Some Perfect World

The sound of beating wings merged so perfectly with Harry's dream that it took him several moments to notice he was no longer sleeping.

As he drifted out of slumber, Harry struggled to catch the threads that were slipping through his fingers. Something about his dream had been different this time, but he couldn't quite remember what.

All Harry could retain from his hours of sleep was a single scene, only a few seconds long. He saw the hawks, yes, the same pair as always. But they weren't flying anymore.

Harry floated up another level toward consciousness, moving into his body where it lay warm and heavy under the covers.

Warm and heavy, and relaxed ... just relaxed.

Oh. So that was the difference.

Harry exhaled a sigh a relief that there would be no need for furtive Cleansing Charms or trips to the bath tonight. He didn't think he could take another experience like the one from the night before. Not after everything that had followed it.

Harry reached for more details of the dream, squeezing his eyes shut to try and trap the images. Why did the hawks remain, when the dreams had lost their erotic edge? Why had they appeared in the first place? He knew he hadn't seen anything tonight about broomsticks or what had been happening on them during the past week. Instead, the image of a contented, smiling Draco appeared inside his eyelids.

Harry smiled with it, allowing himself to wish he could see the smile on the pillow next to him. The corners of his mouth tilted upward yet a little more. But as the picture solidified, he shook himself awake. Things hadn't changed enough yet; it would be much too weird to have the actual Draco there in his bed.

Resigned to full consciousness, Harry finally opened his eyes.

"Aaahhhh!!”

There was a face there in front of Harry's, mere inches away. It was so close that Harry could see every feature clearly without his glasses.

The eyes were not silver, though. They were yellow, and enormous, and very definitely not human.

The eyes blinked affectionately at the startled boy.

"Hedwig?" croaked his sleepy voice as he reached for the spectacles on the bedside table. The snowy owl ruffled her neck feathers contentedly in greeting.

Now able to see properly, Harry blinked back at his pet. "What are you doing here, at this hour?"

The beautiful creature shone luminescent in the darkness. Harry pushed open his bed curtains to see the window he'd left open in the warm evening, and the soft blackness outside. The fat crescent of moon, halfway from last-quarter to new, grinned its enormous, orange grin as it rose above the trees of the Forbidden Forest. It must be hours until dawn.

Hedwig somehow managed to convey that she would be rolling her eyes at him, if that were anatomically possible for an owl. Stupid human, her glare implied, why do you think I'm here?

She stuck her leg out, on which Harry finally noticed a small roll of parchment. He untied it gently, and read:

Potter,

I have never had any reason to suspect that you are capable of discretion, but if you are, please try and exercise it. I mean about what happened yesterday in the dungeons. Obviously, I was not myself. One of your Gryffindor friends probably hexed me for a laugh. For all I know, you had something to do with it, but I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. Please just forget the entire business, and never to speak of it to anyone. I think it's for the best, don't you?

D. Malfoy

Harry very literally felt his heart fall very literally into his stomach. All the air went out of his lungs. Nausea gripped him in a wave.

No! That's never -! You couldn't have been -!

But as Harry's brain cleared itself more fully from sleep, his stomach unclenched itself and his breathing calmed. Harry's heart floated back up into its proper place, perhaps even a little higher.

A slow grin spread across Harry's face, chasing away the furrow in his brow.

Harry hadn't sent his letter yet. Draco was still reacting to Harry's accidental whisper in the dungeons. He hadn't read Harry's invitation. He didn't know how Harry really felt.

Harry read the words again, and let out a quiet chuckle. If Draco were so sure that he'd been hexed, why did he need to write midnight missives to convince himself of it? He had to know he wouldn't be convincing Harry.

Despite these positive thoughts, of course, a niggling thread of doubt wove its way into Harry's mind. Was it possible that Draco had been acting under some impulse that was out of his own control? Who would do such a thing? And for what purpose?

A shift in the weight on his shoulder alerted Harry that Hedwig was about to take flight again.

"Wait, Hedwig," he whispered, while his fingers searched the curtains for the roll of parchment that he'd hid there before sleeping. If he hesitated any longer, he would never send the letter, and maybe never get his answer. "Take this back to him, okay?"

Harry felt so strangely about sending this letter that he imagined Hedwig to be eyeing him suspiciously. He found a few owl treats in the drawer of his bedside table and gave them to her, along with a gentle stroke to the smooth feathers on top of her head.

