Some Perfect World

Chapter 5: Clarity

Saturday dawned bright, clear and stunning.

Harry blinked at the early morning, surprised to find he had left his curtains open, which now allowed the sun to stream across his face. The air from the open window smelled moist and cool, meaning it must have rained hard after Harry had fallen asleep. Any trace of cloud was gone, however; the entire sky shone a pale robin's-egg shade. Harry inhaled deeply, more alert and refreshed than he had felt in a long time. It had been at least a week since he had slept this well.

A week.

Harry hadn't felt terribly rested any morning since the dreams had begun, but today ...

Today, he felt as though he had slept soundly all night long.

The dreams are gone.

After his conversation with Ron the night before, Harry had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Harry was shocked to find himself oddly bereft. Had he wanted the 'Destined Love' bollocks to be true?

He lay back again on the bed, his head spinning. If the dreams had stopped, did that mean that he wasn't destined to be with Draco? Wouldn't that be for the best, anyway? Did one kiss really mean that much? Did Harry want Draco to be his destiny?

Was he mad to be missing the dreams, just a little?

These thoughts were starting to make him dizzy, so Harry decided to find himself a distraction. And what better distraction than revenge?

He sat up slowly and silently, allowing the blood to return to his head. He picked up his pillow and, tiptoeing stealthily over to one of the other beds in the room ...

"Mmph. Ow! Gerroff, Harry!"

Harry snickered, thwopping his best friend again with his pillow. Ron's pained expression when his curtains were ripped open had been priceless, absolutely worth whatever consequences Harry was about to face. Even that, however, hadn't been nearly as satisfying as Ron's current state of gibbering helplessness as he tried to fend off his crazed attacker.

"Get up, Ron! It's a beautiful day, and you're missing it!"

Ron responded by sitting halfway up, grasping his curtains firmly in both hands, and yanking them closed.

"Alright then," called Harry tauntingly, "I'll go and wake up your lovely girlfriend so I can spend lots of time alone with her."

A rumpled red head appeared at the part in the hangings. "Empty threats, mate, given your recent revelations."

"Funny, all I have to do is think of Hermione, and I don't feel so gay anymore." Harry didn't mean a word of it, of course, but it was such fun to watch his friend rise to the bait.

Ron's eyes went as wide as saucers. "Why you - !" He launched himself onto his unsuspecting assailant, knocking both of them to the floor, where an enthusiastic wrestling match broke out.

Harry laughed and shifted his weight suddenly, knocking Ron off-balance, so he could claim the dominant position and land another blow with his pillow. The bigger boy stretched his mouth into something a bit like a grin and a bit like a grimace, and began tickling Harry's ribs mercilessly. Harry collapsed, giggling, on top of his best mate, never sparing a moment's thought for their dormmates until -

"Ahem."

Harry and Ron both sat up, short of breath from laughing, to find Dean, Neville and Seamus all observing them sardonically.

Seamus snickered at the rumpled boys on the floor. "Well, I suppose we know who the 'lucky wizard' is now, eh, Ron?"

THWAP!

"Wow, Ron," said Harry admiringly, "I've never seen a pillow fly that accurately! Shouldn't you have been a Chaser?"

"I'll give you something to chase!" snarled Seamus, launching the pillow back at a nearly equal velocity, then jumping into the fray. Harry parried with his own pillow, knocking Seamus's attack off-course so that he and Ron could gang up on their new opponent.

Dean, sensing that his own best mate was outnumbered, quickly joined in so as to even out the contest. Neville sat to the side, laughing nervously but merrily at his friends, until Ron seized his ankle and dragged him into the melee.

Five pillows, ten arms and ten legs flew with abandon as each of the boys tried to gain dominance in the spontaneous contest, changing alliances without warning until they were all breathless with exertion and hilarity.

Finally, Harry stood up, brushing off his pyjamas. "If you gentlemen don't mind, we're missing a lovely bit of sunshine. I am not going to stay inside and participate in these juvenile antics any longer." Dean's pillow hit him squarely in the face. "... Last one to breakfast has to kiss the Squid!"

Five Gryffindors scampered to the bathrooms to prepare themselves for the day.

