedly; it was the right colour and consistency, but he didn't feel much sense of accomplishment. Every few minutes a prickling sensation seemed to sweep across the back of his neck beneath his robes, and he knew with the kind of certainty that sent shivers through him that Draco was watching him. Does he remember? Memory of that sleepy kiss swept through Harry like a lightning storm, shivering along his nerves, and Hermione's voice echoed in his ears.

It had been back in fifth year, back when Harry had first started having repetitive dreams of Voldemort, and had asked Hermione whether he should go to Dumbledore about them. She had given him that serious look that she reserved for times when she was about to tell him that it was his decision. "There's always at least a grain of truth in dreams," she had said quietly. "It might be subconscious, but it's there." Harry hadn't quite known what she meant at the time, and she had explained that he might be dreaming so much because he thought about Voldemort so often. He had remained silent at that, he remembered, unwilling to admit that he had thought about his enemy - and not just Voldemort, but Wormtail and Cedric and his parents - almost constantly since that night in the graveyard.

It was as if he had looked into a mirror and found someone else's face reflected back at him. Harry realised that his hands were shaking as he poured poppy seeds into his cauldron. Could Draco really - like him? Even subconsciously? The idea was - it was beyond weird, it was as if everything he had though he knew about Malfoy was being upturned. It was as though he had caught Snape kissing babies. Kissing. God. And he said my name - he said 'Harry.' No - it couldn't be, it was just too impossible. Malfoy would never even think of Harry that way.

But then, Harry realised, it was impossible that Malfoy would be terrified of Voldemort and having constant debilitating nightmares. It was impossible that he would have ever turned to Harry for aid, even under duress. Not after seven years of fights and rivalry and snide taunting enmity. Maybe, Harry wondered half-hysterically as his potion bubbled and glooped, he had wandered into the Twilight Zone that time on the train in September. Surely this couldn't really be happening.

***

"Aargh." Ron groaned loudly, collapsing into his usual chair in the common room. Harry privately agreed with him; the Potions lesson had been particularly strenuous, culminating with Snape ordering them to test out their Vision-Distorting Potions personally. Neville, as usual, had managed to make a mistake somewhere, and had ended up unable to see at all, wandering around the classroom and knocking into things for a good ten minutes. Snape had tested Harry's potion himself, making a snide comment about Harry's eyesight being bad enough already. All the Slytherins had sniggered at that - all except Malfoy, who had stared at his hands and made no sound at all.

"So." Ron turned around in his chair and hung one leg bonelessly over the arm. Harry noticed that it made him look gawky and out-of-proportion, whereas on Draco the gesture would have seemed lazily elegant. Then he mentally smacked himself on the forehead; couldn't he shut up about Malfoy?

"So what?" Harry grinned at his friend, slumping onto the sofa and dumping his books in a pile on the floor. They had a free lesson this last period before lunch, while Hermione was in Advanced Arithmancy; she had already dashed off with a breathless smile. Harry knew that Arithmancy had been her favourite subject ever since she had taken it up in third year.

"So," Ron grinned back at him, "how's it going?"

"Much the same as usual." Harry shrugged. "Lessons, Quidditch, defeating evil - you know how it is."

Ron laughed loudly, startling a group of sixth-year girls who were poring over something on the table. "How much evil have you defeated this week?"

"Well, Lupin recapped the Dark Creatures syllabus in DADA, but you were there for that. No one's tried to kill me so far this year," Harry shrugged. "I'll settle for that."

"Yeah." Ron frowned at him. "Are you OK, Harry? You've been looking tired recently. Or is somebody keeping you up at night?" His grin was wicked, lighting blue eyes. Harry tried to control a flinch. Yes, somebody was keeping him up at nights, but it wasn't anything he was going to admit to Ron. Certainly not after the other night.

Back to Draco again. "No - I mean, you know I don't..." Harry shrugged uncomfortably, well aware that both of his friends were just itching to pair him up with someone. While he was spending most nights sneaking down to the Slytherin dungeons and climbing into bed with Draco Malfoy. Harry almost bit his tongue; a sudden picture of Draco smiling seductively at him from between silk and velvet sheets had flitted before his mind's eye. He said the first thing he could think of, desperate to stop Ron from noticing the flush that was building across his cheekbones.

"Has Hermione been talking to you?"

"What?" Ron looked puzzled, and opened his mouth to tell Harry not to be a prat, of course she had.

"I mean, she was trying to tell me to get a girlfriend the other week." Harry fiddled with the cuff of his robe, where a frayed spot left threads dangling.