Hedwig waited patiently while Harry tied the letter to her leg. The moment the knot was secure, she took off in silence and faded quickly into the night outside the window.

She hadn't been gone but a few seconds before Harry's first misgivings set in.

Harry let the curtains fall and dropped back onto his pillow. Now surrounded by complete blackness, he stared toward the distant ceiling. Could he have been mistaken? Was there a possibility that the happiness he'd experienced in the dungeon hallway had all been a lie?

He had been so caught up in the strangeness, the surprising power and pleasure of the moment, that he hadn't even considered wondering whether the other boy had been acting out of his own volition. Maybe he had missed some sign, ignored some evidence that Draco was not himself?

But Draco had seemed like himself, the way the smug bastard had pinned Harry to the wall with his stare, had seized the upper hand just as Malfoy always tried to do. Harry had had no reason to believe that anyone but Draco was controlling the moment. Harry certainly hadn't had any control, himself.

And it couldn't have been Polyjuice. If the boy who had kissed Harry had been an impostor, the real Draco would never have known it had happened.

Harry started and sat up halfway. What if it hadn't been Draco who had written the note? Could the impostor have written it to cover his tracks? To keep Harry from talking to the real Draco about the kiss?

Harry laughed at himself quietly as he relaxed. If the person who had kissed him had recently drunk Polyjuice, Harry would have tasted it. Even after five years, there was no way he would forget that foul flavour. Draco's mouth, on the other hand, had tasted delicate and musky and sweet.

A wicked half-smile wound itself into Harry's mouth at the memory of Draco's breath in his own throat. Alright then. Polyjuice was out.

Or had Harry unwittingly forced Draco into doing something he hadn't wanted? Was there any chance that Draco had been trying to get away?

Harry's memory flashed back to the darkness of the alcove. He could smell the dust and mould of the stones, the heat and sweat of the boy pressed against him. He felt - yes. Harry felt the imprint across his back of an arm that ran around his waist and up the contours of his shoulder blades, while the other hand threaded painfully tightly into the roots of his hair.

Good. So there hadn't been any hesitation at all in the way Draco had pulled Harry close, in the way that enticing tongue had advanced between his lips. Harry was sure. He had to be sure. Because if he wasn't...

Oh, Merlin, what have I done?

Harry shook his head emphatically in an attempt to break away from his doubts. He had to convince himself: The shock Draco's face had worn in the last moments of their encounter was not that of someone just waking from a curse. It was the shock of someone who had given in to a forbidden and long-awaited pleasure, only to believe that his actions were not welcome.

It couldn't be more clear: Draco had wanted to kiss Harry. And he would want to do it again.

Right?

***

Thud.

"Oi! Get out of bed!"

Harry squinched his eyes shut against the daylight that flooded his bed when the curtains were yanked open. His eyeballs felt coated in sand after his abbreviated rest. He rolled over to bury his face in his pillow, wishing he could sleep for a day.

Another light thud landed on the back of his head, and another, again and again until Harry gave up hope that they might ever cease.

"Mmph. Ow! Gerroff."

"No. Get up."

Harry pushed himself up on his forearms and reached for his glasses and wand.

"Go away."

"Not a chance."

Thud!

Harry shifted his weight and sat halfway up in annoyance. Although not yet fully awake, he sensed that he was being assaulted by a hulking something with red hair, wearing an evil grin and wielding a pillow.

Harry glared at his best mate, menacingly brandishing what he hoped was the correct end of his wand. "You've got five seconds to leave me the hell alone before I hex you into next week."

Ron came into focus as he proclaimed, "No, you've got ten minutes to get to Defence Against the Dark Arts before Dumbledore charms your ears to let off pink bubbles! Remember that time Seamus was late?"

"Sodding apple-polishing Head Boy."

"Lazy arse! Get up!"

THUD!!

Harry muttered a few words that would have confirmed the Dursleys' worst suspicions about his character, and proceeded to dump himself off the other side of his bed, which inspired a longer, more colourful string of expletives. His ever-helpful best friend threw a set of robes at his face, threatening to leave him if he wasn't dressed in two minutes.

Harry groaned and threw off his pyjama top, prompting Ron to turn away so Harry could change into his robes. He was so groggy he could barely see, even with his glasses. The last thing he remembered -

A jolt of nerves hit Harry like a shot of black coffee.