***

Harry lay in a sea of grass such a spectacular shade of green that even his eyes couldn't compete. He gazed into a sky of deep sapphire, unmarred by even a wisp of cloud. The air was so sparklingly clean that he could see each leaf on the trees at the edge of the Forest, and discern each individual ripple that the light breeze created on the surface of the Lake. Everything was simply too beautiful to be real.

He forced himself to breathe deeply. He was so overcome that he had nearly forgotten how.

How could any day be more perfect? Not only the weather cooperated, but life itself seemed perfectly in balance. He knew who he was, and in the past two days he had confirmed that he knew who his friends were.

The other seventh-year Gryffindors were splayed out on the grass around him: Ron had even convinced Hermione to leave the library, although she had insisted on bringing her books outside, what with N.E.W.T.s only a month away. She sat cross-legged with her back against a large oak, while Ron snoozed happily with his head on one of her knees. Seamus and Neville were engaged in a spirited game of Exploding Snap, while Parvati and Lavender played Gobstones near them.

Dean had brought some paints and an easel, and was working quietly off to one side of the group. Harry realised the artistic student kept glancing his way.

Harry sat halfway up and turned toward his solitary dormmate. "What are you painting, Dean?"

"Wait, Harry, don't move yet! Lie back down for five more minutes, then I'll show you."

"Dean..." Harry wasn't sure he liked the direction this was heading.

"Please, Harry," begged Dean. "I really think it's coming out well."

Harry complied, letting his thoughts wander to keep his mind off whatever might be taking shape on the easel.

Draco hadn't been at breakfast this morning, at least not while the Gryffindors were eating. Breakfast was served over a few hours on weekend mornings, so the crowds tended to be sparse. Harry wasn't surprised at the possibility that Draco might have had a lie-in, since he always seemed especially grumpy in the mornings.

Harry needed to see Draco today, though. He had got his mind off the absent dreams for a little while that morning, but now that he was calm, the questions came flooding back. What did it mean that the dreams had ended? and What had they meant in the first place? and What did Harry want them to mean? and Did it really matter, if Draco wouldn't admit to being attracted to him? and Was Draco really attracted to him? and Was Harry really attracted to Draco, after all? and ...

With so many uncertainties in his mind, Harry was starting to feel a bit queasy. He had to close his eyes, slightly nauseated at feeling the Earth spin beneath him.

Still, Harry longed to see the other boy's reaction to his latest letter. He could understand why Draco was so untrusting, so unwilling to open up to his former enemy. If only Harry could break through those defenses and start a line of communication, then maybe they could sort things out. Harry was sure that there was more between himself and Draco than frustrated sexual energy.

There had to be more, didn't there? Harry wasn't the type for an empty, hormonal attraction. He had always placed more value on friendship and loyalty and emotions, even when he hadn't ever experienced enough about romance to know how it was really supposed to feel.

There had to be something significant between himself and Draco, no matter how difficult it was to find it. Otherwise, Harry was sure he would never have become interested, even after the kiss. Although Harry would never admit it in so many words, he considered himself to be a person whose intentions were generally noble; therefore, if he wanted something from Draco, it had to be more than simply a few further snogs in dusty dungeon corridors.

Didn't it?

He couldn't deny, though, that the very thought of the snog sent his heart racing. The very memory washed him in a wave of contentment. He allowed himself to enjoy the sensation, mind wiped of all attempts to analyse.

"Ready, Harry!"

Green eyes unfocused in confusion, it took Harry a moment to realise who was calling him, and why. He hauled himself up from the grassy bed and walked around behind Dean to observe his work.

Dean looked at Harry nervously as he approached. "It's still sort of rough," he explained. "I'm only doing this as an exercise, so it isn't very good -" but Harry interrupted him.

"Wow, Dean, that's ... wow."

The tall, quiet Gryffindor looked anxious. "I hope that meant something good," he prompted.

"Much too good for a painting of me," confirmed Harry with a smile.

Dean responded with a relieved grin, and stepped back to allow Harry to look more closely. Harry leaned in slightly to examine the product of Dean's afternoon activity.

The canvas, about two feet square, showed the head and shoulders of a boy lying on his back in the grass, head toward the lower left corner and body angled up to the right, exactly as Harry would have appeared from this vantage point. The unwitting model observed a faithful depiction of half-closed green eyes, large, round spectacles, a hint of silver scar, wild black hair and gently smiling pink lips.