"Oh. Um, I can tell her to stop it if you like," Ron offered rather shamefacedly. "She can get a bit insistent sometimes."

"It's OK - but you know I don't like that kind of thing." Harry gestured half-heartedly, remembering Valentines' Day last year, when a whole flock of owls had landed in front of his plate, pushing and shoving to deliver their cards first. Draco had laughed at him from across the Great Hall, and Harry had wanted to sink into the ground. This year would likely be a repeat of the phenomenon, and he wasn't looking forward to it.

Ron was regarding him earnestly. "You know, Harry, you might be happier with a gir - with someone." Harry, noticing the slight correction, wondered with a sudden panicky feeling how much Ron knew. "I mean, I know it'd be all over the papers, but you can't stop living just because you're famous, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Harry stared at his shoes. "But honestly, I don't have time right now. I mean, what with Quidditch and the extra lessons I barely have time to talk to you or Hermione. And besides - Voldemort's after my blood. It wouldn't be fair, you know?" Harry fell silent, aware of so many other things he could say - that he didn't feel like any of the girls (or boys) who fawned over him knew him at all, that he didn't want anyone else to end up like Cho had, that he didn't want the extra weight of another person to be protected on his conscience.

"Yeah, I know." Ron smiled at him. "It's just - aren't you, you know, interested in anyone?"

"No," Harry sighed, aware of having used almost the same words to Hermione. "No, there's no one I'm interested in." It was the truth, too - so why did Harry suddenly feel like he had been caught in a lie?

***

Draco knocked on the door of Snape's office with nagging suspicions whirling in his mind and butterflies imitating them in his stomach. Despite his initial relief at seeing his Head of House back and unharmed, Draco felt guiltily unsure of how far to trust the man. How much did Snape know - and how far into Voldemort's councils was he? How often did he speak with Lucius Malfoy?

"Enter!" Snape's customary bark was muffled by the thick wood of the door; Draco remembered being unnerved by it in his first year and desperately trying not to show it. He pushed the door open; it swung aside smoothly and soundlessly, and Draco realised that Snape must have put some kind of charm on it. He found himself grinning at the efforts to which the Potions Master went to seem intimidating, and hastily wiped his face blank.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Snape was sitting behind his desk, reading a copy of the Daily Prophet with a slight sneer on his face. He looked up as Draco hesitated in the doorway.

"Malfoy. Come in." He folded up his paper and tossed it onto a pile of parchments on an empty bookshelf behind him, waving Draco to the single chair in front of the desk. Draco sat gingerly, not entirely sure what to expect. The last time he had been called into this office had been last year, when Snape had wanted to discuss his Potions dissertation project with him. Now - well, judging by the narrow look Snape was giving him, the topic of conversation was likely to be slightly different.

The hook-nosed Professor regarded him closely for several uncomfortable minutes. Draco tried to school himself into stillness, refusing to let himself squirm like some half-blooded first year. Finally, Snape leaned back in his tall chair. "How are you, Draco?"

"I'm fine, sir," Draco answered warily. What could he tell Snape? He wasn't admitting to anything more than he was forced to - wasn't going to admit to the fear that plagued him, the shaming, damning terror that haunted his nights. Amusedly, Draco wondered for a moment what Snape would say if he admitted that he was spending most of his nights with Harry Potter in an effort to stave off the nightmares. There would probably be some kind of explosion.

Harry again. His thoughts never seemed to stray far from his former rival - night-time comforter - whatever the boy was to him. Colossally irritated at himself, Draco folded his arms across his chest.

Snape frowned at him, heavy brows hooding his glinting eyes. "Are you quite sure, Draco? You seemed a little quiet earlier..."

"I'm working with Potter, sir." Draco tried to infuse the name with the characteristic loathing with which Slytherins routinely spoke it, with dubious success. "Father says I should ignore him as much as possible." That, at least, was true; Draco remembered the summer after he had first returned from Hogwarts, remembered boring his father silly with complaints about Harry. The memory made him feel strange, almost queasy.

"Hmph." Snape glowered at his desk for a moment. "I grant the Potter boy's presence would put anyone off, but are you quite sure you are well? You mention Lucius - have you heard from him recently?"

"Yes, sir. He's well; he wants me home for Christmas." That was all Draco was going to say, but he could see the light of understanding in Snape's eyes, and wondered again how much the man knew about his situation.