The last thing I remember, I was trying to convince myself that I'd been right to have Hedwig take that letter to Draco. I missed seeing his reaction at breakfast! Did he get it yet? What does he think? Will he meet me?

Oh Merlin, what in the world was I thinking??

Harry grabbed his book bag and raced for the door, not knowing exactly where he might run to ease his mind. The taller boy easily caught up to him.

Ron looked at Harry quizzically, clearly wondering as to the source of his friend's sudden surge of energy. Harry knew from Ron's expression that he'd probably gone white as Nearly-Headless Nick.

It wasn't as though they didn't enjoy studying Defence, now that Dumbledore was teaching it. The elderly Headmaster had exhausted himself readying Harry and the Order for the final showdown with Voldemort, and now that it was over, had chosen to retire. He couldn't, however, bring himself to leave the school entirely before his favourite student had. As the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was, once again, open, Albus Dumbledore had agreed to stay on in that capacity for one final year.

The former Deputy Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, had stepped up to fill the position Dumbledore had vacated. She had turned over the job of Head of Gryffindor House to the former Headmaster - who had been a Gryffindor, himself - and Nymphadora Tonks had taken a leave from the Aurors to teach Transfiguration. Rumour had it that the first- and second-year classes were becoming very practiced at Reparo charms, but not much else. Being a Metamorphmagus, Professor Tonks hadn't had to work very hard in her Transfigurations studies at school, so she didn't really have any idea how to teach it to wizarding students who lacked her genetic gifts.

Luckily, Professor McGonagall was still teaching the seventh-year class to ensure that her students would have a fighting chance at passing their Transfiguration N.E.W.T. Hermione had told Harry that she suspected McGonagall had wanted to keep the fifth- and sixth-year classes, as well, but was simply too busy with her new duties as Headmistress.

As they ran from Gryffindor Tower, Harry caught Ron looking at him again. Harry understood why - they did enjoy studying Defence this year, but neither was ever quite this eager to get to any lesson.

"Something wrong, mate?" inquired Ron.

Harry evaded the question. "Late," he panted. "We'd better move!"

The two Gryffindors sprinted toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

***

Midmorning sunlight filtered in the windows of the Defence classroom. The room was packed to capacity with nearly every seventh-year student from all four Houses. Only the students studying Ancient Runes - Hermione, the Patil sisters, a handful of Hufflepuffs, Morag MacDougal, and surprisingly, Goyle - were missing.

This same sunlight, which cast dancing shadows of breeze-blown leaves across the sleepy faces of Harry and his classmates, was also providing the Ancient Runes class with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: Their professor had discovered a rare text which could only be read when struck at a particular angle by solar rays of a particular intensity, which happened to occur at this day and hour for the latitude of Hogwarts. Dumbledore had obligingly granted his permission for these students to miss his lesson that morning to see the text. Hermione, naturally, had been beside herself with anticipation the night before.

The ancient wizard stood from his chair, moving more slowly and stiffly than Harry remembered. It was true, the final confrontation had sapped a lot of strength even from this powerful wizard.

Dumbledore's mouth curved upward beneath his long, crooked nose.

"To sleep, perchance to dream -" he quoted, then waved his right hand toward an object hanging in the shadows.

A sunbeam broke through the glass at just that moment, perfectly illuminating a thin willow ring, about ten inches in diameter, inside which was woven an intricate pattern of threads of sinew, like a large spider-web.

"Not spiders," moaned Ron in a whisper, "not again! The Boggart gave me nightmares for weeks!"

Harry glanced at the other boy in a way he hoped was reassuring. Even after four years and all they'd survived, Harry still remembered the particular plague of nightmares Ron had suffered after the day he'd turned a Boggart into a giant spider. Harry had had his own spate of bad dreams that year, but had spent far more nights soothing a terrified Weasley back to sleep.

Luckily, Harry knew that Ron's fears about this class topic were unfounded.

"Ay," Dumbledore continued with a wicked grin. "There's the rub."

Harry half-choked. Did Dumbledore know what he'd been doing to Malfoy in his dreams?

"As we have learned during our Occlumency unit over the past few weeks, there are several techniques a Legilimens may use in order to penetrate another's mind. One of the most insidious, and most difficult to block, is by invading the target's subconscious mind. Dreams."