Dean had perfectly captured Harry's posture, the way his arms folded behind his head and his shoulders relaxed away from his ears. But most of all, Harry was struck by how happy his painted self looked. He didn't think he'd ever looked so free of worries in his entire life.

Of course, he'd never been so nearly free of worries, until now.

As he examined the painting, Harry's face relaxed into a very pleased smile. He liked to be depicted this way; it was much better than photos of the battle-scarred hero which had appeared in the Daily Prophet after last summer.

Dean's eyes lit up at seeing Harry's expression. "So, you like it, then?"

"It's brilliant, Dean. But - why?"

A cheerful glimmer danced in the painter's eyes. "Well, the day, of course. The colours are so brilliant, they were begging for it. But that's only why I brought the paint and easel down."

Harry maintained an interested silence, causing Dean to blush slightly as he went on.

"I guess I painted you because ... because you're so alive today. Ever since supper last night, really. I've never seen you this happy, not in all the seven years we've been at school together."

He broke off, looking shyly at his friend, as if for permission to continue.

"Go on," prompted Harry.

Dean's face broke into a grin. "The thing is, I'm really glad for you, Harry. And glad you told us all. That you trusted us. We've been dormmates since First Year, but now I feel like we're really friends, you know?"

This speech was more than Dean usually said all at once, and Harry was truly touched at his words. "Thanks, Dean. And thanks for showing me this. You're really talented."

Dean shrugged, and looked away shyly. "I only paint what I see."

***

Harry took his time returning to Gryffindor Tower after dinner that evening. He was in no hurry to be anywhere in particular, because Ron and Hermione had gone off alone somewhere, and Harry never quite felt right without them. He had looked for Ginny, to see whether she might fancy a game of chess, but she was working on a group project for Herbology with other sixth-years, and had left dinner early so that she could spend all evening in the greenhouses with her classmates.

For someone who had once sought solitude so intently, Harry now found himself rather unhappy at being alone.

The common room was about half-full, with groups of younger students huddled around tables, either studying or avoiding their work. Harry smiled vaguely at the faces that looked up on his arrival, but didn't see anyone he knew well, anywhere in the room.

Discouraged, he climbed the stairs to the seventh-years' dormitory, planning to collect his Firebolt for an after-dinner flying session. Now that the Cup tournament was over, the pitch was frequently vacant. If Harry couldn't find the company of his friends, he would seek solitude and think.

He still hadn't seen Draco since he'd sent the letter. He still had no idea how it might have been received. It only seemed logical that Draco would be interested in being friends with Harry, but then, Harry had never observed Draco to act in a way that could precisely be termed logical.

Mired in circular thoughts, Harry rounded the corner into the dormitory to find himself staring at ... himself.

Dean was seated with his back to the door, studying his canvas. Hearing the approaching footsteps, he glanced back over his shoulder, then turned around completely when he saw who had arrived.

"You're still working on it," commented Harry, but it was more of a question. Dean had said the painting was only an exercise.

Dean looked at the canvas again. "I am," he agreed. "It was going to be a quick study, like I told you, only it's turning out better than I expected. I thought I'd keep at it a bit, see what happens."

Harry reflected on the fact that Ginny was busy doing schoolwork that evening, and Seamus didn't seem to be around anywhere. Dean must be feeling about as lonely as Harry was.

Harry took a seat near where Dean was working.

"Where is everyone tonight? I know Ron and Hermione decided to spend some time alone, and Neville went to help Ginny and her friends in the greenhouses, but I haven't seen Seamus since this afternoon, either."

Dean remained strangely silent. Harry felt stupid for having said anything - Dean and Seamus had been sort of quiet around each other all afternoon. It finally dawned on Harry that his friends might have had a disagreement, which would be why they were spending the evening apart.

"Sorry," spoke Harry before the silence could become too awkward, but Dean only shrugged.

"Dean?" Harry spoke barely above a whisper, as though he knew he probably shouldn't be asking. "Is everything, well, are you okay?"

A tense silence followed. Harry could feel his shoulder-blades drawing in toward his neck. He felt angry at himself for having spoken, and guilty for not having built the kind of friendship with his dormmates, other than Ron, where they could talk to each other when something was clearly wrong.