"Quite. You've seemed a little distant all this term, Draco. Is there anything you'd like to discuss?" And there it was. An open invitation to pour out everything that was gnawing at him, spill his soul to his teacher with absolutely no guarantee that everything he said wouldn't be in Voldemort's ears by tomorrow. Draco remembered again the words Dumbledore had spoken to him outside this very room - surely, surely there must be something more going on here than he knew about. Surely the old man couldn't be so senile as to allow a known Death Eater to remain beneath his roof.

Draco thought of all the things he could say to Snape right now. I'm terrified of Voldemort. I can't see any other option but to join him. My father wants me to do this, but I don't think I can. I'm having constant nightmares. I think I might be falling for Harry Potter. What could Snape do about any of that? No, it was too much of a risk.

"No, sir. I'm fine, sir."

"As you say, Malfoy." Snape sounded almost sad, Draco thought momentarily, before the Potions Master waved him out of the room. "Remember that your essay on soporifics is due in tomorrow."

"Yes sir." Draco shut the door behind him; it closed just as soundlessly as it had opened, and he wandered off back to his room with more questions than ever tumbling in his mind.

***

...dreaming, and not pain this time, not terror not fear... Harry, wrapped around him, pressed against him, skin flushed and slick with sweat, soft over muscle and bone and mouth hot and demanding against his, hands and fingers caressing and exploring, kisses and sweetness and tongues twining and bodies sliding and thrusting together and Draco wanted it, wanted all of it, wanted Harry, wanted so badly...

Draco gasped, suddenly very awake indeed and uncomfortably aware of his body's arousal. He shook his head wildly, trying to throw off the remnants of dream the way a dog throws off water. Oh God, no. He could feel every beat of his heart, a fast shallow flutter against his ribs. Draco crawled onto his side, determined to ignore the insistent demands of his body. This wasn't real, wasn't happening. He heard his breath sobbing in his throat, and realised with a curious sort of detachment that he was actually quite close to tears.

It wasn't as though he hadn't had those sort of dreams before. He was seventeen; he'd had dreams that were a great deal more arousing than that over the past few years. But usually, the hands and mouths and bodies that populated his dreams were anonymous; safe faceless shadows who he didn't have to face in the harsh light of day. Seeing Harry in the dreams - it felt sick, wrong, and at the same time so right. It terrified him; Draco had never had this sort of reaction to anybody, and he had no idea what to make of it.

Curling into a little ball, he stared into the blank, impersonal darkness, trying to think of all the least erotic things he could imagine, willing his arousal to subside. This wasn't a problem he needed right now, he told himself furiously. He should be concentrating on trying to work out what he was going to do about Voldemort, what he was going to decide. What he could do; it wasn't as if he had many options. Silently, Draco wished as he never had in his life for a Time-Turner, anything, a way to escape this whole ridiculous burden of choice. He knew it was a wish that would never be granted.

***

Harry turned his Firebolt into the wind and let the chill gusts push the hair back from his face. It felt cleansing, as though the cold reached into his bones and froze all his awkward emotions, leaving him calm and contemplative. It was easier to think out here, somehow; everything became clearer and more focused when Harry was in the air. He slowed the broom to a halt, staring into the gusting wind and refusing to acknowledge the watering of his eyes. It battered at him, spent its force on him while he remained immobile.

Harry knew that the best thing to do would just be to wait it out, to ignore it all and let it wash over him and pass away. Draco hadn't meant to kiss him, and these silly thoughts he was having were just a reaction to the surprise of it. Soon enough it would go away, just like every momentary, fleeting crush he'd had in the past. Not that this was a crush, Harry assured himself. The fact that he had felt uncomfortable sleeping next to Draco last night had been because of their enmity, that was all.

Just thinking the other boy's name called Draco's face to the front of Harry's mind. It wasn't a face he'd ever thought to find himself studying closely, and he was rather surprised by how well he knew it. Still, he rationalised, they had been enemies for six years; that was a perfectly acceptable reason. It's not as if it means anything. He's Malfoy, and I'm me. It could never mean anything. I don't even like him. Turning in a wide circle, Harry began spiralling down towards the ground.

And then there were Ron and Hermione, happy in their own little world of togetherness and wanting Harry to have something similar. Trying to persuade him to show an interest in somebody. It made Harry feel distinctly uncomfortable, because his initial reaction had been to think about Draco again. Because the only other person he felt any kind of connection with right now was Draco, and no matter how he tried to tell himself that it would pass, he couldn't seem to work up more than a fleeting interest in anyone else at all. Male or female; he had tried to look at his fellow students the way he saw Dean and Seamus and Justin doing, to evaluate their physical features and decide whether they were attractive, but it felt like an effort. And then his mind circled inevitably back to Draco again.