Oh, bugger, thought Harry. What is it with my professors and their obsession with dreams? Are Dumbledore and Snape conspiring to ruin my life now?

Professor Dumbledore's cornflower-blue eyes twinkled in Harry's direction, as he seemed to confirm the student's fears. "I have asked Professor Snape to cover Dreaming Draughts in Potions. Those of you who have continued to study with the Potions Master will benefit from the experience of viewing Dream Investigation from both angles. A Dreamcatcher has a similar function to the Dreaming Draught, although this artifact is both more and less sensitive than the potion.

"The potion will allow you to interpret an entire dream, by causing the dream to take place slowly and in an orderly narrative, by helping the dreamer to understand the symbols that appear in the dream, and by causing the dreamer to remember all that happened upon waking. This is useful when you suspect someone has tampered with your dreams, but cannot remember the content.

"A Dreamcatcher, however, can only help you understand one aspect of your dream at a time, and cannot reveal any aspect that the dreamer does not remember consciously. It is therefore only useful when you are sure you have experienced a dream with a perplexing or mysterious component.

"The Dreamcatcher's advantage lies in being able to project this image so that others may view it -"

Harry thanked his luck for not having eaten breakfast, because he would probably be bidding it farewell at this moment.

"- and in allowing your conscious mind to control which image is projected, so that you needn't share any portions of your dream that might be too personal for others' eyes."

Harry nearly passed out from relief.

Harry had actually heard of Dreamcatchers before. He had studied the indigenous peoples of several former British colonies in primary school, and remembered watching Dudley and his goon friends snapping one of the delicate rings for a laugh. They had, naturally, blamed it all on Harry, who had thus won the honour of spending the next three afternoons writing lines until his arm hurt, then scrubbing the floors all evening once he got home to the Dursleys'.

Harry was sure Hermione had studied a similar topic in her own Muggle education. If she had been in class this morning, her hand would be high in the air, wanting to know how the Native American use for this object corresponded with its magical function.

Dumbledore's sparkling eyes focused on him. "Yes, Harry?"

To his great bafflement, Harry discovered that his own hand hovered above his head. He smiled to himself, thinking that perhaps he was channelling Hermione's academic mind that morning.

Now that everyone's attention was on him, he might as well ask the question that was on his mind.

"Professor, I thought Dreamcatchers were used by the Navajo in America to trap and filter their dreams, so that they could avoid nightmares. What do they have to do with Dream Investigation?"

"Five points to Gryffindor, although you're only partly correct. Dreamcatchers actually originated in the Ojibwe, or Chippewa, Nation."

Oh, well. Perhaps he wasn't channelling Hermione, after all. She would have known the correct Nation and won twenty points for their House.

"The purpose you described is essentially correct, although I believe it to be somewhat more complex. I would not presume to explain the significance of this object within that culture." Professor Dumbledore offered Harry an encouraging smile before directing his remaining comments to the class as a whole.

"It was only about two centuries ago that a small group of wizard Diviners travelled to the American state of Minnesota, where a few Ojibwe elders helped them develop the use for the Dreamcatcher which I will be teaching you today. It wasn't long after wizards were introduced to this object that its application in Occlumency was discovered.

"Harry, perhaps you would be willing to help me demonstrate?"

Harry's fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, hard, with emphasis on the latter. No matter what Dumbledore claimed, there were way too many images buried in Harry's subconscious that he wished to keep there. What if Draco saw himself in Harry's dream? What if the rest of the class saw? Would Ron ever speak to him again?

"It's alright, Harry. I promise, the Dreamcatcher will not be able to read anything that you don't choose to show it. Any shocking bits of your dreams will stay safely hidden in your own mind."

A titter of laughter swept through the class. Ron flashed him a good-naturedly mocking grin. Harry flushed, but rose to his feet. He trusted Dumbledore, and furthermore, wasn't about to appear to be afraid of a few bits of wood and sinew.

As he walked forward, Harry looked out at his classmates. Ron continued to smirk at him. Most of the rest of the students stared at Harry with unguarded curiosity, much the way they had when his name had been announced at his own Sorting, nearly seven years ago.

Beyond all the others, in the very back corner of the classroom where the dappled sunlight failed to reach, hair like strands of pale, spun gold seemed to create its own soft glow. The same face held the only pair of eyes in the room that was not fixed on Harry.