Harry's thoughts reminded him of something Dean had said, earlier in the day.

"Look, it's only, you said we're really friends now, and that means, if you needed, you could talk to me."

Dean sat up straight, pressing his hands into his thighs. He inhaled, as if about to speak, then looked very directly at Harry.

"Did you know that your hair isn't really black?"

"Wha -?"

Harry was completely wrong-footed by his friend's non-sequitur, but Dean continued without acknowledging his interjection.

"It's been driving me mad all afternoon. I've had to use a dozen different colours to get all the shades and highlights that show the depth in what most people only see as jet black."

Harry blinked, bringing his fingers unconsciously to tug at the tips of the strands that stuck out over his right ear. He looked at the painting for a long moment, his eyes drawn to the spiky mass in the lower left corner.

"My hair isn't black?" he asked stupidly, having no idea how else to respond to Dean's torrent of words.

"But it is black, isn't it? Only you can't just paint black, because then it would only be paint, it wouldn't be hair, do you see?"

Harry nodded mutely, wondering whether he really did. His mind was swimming with the details he'd never considered about the work that could go into a few square inches of canvas.

Dean clearly wasn't going to talk to him about what was happening with Seamus, although it was now becoming clearer to Harry that something was. At least Dean was talking to him, though.

Harry reflected that Ron had often been good at this part of being a friend. When Harry didn't want to talk about Voldemort or Cedric or Cho or Sirius, Ron's approach was usually to take him flying, or to challenge him to a game of chess. Sometimes, it would relax Harry enough to make him want to talk about other things than why his knights never obeyed his commands.

Maybe art was Dean's chess.

"How long have you been painting?"

"Since I got back from dinner. A few minutes, maybe."

"No, I mean - how long has painting been something you do? In life?"

"Oh, that," murmured Dean. He squinted and leaned back, eyes never leaving his work.

"Since I can remember," he answered. "I think my mum gave me my first set of paints before I could properly write."

"You really seem to like it."

Dean nodded quietly, with a contented smile. He continued to make miniscule additions whose purpose Harry couldn't discern, but the painting was becoming ever more lifelike with each dab from the brush.

Harry cocked his head to one side. "You're really good, aren't you? I mean, I don't know much about it, but I can see that your painting really looks like something."

Dean shrugged and ducked his head slightly, in a manner that suggested he might be a bit embarrassed at the compliment.

"I hope so," he replied simply. Harry could see the tension melting away from his features already.

A peaceful silence settled between them, as Harry watched Dean work. Harry relaxed back in his seat, observing over Dean's shoulder as the scene emerged more vibrantly from the canvas with each touch.

Harry looked at his own face, struck again by the strangeness of seeing himself looking so content. It was a face he'd never even seen in the mirror, much less in the pages of the Daily Prophet. He'd looked happy enough in the photos taken on Ron's birthday in March, but there had still been a jittery undercurrent to the expression.

What had it taken to allow Harry to relax, finally? Was it knowing he was gay, and that his friends accepted him?

Or was it Draco?

Harry looked away from the painting, to the mirror on the wall. The face he saw there was tense, full of worries about friends who might be fighting with other friends, and friends who might not be willing to be friends at all.

So maybe it wasn't Draco.

But, as he thought the name, Harry saw the face that went with it, appearing over and over in his head like a slideshow.

Draco at dinner, watching Harry receive his rejection.

Draco in Defence Against the Dark Arts, scowling from the shadows in the back of the room.

Draco in the dungeon corridor, self-assured and then panicked.

Draco with his fingers around the Snitch, and around Harry's.

Draco meeting Harry's eyes across the pitch, and smiling.

The Harry in the mirror was starting to look a bit more like the Harry in the painting. The corners of his mouth had that same, gentle upward tilt.

Thinking about the rematch reminded Harry why he'd come upstairs in the first place. His feet were aching to leave the ground.

"Dean?"

"Mmm?" He was fully absorbed in his work.

"I'm going to go flying, but I just wanted to say thanks."

"Hmm?" His attention was starting to turn toward Harry. "Thanks for what?"

Harry gestured at the painting, with an awkward smile. "I don't think I've ever looked so good."

Dean's eyes crinkled at the corners. He had such an open, friendly face. Harry could see why Ginny was so taken with him.