Draco, who suddenly seemed to have taken up residence in Harry's head, who had turned from a hated enemy to someone who Harry missed when he was absent, who he thought about at odd moments and had even started to dream about. The dreams disturbed him greatly. It wasn't as though he had never woken before in the cool of morning, sweaty and gasping and tangled in his sheets with the face and body of another imprinted on his mind. For a year or so it had been a quite frequent occurrence, and Harry had noticed when he still lived in the dormitory with the others that his weren't the only sheets that were frequently changed. He had had more than one crush over the years, most of them acted on only in his subconscious.

The problem now, Harry thought grimly as his feet skimmed the grass of the Quidditch pitch and he rose again into the teeth of the wind, was that it was Draco in the dreams, Draco who left him hard and panting and sticky. Dreaming of Malfoy that way seemed wrong; surely it couldn't be right that someone he hated - or even disliked - could give him such a charge of excitement. Could invade his thoughts so thoroughly that Harry was reduced to wondering whether he was going mad. This was very definitely twisted and wrong.

***

"Are you okay now?" Harry was peering into his face with a look of concern, and Draco felt a sharp, silly pang in his chest.

"Yeah, sorry," he muttered, pulling hastily out of the other boy's arms despite the insistent little voice in his head urging him to just linger a moment longer... Looking anywhere but at Harry's face, Draco busied himself with tucking his hair neatly behind his ears. It was lighter than usual in the dungeon; he could see without wand-light and there was a dim puddle of pale stone on the floor beneath the light well in the ceiling. Draco realised that it must be almost dawn; the nightmares usually came on earlier in the night. What made it worse was that he could distinctly remember the dream he had been having before the darkness swept through him and swamped him, and Harry's closeness only heightened his body's reaction.

Harry frowned down at him. "Do you want me to stay?"

God yes. "There's not much point, really," Draco shrugged, indicating the level of light. "It's almost morning anyway - you might as well go back to your own House."

"Yeah, I suppose." Still, Harry lingered for a moment, almost as if he wasn't sure he wanted to leave, and Draco was on the point of blurting out just go for fuck's sake when he swung his Invisibility Cloak about himself and vanished. The door closed behind him with a soft sound and Draco buried his face in his hands, groaning. Half of him ached to run after Harry, to pull him back and never let him go; the other half felt sick and ashamed of the helpless way Harry affected him.

He had dreamed again, more of those dreams, dreams of Harry, and skin, and touch, and oh, touch there, there, and it was sweet and profane and wrong and right all at once. Draco didn't know what had got into him. It had started with small things, eyes meeting, a brush of hands more thrilling than any waking contact, and in the end it hadn't taken much. The fantasy grew even as Draco felt himself ripped apart by the paradoxical irony of it, of falling for his enemy. His enemy who was the only one who could save him. Everything Malfoy in him rebelled at it. It grew, and changed, touches becoming bolder, kisses more intimate until the dream of desire wrapped him utterly and Draco no longer knew where fantasy and reality diverged. Harry - how did Harry really feel about him? Was his skin as soft as Draco imagined, did his mouth really taste as sweet as Draco dreamed it?

This was very, very wrong, and Draco had wondered more than once over the past week whether he was going mad. Whether the fear and the nightmares had cracked his mind, shattered him into broken pieces. Sometimes he felt like a broken-winged bird trying to fly as he went about the school, dragging through his lessons and struggling with the heavy weight that had settled on him. And every sight of Harry was like another bolt, like salt in his wounds. It hurt more than he would ever have imagined, and he hated it.

Draco bit back a vicious curse. The dream-memory had invaded his body again, stirred him into half-painful arousal, his stomach tight and skin flushed. Flinging himself from the bed, he snatched up the clock from the bedside table and hurled it as hard as he could at the wall. The splintering crash of breaking glass and shattering spells fed his rage, and he followed it with the water-glass, liquid spilling from it in arc of heavy droplets and splashing to the ground, splattering in a wide circle on the wall and running down the stones to pool among the shards on the floor.