Professor Dumbledore directed Harry to sit in a large, soft armchair that he had conjured at the front of the room, facing at right angles to the desks

"I want you to choose a single image from any dream. It is not necessary that the dream be a recent one, but I would prefer if you would choose one that is somewhat mysterious to you. One whose origin is unclear."

He gave Harry a piercing look that made the boy understand: none of the dreams that had been projected into his mind by Voldemort. But the Dark Lord was dead, and Harry had no interest in revisiting those visions.

Dumbledore continued, "Concentrate on that image, then look through the Dreamcatcher, focusing your gaze at the wall. This is very important! If you try to look at the Dreamcatcher, your image will not form properly."

The professor looked inquiringly at Harry, who nodded his comprehension.

"Have you decided on an image?"

Harry hesitated, but surmised that the hawks from last night's dream - the ones that were repairing a nest together, rather than mating mid-flight as they had done all the previous nights - should be safe enough.

He didn't really believe this exercise would explain anything about the past week, in fact he was reminded of Professor Trelawney's tea leaves and crystal balls, but he was curious enough about this aspect of his dreams to give it an honest chance. He offered up one last silent plea that what was about to happen would not complicate things further between himself and a certain Slytherin.

Harry nodded in response to the professor's question, concentrated on nesting hawks, and stared at the far wall. Professor Dumbledore reached out and set the Dreamcatcher twirling about its string. The ring formed a ghostly sphere as it rotated.

Not even seconds passed before shadowy figures began to appear in the heart of the apparent sphere. Harry recognized them immediately as the pair that frequented his dreams.

A hushed, reverent gasp from the class let him know that the image was visible from any angle. For at least a minute, not one person made a single noise while the birds swooped in and out of view.

"Excellent, Harry, excellent!" exclaimed Professor Dumbledore finally, and Harry glanced up sharply in surprise.

Sounds of protest from the class let him know that his broken eye-contact had ended the show. The professor was beaming at him, however. The student in the spotlight felt distinctly perplexed.

"You have chosen a very good image for this exercise," continued the bemused teacher. "Images of birds are often used by the more stealthy Legilimens to symbolise actions that they wish their victims to take."

Harry blanched. Had someone else been trying to influence him into having fantasies about Malfoy? Had he been so easily manipulated? If so, it would lend credence to his pre-dawn fears that Draco had told the truth about acting against his own wishes in the dungeon corridor. But he still couldn't imagine who would want to do such a thing.

Harry glanced again at Draco, who was now staring at him incredulously. The moment their gazes met, the grey eyes flicked away.

"But," continued the professor, "red-tailed hawks are a special case. It is impossible, by any means, for any mind but the dreamer's own to conjure these birds. According to traditional dream interpretation, these animals have only one possible meaning."

Alright. Another indication that there was no hidden party manipulating events. Another reason why Malfoy's excuse had to be a lie. Harry allowed a relieved smile to creep onto his face.

"Harry," spoke Dumbledore, and the smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Harry no longer felt any relief at all. Quite the contrary, he knew he was in for a nasty shock. The mischievous twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes was brighter than ever.

"You," the elderly wizard pronounced with glee, "have a Destined Love!"

Harry groaned. Noises of adolescent amusement bubbled up all around the room.

Harry felt intensely disappointed. He had been hoping the image would represent some profound message that his subconscious was trying to convey, not this romance-novel fancy.

Dumbledore turned to address the class as a whole.

"Did you all get a sufficient chance to view Harry's image?" The majority of the students nodded, so the professor continued, "The birds you have just observed are red-tailed hawks, which are widely believed to mate for life."

He fixed his sights on the trapped student, who still sat at the front of the room. "Harry, I don't wish to ask for any overly personal information, but did you have the impression in your dream that one of the hawks represented you?"

Harry considered lying, but didn't see any danger in confessing this much, so he nodded cautiously. His eyes cut to the back of the room, but Draco's gaze was fixed on his desk.

"And you have dreamt of these hawks recently? Say, almost nightly, starting about a week ago?"

Now this was spooky. How could he know that? Except Dumbledore always seemed to know everything. Harry nodded again, stunned.