He really, really hoped everything would be alright between Dean and Seamus.

***

Harry strode out onto the Quidditch pitch, his robes billowing around his ankles in the breeze. Being alone inside the castle had felt stiflingly lonely - being alone out here felt good.

He kicked off hard, hearing the wind sing past his ears and feeling it draw caressing fingers through his hair as he accelerated toward the dimming sky. Although dinner was over, the sun was only beginning its descent toward the western horizon, and Harry estimated he had at least an hour more of daylight to enjoy.

He circled the pitch, first inside and then outside the stands, revelling in the freedom of flight. He couldn't remember how it had felt not to do this, in the first eleven years of his life, before Malfoy had stolen Neville's Remembrall and his life had begun.

Harry mused on that thought. Most would assume Harry's real life had begun on the night when Hagrid had tracked Harry and the Dursleys to that rock in the sea to deliver his Hogwarts letter. Or, perhaps, that his life had begun when he had defeated Voldemort willingly for the first time, or for the last.

The truth, though, was that Harry wasn't born to kill Voldemort. He may have been destined to do so, and he may have succeeded, and that destiny may have been the shadow that had hung over and shaped Harry's entire young life ... but Harry had been born to fly. He had never truly been alive, until the first time his feet had left the ground.

Harry smiled at the memory of his first flying lesson, and of the days that had followed it. There was something he'd said First Year, meaning it only as a taunt: "It's really thanks to Malfoy here that I've got it." Now, however, that statement no longer applied only to the long-destroyed Nimbus 2000. The seven-year Seeker had his rival to thank for the very central presence of Quidditch in his life, and he did feel grateful to Draco for goading him onto his broomstick that day.

Imagine if Professor McGonagall hadn't seen him fly, hadn't recruited him for the team. Would his life have been as blessed if he had seen his first Gryffindor Quidditch match from the stands, instead of from the air? If it hadn't been for Draco, would he have all of this? Would he ever have lived?

The beating of wings at his side interrupted Harry's reverie. He looked to see the eagle owl flying next to him. Something about the sleek shape of the bird's face and the point of its beak, and its persistence in staying so close beside him, reminded Harry of a certain human who had flown against him, not so long ago.

Harry grinned at the bird and kicked up his speed, executing a vertical loop into a sharp dive, pulling up just in time to land lightly.

Malfoy's owl matched him every inch of the way, with an attitude that seemed to say, Please. You may have had a broomstick for a few years, but that's no reason to think you're anything special.

As Harry dismounted his broom, the owl found a convenient perch on a nearby barrier. Harry doubted it was an accident that the bird had managed to situate itself slightly above his eye-level.

"Hello, there," greeted Harry jovially. "I hope you're treating my Hedwig well."

The majestic creature regarded the human in a manner that it had clearly learnt from its mate.

Harry looked at it thoughtfully. "I wish I knew your name."

The owl held its leg out to Harry, who expected to find a roll of parchment tied there. Instead, he found a tiny silver band, engraved with the name Salazar.

"Awfully predictable, that, don't you think?"

Salazar gave Harry a superior look, then stepped back and offered its other leg. The one it was now extending did, indeed, carry a letter. Harry untied it nervously.

"Brought me good news, have you?" he asked hopefully.

Salazar merely stared, so Harry was forced to read:

Potter,

It mystifies me that you would want to be friends. There is not the slightest shred of evidence in our history that suggests it might be possible. I must admit, however, that you've made me curious. What could the Famous Harry Potter possibly expect to get out of a friendship with the son of two prominent Death Eaters?

Perhaps I'm not being fair. I know that a lot of things about me have changed in the past year. I must allow for the same to be true of you.

I want to make one thing absolutely clear, before we proceed: It's fine for you to be so happy after the recent developments in your personal life, but you cannot assume that I am in the same situation. You may be telling everyone around you that you're gay, but you are not entitled to

Some words were crossed out here, but Harry thought it might say 'drag me out of the closet with you'

draw conclusions about me, based on one moment that I never even intended to happen. Please stay out of my personal business.

As long as you can agree to this, then I suppose we can try being friends. I don't know how you plan to go about it, but I'll let you work it out.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend.

Cordially yours,
D. Malfoy

"'I don't know how you plan to go about it, but I'll let you work it out,'" repeated Harry aloud. "Well, how do you ever 'go about' being friends with someone? You just do, don't you?"