Sensitised, his fury unsated, Draco looked around for something else to destroy and his eyes fell upon the silver and crystal dragon figurine his father had given him after last year's exams. Seizing it in a vicious fist, he crushed its half-spread wings between his fingers, barely feeling the pain as splinters of glass bit into his skin, and flung it at the wall. "You bastard!" he hissed venomously between his teeth, balling his fist despite the glass embedded in the cuts and pounding at the wall as if he could exorcise all his demons that way, splitting his knuckles on cold uncaring stone. "You fucking bastard!" He didn't know whether he spoke to Lucius, Harry, or himself.

***

Harry tucked his arms around his knees and huddled into the corner of the window seat. It was early morning, the first pearly touches of dawn just staining the horizon, and Harry had slept so badly that eventually he'd given up and come downstairs to the common room to think. While the nightmares had spared him, his subconscious hadn't; he had fallen in and out of restless dreams, snatches of often very sexual imagery that had always involved blond hair and pale skin and grey eyes.

Hundreds of questions fizzed about in his mind like Billywigs, never settling enough to let him get a grip on them. Questions like what's happening to me and why do I feel like this warred with other questions demanding where Draco's loyalties lay and what he was going to do about this.

And then, of course, the question that had no answer. Am I falling in love with him? Harry stared into space, absently pulling at a loose thread in the cuff of his pyjama top. He just didn't know. He'd never been in love with anyone before, and the only examples of romantic love he had were Ron and Hermione. Mr and Mrs Weasley loved each other, Harry knew, but they were so domestic, so much older than him. And the idea of trying to model his romantic life on Vernon and Petunia Dursley... Even watching Ron and Hermione didn't help him much. They were close, and intimate, and affectionate, and their relationship was everything that his and Draco's had never been. How were you supposed to know whether you were in love with your worst enemy? Harry wondered.

Draco was just always there in his head, now, a smirking, scowling presence in the back of his mind, the one thing his thoughts kept returning to. Was that love, was that what love was supposed to feel like? Like the world wasn't quite right unless you were with the other person, like even glaring at him was better than laughing with anyone else? Like just seeing someone could kill you and keep you alive at the same time?

Of course, the idea that Harry could be falling for Draco Malfoy was preposterous. It wasn't like anything could ever happen between them - except that kiss... It wasn't like Draco had shown any interest in Harry - except kissing me and saying my name...Well, it wasn't like he had meant it! - or had he? Harry groaned to himself, resting his head on his knees, and suppressed the slight tingling feeling that memory of the kiss always induced. Maybe I should just ask him. He'd be embarrassed, but like as not he'd tell me it was all a mistake...

But do I want it to be a mistake? Harry took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and let his imagination run free. He wanted... Draco's eyes, smiling down at him - Draco's hand on his, warm and reassuring - Draco's arms wrapped tightly around him - Draco's mouth soft under his own... What would it be like, Harry wondered, to kiss Draco again? Really kiss him, when they were both awake and aware of what they were doing. Would it feel as wonderful as he remembered, would Draco's lips taste as cool and sweet as they had that night? Or would it be a huge disappointment, was he dreaming up an elaborate fantasy about there being something between them?

Maybe I should ask him about all this, Harry thought slowly. It's getting a lot harder lately to pretend that everything's fine. Was it fair to Draco for Harry to continue spending nights with him when he was finding it more and more difficult to control his arousal? Was it fair to sleep next to Draco so frequently when inside he was aching to snuggle up to him, to wrap his arms around him and do wicked things to him? Fair to fantasise helplessly about their closeness when they were apart?

But then, was it fair to abandon Draco, to leave him to the scant mercy of Voldemort and the nightmares? Harry remembered his worry, when it had seemed as though Draco was fading, wasting away to a shadow of himself. He had thought more than once that Draco had seemed headed for destruction... And what if, denied help from Harry, Draco turned to his father and the Death Eaters? The idea of one day facing him across a battlefield made Harry vaguely queasy.

Perhaps he should tell Draco about the kiss. Let him know what had happened and then leave him to make up his mind what he wanted. There was always the charm Hermione had shown him; Harry had taken to carrying it around in his breast pocket, occasionally taking it out and running through the words in his head, trying to decide whether to mention this, too, to Draco. Surely the other boy could find someone capable of performing it, even if Harry couldn't do that for him. Wasn't one of the rules of love that it had to be returned? How on earth was he supposed to tell whether whatever it was he felt for Draco was really love?

***

"Malfoy?" Harry muttered under his breath, busily chopping up caterpillars into half-centimetre pieces. They were the poisonous kind of caterpillars, black and orange and bristly, and Harry had to keep all his attention on not touching the bristles with his bare skin. Snape was prowling around looking like a greasy black thundercloud, and had already refused to let Neville go up to the hospital wing after he had developed a painful, blotchy rash on his fingers.