"Of course you have," stated the professor with an avuncular smile. "Dreams about red-tailed hawks often make their first appearance at the first waning moon after Beltane, which is the First of May. They usually last only a week or two, although they are likely to appear again in later years if the Destined Love has not yet been found or if the dreamer has tried to resist this destiny."

Harry squirmed and tried once more to reach his classmate. He found Ron instead, who smiled and rolled his eyes, obviously thinking this would be a great joke to rehash over lunch.

Dumbledore's voice filled the room again. "Now, the common error in interpreting such a dream is to assume to know the identity of one's partner. Hawks will often appear in a dream for the first time as if the dreamer and another person had transformed into the birds."

Harry felt grateful for the dim light in the room, which hid the flush rising in his cheeks. He kept his gaze to himself this time, wondering whether the silver eyes were burning into him as he imagined.

The professor went on, "Novice dream interpreters will often assume that the person who appeared in the earlier part of the dream is the dreamer's Destined Love, but that is not always the case. The only way to identify the dreamer's partner for sure is to compare their dreams. If both parties experienced parallel dreams on the same night, then those two people are destined to be lovers for life.

"So," Dumbledore addressed the class with a mischievious grin. "Did anyone else here dream about these hawks last night?"

A sea of smirks and grins answered the professor in silence. Harry saw Draco, alone, not looking amused, but scowling instead into a shadowy corner.

"Sorry, Harry," teased the professor. "It appears that you will have to look further than this room. You may return to your seat."

Harry slunk back to the seat through the laughter of his classmates. He collapsed into the seat next to Ron and slumped down as low as possible. Relief flooded him at being out of the spotlight, and to be honest, at knowing that his supposed "Destined Love" was still unidentified.

Of course, the idea of kissing Draco again, and of doing much more than that, still appealed greatly to Harry. It was just that he wanted to believe he could make his own choice in the matter.

Harry was far too young to start thinking about a long-term romantic relationship. He had no desire to choose his life partner at the age of seventeen.

Harry ached to turn for one more look toward the back of the room, but he simply didn't dare.

***

"Maybe it's someone really horrible, like Millicent Bulstrode!"

"Leave it, Ron. It isn't Bulstrode," groaned Harry, already thoroughly sick of his best friend's new favourite pastime. "Although she's really not so bad, once you get to know her."

"Aha!" Several faces turned to stare as Ron's exclamation echoed off the walls of the Gryffindor Common Room. Only a few minutes remained before dinner, and Ron had been at this all day.

Harry's patience was wearing very thin, exacerbated by the fact that he still didn't have a response from Draco. They hadn't had Potions today, so he hadn't seen the Slytherin since Defence Against the Dark Arts that morning.

Had Draco understood the significance of the dreams? Did he worry that Harry might think they were Destined for each other?

He wouldn't, would he?

Harry felt his face grow hot, which obviously did not escape the notice of his best mate. Ron waggled his eyebrows suggestively, clearly believing he had hit his mark.

"No, Ron," explained Harry, "I said it isn't Bulstrode. I just don't think you should judge her so harshly merely for being big-boned and in Slytherin."

"And for putting my girlfriend in a headlock!" The redhead protested.

"That was five years ago," Harry reminded him impatiently. "Almost four years before you and Hermione started going out. I don't see Parkinson still blaming Hermione for slapping Malfoy, and they were together for a long time!"

"They're not still?"

Harry shook his head, avoiding his friend's eyes. At least Harry hoped Malfoy didn't have a girlfriend anymore. They didn't need to deal with any more complications than they already had.

"How can you even tell?" pursued Ron.

A memory popped into Harry's head, saving the moment.

"Saw her snogging Justin Finch-Fletchley after the Valentine Feast." He shuddered. "Please don't remind me!"

"A Slytherin and a Muggle-born, eh?" Ron mused. "Too rich!"

"I'm sure it's happened before," replied Harry absently, having long since lost all interest in this conversation. "Can we please change the subject?"

As if on cue, Hermione appeared behind Ron. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind, planting a kiss firmly on his cheek. Before she could back away, Ron caught her with one arm. He pulled her to into his lap, where he could kiss her properly, and thoroughly, on the lips.

Harry smiled at his friends, at how deeply in love they were. He noticed that Ron seemed much more expert at kissing than he had been back in September. When they had first started dating, Hermione had sworn Harry to absolute secrecy before confessing that their first several kisses had been major disappointments in the technique department. Now, however, Ron held his girlfriend securely in his hands, convincing her to release all control of the kiss to him.