Salazar eyed Harry as one might a small and particularly dim child. It reminded Harry very much of the way Draco had regarded him during their negotiations about referees, before the Seeker Rematch.

Harry thought back to his strained attempt at talking to Dean in the dormitory. Maybe it wasn't so simple. The owl had a point.

Harry absently stroked the top of the eagle owl's head, as he had done so frequently to Hedwig. The great bird started slightly, then preened under the attention. Seeing its reaction, Harry reflected that the Malfoys might not have treated their pets in the same manner that he treated his own.

"Thanks," he told the owl. "There are some owl treats by my bed. You'd better ask Hedwig to get them for you. I don't think the other Gryffindors would take well to seeing you in our dormitory."

Salazar blinked once in what Harry could only hope was an understanding manner, then took off for the castle.

Harry mounted his broom again, and soared back into the air. Beams of golden sunlight still slanted through the evening sky as he climbed higher and higher. The darkness was beginning to thicken in the upper reaches of the altitudes where it was possible to fly a broom, but Harry flew on, inhaling deeply into the night, as though he could breathe in the very possibilities in the air.

From high above the pitch, Harry looked back towards Hogwarts. Each of the hundreds of windows glowed warmly with its own point of torch light. He could occasionally glimpse a speck of silhouette as a figure passed before one of those openings. The castle was so distant below as to appear tiny, like a child's plaything, a model built lovingly into the green felt mounds of the hills, by a mirror of lake. He felt he could have reached down his hand and scooped the lot into his pocket.

Harry gazed downward at the toy-sized building that contained almost all of the most important people in his life. He let out a quiet sigh. Even having received the letter, he wasn't sure how he would approach Draco when they saw each other again. He was pretty sure, on the other hand, how his Gryffindor friends would react when they learnt of the new friendship.

From this vantage point, though, all those worries looked shrunk to a manageable size.

Harry smiled, exhaled, and began his descent. He'd thought enough for one day. It was time for another night of dreamless sleep.

***

Sunday afternoon found Harry in the library, surrounded by piles of books and notes, and by his two best friends.

Hermione had finally harassed both Ron and Harry into conceding that N.E.W.T.s were not, in fact, so far in the inconceivably distant future, and that it was time they began their preparations.

Once he'd arrived in the library, however, Harry had found himself incapable of studying. The sleepy warmth of the room robbed him of alertness. Specks of dust danced in sunbeams, distracting him with the elegance of all the minutiae he'd taken for granted all these years. It was finally occurring to Harry that his time at this place, the only true home he could remember, was coming to an end.

Harry looked over at Ron and Hermione. Ron was staring raptly at the top of Hermione's head while she was engrossed in revising.

Ron had got in late the night before. Despite his size, Ron had learnt to move very quietly, but Harry hadn't yet lost the habit of snapping awake at the slightest noise. Harry had, therefore, heard Ron tiptoe into the room long after everyone else had gone to sleep.

Ron and Hermione both looked so content. It gave Harry's heart a little squeeze to see it, partly from love for both of them, but partly from less positive sentiments. He felt a bit jealous of what they had, wishing he could find that bond with someone; he felt a bit guilty, knowing how thoroughly their world would be knocked off-balance by his nascent friendship with Draco; and he felt a bit nostalgic, already, for the role in their life he was about to lose.

Of course, when they left school, all three of them would still be the best of friends, but it would never again be the same. It wouldn't be living all of every day in and around the same building with Ron and Hermione and the rest. It wouldn't be sharing all the same worries about homework and joys over Quidditch victories. Harry had the feeling that Ron and Hermione's near future contained some joys which would be theirs alone; Harry would only be on the periphery of their lives as a couple, no matter how dearly they all cherished each others' friendship.

He sighed sadly, and let his eyes wander beyond their table. Closer to the middle of the room, Dean, Seamus and Ginny were sharing a similar space. Harry was relieved to see that his worries about Dean and Seamus falling out seemed to be unfounded. Seamus was smiling at Dean and Ginny, who were sitting close together, the backs of their fingers brushing where they lay on the table. The smile had a wistful quality which Harry recognised from his own expression of a moment before. He knew just how Seamus felt.