"What?" Draco muttered back, busy simmering Flobberworm mucus and elderberry juice in their shared cauldron. Snape had instructed them to prepare this potion in pairs, because some of the ingredients it required were rare and expensive. He had already doled out flasks of Erkling blood and tiny vials of Nundu hair, and had threatened dire consequences to anyone who spoilt their potion. Harry hadn't ever anticipated being glad to be paired with Malfoy - hadn't ever anticipated a lot of the feelings he was having about Malfoy - but the Slytherin was almost as good as Hermione in Potions.

"I need to talk to you about something," Harry murmured. "Later. Can I meet you somewhere?"

"Is it important?" Draco asked softly after a moment, hope so naked in his voice that Harry was surprised to recall that he wouldn't have been able to read that inflection at all six months ago. "Have you found anything that might help?"

It was Harry's private opinion, as he tipped the diced caterpillars into the gloopy potion mixture, that all he had found was a great deal of confusion and some rather disturbing things about himself. Still, there was that charm - "Maybe," he whispered back. "I need a word about some other stuff, too." The second those words exited his mouth, Harry regretted them; what if Draco became suspicious? What if he refused, blew Harry off? It was certainly something he'd do...

"Okay," Draco breathed at last, sprinkling the Nundu hairs into the cauldron. The liquid immediately turned a bright, eye-watering pink and began to froth vigorously. "Same place as before - behind the tapestry, after breakfast tomorrow?" It was a Friday, and Hufflepuff had the Quidditch pitch booked for Saturday morning so both of them were free.

"Yeah," Harry whispered back. "Pass the horned slugs, would you?" he asked in something approaching his normal voice. Draco looked over at him with a superior smirk.

"Get them yourself, oh great hero." Harry privately seethed even as he wondered just how much of that was a show for the rest of the classroom. When Draco made him re-chop the slugs twice because the pieces weren't even enough for him, laughing openly at the glare Harry shot him, Harry decided that it was probably just his innate character. Draco might be a little subdued by the nightmares, but he would never stop being annoying.

***

"Well?" Draco demanded arrogantly from his place on the trunk as soon as the door had shut behind Harry. "What is it you want? I have homework to do, you know."

"Yeah, me too," Harry muttered, wishing that Malfoy had chosen some other meeting place - one where there were more windows and a great deal more space, where they weren't forced into such uncomfortable proximity. The other boy's nearness was doing things to him that he really didn't want to think about. "Look - I kind of want to ask you something, but I don't think you'll like it."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Well - um, do you remember a night a couple of weeks back? Monday night, you'd had Quidditch." Harry realised that he was twisting the fabric of his robe nervously between his fingers; his palms were damp with sweat and he was sure his voice was shaking. He desperately wanted to sit down, but the only available space was on the chest next to Draco, and that was far too close for his over-stressed hormones.

"Not particularly," Draco drawled, a careful, blank look coming over his face. Oh God, what if he does remember? Harry thought wildly, feeling himself blushing uncontrollably. "What exactly was so special about this particular night?" The choice of words sent a hot-cold shiver through Harry, and he bit his lip.

"Are you sure you don't remember anything? I asked how the dreams were, and you said they were never pleasant...?"

"I remember," Draco interrupted when Harry would have repeated the entire conversation. Of course he does, Harry berated himself, he's not stupid. Just vindictive and occasionally morally deficient. And absolutely gorgeous, of course. In the dim wand-light, Draco was very attractive, his skin lent an ethereal glow and the sharp bones of his face etched in shadow and relief. His eyes, though, were hooded, indecipherable as ever.

"What are you on about, Harry?" Draco demanded, and Harry jolted out of his slight reverie, flushing again as he realised just who he'd been mooning over. Did he call me Harry?

"Um. Look, something happened when you were falling asleep, and I tried to forget it but I couldn't and it just won't stop bothering me so I have to ask you if you remember."

"Remember what?" There was something close to realisation in Draco's eyes for a moment before they shuttered completely and he retreated again behind the mask. Harry was conscious of an instants wistful frustration, but nerves had hold of him now and there was no way he was going to get away without admitting it.

"Well. Look... Um. You were falling asleep, and..." Oh God I can't say it, he knows and he'll die of embarrassment if I admit it - but there was no way out. Harry screwed up his courage, arranged the words in his mind and forced himself to speak them. Oh, God. "You kissed me, Draco."