As Harry watched, Ron cupped the back of Hermione's neck with a gentle but unyielding left hand, supporting the small of her back with his right, while he covered her open mouth perfectly with his own. Hermione's eyes were closed, her head relaxed into her boyfriend's hands, her own fingers threading into the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Ron's lips drew back and brushed across Hermione's, eliciting a quietly urgent moan, before he captured her mouth again with even greater intensity.

Realising he was watching far too intently, the unattached member of the trio diverted his gaze out the open window. Harry tried very hard not to think about the one decent kiss he had received, nor about his current confusion on the subject.

As though he had thought about anything else since it had happened.

After about five minutes, Harry stopped waiting for his friends to come up for air, and cleared his throat loudly. The couple froze, but stayed connected at the lips for a moment longer, until their smiles drew their mouths apart.

Ron tried to act the part of the cool, unflustered boyfriend, but ruined the effect by blushing furiously. Hermione shifted to the chair next to Ron and smiled sheepishly at Harry.

"Sorry, about that," she offered.

"Not to worry, there's nothing in my stomach to bring up, so no harm done."

"Oh, stop it," she retorted. "I happen to know that you think we're very good together!"

Ron, still blushing, just smiled happily at both of them.

"True," sighed Harry, "but that doesn't mean I need to watch you two clean each other's molars."

Hermione made that adorable scrinchy face again. "Ugh, Harry! ‘Clean each other's -' You know perfectly well that my parents are dentists! I think I'm scarred for life!"

"Ignore him," assured her boyfriend, stroking the backs of his fingers along her cheekbone. "He's just in a foul mood because Dumbledore made a public scene of his love life in Defence Against the Dark Arts this morning."

Brown eyes flashed at green ones, and Harry shook his head just enough to let Hermione know that no great secrets had been revealed.

"Apparently, my dreams have been trying to tell me that I have a Destined Love. And our friend here," he tilted his head to indicate their third companion, "won't rest until he can figure out who it is."

"Destined Love? Dreams?" repeated Hermione, clearly confused. "Aren't those things more in the realm of Divination?"

"It was part of the Occlumency unit," Ron replied. "Something about figuring out which dreams are yours, or whether there's a Legilimens after you..." He looked upwards, clearly wracking his brain. "Anyway, he used a Dreamcatcher."

Hermione harrumphed with frustration. "I knew I shouldn't have missed that lesson!" She fixed her boyfriend with an accusing glare. "I can't ever trust you to take notes!"

"You can borrow mine, Hermione," offered Harry.

He had been careful to write down every detail about the lesson, hoping he might learn more about the hawks. He didn't want this Destined Love business to be true, but he was fascinated by the birds of prey that haunted his dreams.

"Can I?" asked Ron.

"No." Harry glared at him. "You should have taken your own, instead of being so busy trying to guess my Destined Love."

Harry immediately regretted having mentioned this topic again, as Ron's eyes lit up with mischief.

"So, what did you see in your dreams?" asked Hermione. Harry thanked her silently for speaking before Ron could.

"Red-tailed hawks," interjected Ron before he could be interrupted again. "They mate for life, so that means Harry will, too."

"Merlin, Ron, that's not what he said."

Ron ignored Harry's outburst, and continued. "We just don't know who's the lucky witch."

"Well, wasn't it made obvious in the lesson?" asked Hermione carefully as Harry flinched at Ron's assumption.

"No, love," replied her boyfriend. "Dumbledore says that even if you were dreaming of a person before you saw the hawks, it doesn't mean that person is your destiny."

"So how do you know?" Hermione, ever the academic, was immediately drawn into the discussion, even though she was sceptical of anything sounding so much like Divination.

"You have to find someone else who was dreaming the same thing on the same night," explained Harry.

Ron suddenly sat up straight. He stared at Harry as if seeing him for the first time.

"Hang on," he exclaimed. "Harry, you never said whether or not you were dreaming of someone! Who was it?"

Harry and Hermione exchanged nervous glances. Even though Harry hadn't told her anything about his dreams, she could obviously guess who had starred in them.

"Uh, never mind, Ron," stuttered Harry. "Like Dumbledore said, that's probably not even who it is."