Harry noticed that Seamus kept glancing into a corner, where a group of Slytherins were huddled together against the rest of the world. Harry mused that Seamus must be researching material for his next Slytherin story to tell at dinner, but he couldn't see any horrible misfortunes befalling Nott or Bulstrode or Zabini. Seamus must be disappointed.

Nott, Bulstrode and Zabini were not the only three Slytherins in that corner. Another was sitting slightly apart, scowling quietly at a heavy text. Harry couldn't allow his eyes to venture that direction, though; if he allowed himself to gaze, he would never get anything done.

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Seven, lay open on the desk in front of Harry. He forced his eyes back to the text and across the words on the page. For a brief while, he was able to concentrate on his studies.

After a few minutes, though, Harry found himself rereading the page on the Mobilicorpus spell for the fourth time. He was tired of studying, and felt claustrophobic in the library. He had seen the charm in action four years ago, anyway, and was confident he could reproduce it. Why should he keep reading the theory?

Harry lifted his sore eyes from the book, and found his attention immediately drawn to the far end of the room.

Sunlight reflected brilliantly from a dark corner, as if emanating from the fair figure who studied there. Draco glanced up and noticed Harry staring. He began to sneer, but seemed to catch himself. Instead, he offered a cautious smile, then looked away nervously.

Harry let out a long sigh. It really wasn't going to be easy to establish a friendship with Draco, even now that they had both decided they were willing to try. He realised he really didn't know anything about the other boy, including how he would react if Harry were to cross the room right now to greet him.

He knew exactly how the rest of the students in the room would react, though; it simply wasn't worth trying.

Draco glanced up again to catch Harry still staring. An ironic grin took over his face, as though he knew every last one of Harry's thoughts at that moment - from worries about the opinions of their friends to fantasies about which spot on Draco's aristocratically fair throat he'd like to nibble first - and was amused by all of them. Harry ducked his head, embarrassed, as Draco's eyes returned to his text.

The corners of Harry's mouth turned upwards of their own accord. He might not be happy about leaving Hogwarts, but at least he knew how to seize the moment of his last weeks there.

He was going to need some outside help. Luckily, outside help had been making itself available for a couple of summers now. Harry had only just realised why.

Taking a quill in hand, Harry shuffled around on the desk until he found a fresh sheet of parchment. He glanced around to make sure his friends wouldn't take interest, but Hermione was still reading Moste Potente Potions - with permission, this time - and her boyfriend was still staring besottedly at her, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Harry wrote:

Dear Charlie,

Did you hear Gryffindor have won the Quidditch cup again? Ron is dead chuffed. I think it meant a lot, winning two Cups in a row as Captain, after he had such a hard time of it his first year on the team.

How is everything in Romania? Thanks for showing me your photos last summer. I'm not sure I want to get too close to dragons ever again, after the First Task, but it was interesting to see more about what you do over there.

Thanks also for making me feel that I could talk to you. I suppose you already knew that I might have some things I needed to tell someone, someday - someone who'd been through the same thing already. You were right, anyway.

I feel funny coming out and saying this in a letter (oh, ha ha, 'coming out,' didn't mean to say that), but I kissed someone a few days ago. Or got kissed, maybe, I'm not sure. Anyway, that 'someone' wasn't exactly a girl. In other words, Ron is trying to work out how to pay off that bet of yours. (I forgive you, and him, by the way, for having a flutter about my personal business. I don't think Ron has forgiven either of you, though, yet.)

Anyway, Ron knows, and Hermione, and Ginny, and Dean, Seamus, Neville ... well, pretty much everyone will, soon. I don't see any point of keeping it secret. There is one part that's secret, though. Hermione's the only one who knows who it was. I think I might have got myself into a pretty big mess. I'd forget all about it, only I can't. Nothing's ever made me feel like I did when Draco Malfoy kissed me.

Charlie, Draco isn't Lucius. You have to believe me. He's not the old Draco, either. Please believe me, because I don't think Ron ever will. I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't even know what Draco's thinking, because he's trying to pretend he was under a hex or something, and isn't really gay. He says he’s willing to be my friend, at least, but I can’t imagine how that’s going to go, with all of my other friends hating him.

I could really do with your help. Any advice?

Hi to Viktor. Watch out for the Horntails.