"No," their friend became even more insistent, "he said it wasn't necessarily your life partner. But he certainly made it sound like the best bet."

Harry looked to Hermione again for help. She responded with an encouraging smile and a nod, then turned to give her boyfriend's lips one more soft kiss. "I still haven't got all the soil out from under my nails after Herbology this afternoon. Think I'll give it another try before dinner."

Tell him, her expression said, as she pecked Harry on the temple and trotted off to the girls' dormitories.

Ron was eyeing his best friend suspiciously. Harry could tell that the other boy had caught some of the glances between himself and Hermione. So he really wasn't surprised by the next thing Ron said. Anyone could have drawn the same conclusion. He shouldn't feel betrayed that Ron held so little faith in his loyalty.

"Harry," Ron's voice had taken on a threatening edge. "Tell me it wasn't Hermione in your dream."

If Harry hadn't been a little hurt at Ron's accusation, he would have had to swallow a chuckle at its absurdity. It was a good job he didn't feel like laughing. Harry knew full well that Ron would hardly appreciate laughter at a time like this.

"No, Ron, it's wasn't Hermione."

"Swear it!"

"I swear, Ron. It wasn't."

The larger boy didn't look convinced. "Harry, you're my best friend, but so help me, if you think you're supposed to be some destined mate for my girlfriend -"

"Ron!" burst Harry. "For Merlin's sake, I didn't dream of Hermione!" Several heads turned their way from all parts of the room.

"But she could still be the one, like Dumbledore said -"

"No, Ron! Will you just leave it be!" Harry was so exasperated, he could scream. Luckily, it was time for dinner, and the common room was quickly emptying. The other students seemed to be sensing the argument in the corner, and clearly wanted no part of it.

"Well, how can you be so sure?" demanded the irate Weasley. "You don't know who it is, but yet you're positive it isn't Ginny, it isn't Cho, it isn't Parvati or Lavender, or Angelina or Alicia or Katie, or Padma or Luna, or Hannah or Susan, or Bulstrode or Parkinson or MacDougal... I've guessed nearly every witch in the entire school, including some who aren't even here anymore, and you just somehow know it's not any of them! What makes you so certain? Maybe it is Hermione, and you just don't want to tell me because you know I'll thump you into unconsciousness!"

Harry had never been so grateful to be gay. No matter how many years of friendship had built the bond between them, Ron was clearly completely serious about his threat.

"Ron," Harry spoke softly but with unmistakable clarity. He would have preferred not to have had to make his revelation when the other boy was so riled up, but knew the moment had come. "I know that even if I really do have some Destined Love, it can't be any of those people. I know this because there is one quality I'm sure my life partner would have to have, and none of those people has it."

Harry watched his best friend's eyes rise to meet his, clearly not understanding, so he tried a stronger hint.

"Ron, what's the one thing all your guesses had in common?"

"Nothing! They're all different Houses, different years - the only thing they all are is witches -"

Harry fixed his eyes on Ron's. "Exactly."

Harry watched painfully as realisation dawned on his friend's face. He hoped earnestly that Hermione had been right about her boyfriend's reaction.

"So it's a Muggle you want, then?" Ron looked perplexed. "How could you? I mean, I suppose that's alright, but you told me you were never happy before Hogwarts -"

Harry shook his head, dropping his shoulders in defeat. It was a lot harder getting through that skull than he'd expected.

"No, I don't want a Muggle, Ron. Well, I don't know. I mean it could be. Either way, really."

"But you said you didn't want a witch. So you meant you want a Muggle woman, right?"

A long-suffering sigh escaped Harry's lungs. He was going to have to say it.

"I don't know whether my life partner will be magical or Muggle," he began. "Probably not Muggle, like you said. But I know for sure it won't be a witch."

Ron's face contorted in confusion.

Harry continued, speaking faster before he lost his nerve: "I know it won't be a witch, because witches are female and I -"

His words stopped short as he watched the change in Ron's eyes. Harry begged silently for understanding, for acceptance, for any sort of reaction that would let him know everything was going to be okay.

His hopes were dashed. Ron's shoulders slumped, his mouth fell open, and his eyes bugged out.

"Bloody hell. You're gay."

Harry felt nauseous, and betrayed. He had put so much trust in his best friend, and now Ron sounded absolutely gutted.

Before Ron could say another word, Harry ran for the portrait hole and escaped into the halls.