Harry

Harry reread the letter. It felt good to get all these words out of his head and onto parchment. He was really lucky to be able to write to someone like Charlie about all this. He hadn't even noticed when Charlie had made a point of talking to him, when they were both at the Burrow the last two summers, because all the Weasleys had always made Harry feel like part of the family. Fourth Year, when Bill and Molly had taken the role of Harry's 'family' on visiting day, Harry had been so happy he could have cried. He'd spent enough time with Charlie now that the second-eldest Weasley son, especially, had become like the older brother Harry had never had. It hadn’t occurred to him until today that Charlie had nurtured their brotherly relationship on purpose.

Checking the letter over one last time, Harry rolled it neatly and placed it in his bag. He would go and see Hedwig before dinner.

Harry returned to his reading, still getting no further than the passage about Mobilicorpus. He could almost feel invisible strings tugging at his forehead as he strained to keep his gaze on the book and not on the corner where Draco still sat, as focused on his revisions as ever.

Harry scowled. It wasn't fair. Why was he the only one who couldn't work around here? He looked around at his friends and other classmates again, becoming irrationally angry and jealous of their contentment.

Right.

Stretching out his stiffened limbs, Harry stood and collected his books. He wouldn't be getting any more work done this afternoon, so he might as well go send his letter. It would be nice to visit Hedwig, and even Salazar.

Hermione glanced up with a question on her face. Ron's eyes followed closely behind them.

"Got a letter to take to Hedwig," he responded to their unspoken queries, and walked away before either could put voice to any objections. Harry knew he had been acting strangely, and that he really did need to keep revising, but he also knew there would be no concentrating until this letter was in the air.

He hoped he would be able to calm down soon, without having to wait for Charlie's response, which was likely to take several days.

He turned the second corner out of the library, which took him into a particularly dark and deserted stretch of corridor. He had only taken a few steps into the shadows when a noise from behind caused him to whip around, startled, wand at the ready. Logically, he knew he was in almost no danger anymore, but six years of vigilance had not yet worn off.

Despite recent developments, Harry's reflexes at hearing that voice still told him to expect an attack.

Silver eyes widened in shock, glimmering in the shadows. Draco held up his hands defensively. "Hey, Potter, I thought we were going to be friends, now!"

Harry let out his breath in a whoosh. "It's not a good idea to startle me. Still haven't got used to being safe."

Draco only stared at Harry for a long moment. His pale skin and hair glowed richly in the semidarkness as Harry waited for him to break the silence. Although unflappable as always, Draco seemed momentarily caught without a snappy response.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said finally. "Only I wanted to talk to you alone. Away from" - he gestured vaguely back toward the library - "everything."

Harry's heart leapt, but he forced himself to nod understandingly. He leaned against a wall, trying to look nonchalant, but really finding a way to pin his arms down so he wouldn't ruin the moment by trying to touch the other boy.

"Alright, then. Let's talk."

Draco stared a moment longer. Harry wondered at seeing him look a bit awkward, precisely the way Harry himself had felt around Draco ever since he had first proposed the rematch.

"Were you serious about being friends?" ventured Draco at last.

"I was," replied Harry, "and you?"

Draco eyed him for a minute, then nodded slowly. His eyes were still narrowed in a combination of mistrust and confusion.

"Potter, I don't understand. Why would you want this?"

Harry wasn't sure how to respond to Draco's question. There were too many answers, and not enough words for any of them.

And it was so hard to think when Draco kept calling him 'Potter,' like he had when they were enemies. The Draco in his dreams had called him 'Harry.'

Harry sighed. "It's hard to explain," he started. "I have a favour to ask, though."

Draco looked suspicious. "What kind of favour?"

At his expression, Harry let out a little laugh. "A simple one, I hope. It's only ... can you call me 'Harry'?"

Draco stood sort of stiffly for a minute, not seeming to know how to respond. "Harry," he repeated softly. "Don't know if I can get used to that." He offered a small smile. "But I can try, can't I?"

Harry relaxed and returned the smile. "That sounds good," he murmured. "When you call me 'Potter,' all I hear is you leading your House in that song Peeves made up Second Year..."

Draco winced, and had the good grace to look sheepish. "Sorry about that, Harry." Draco offered a small smile.

The Gryffindor swallowed quickly and matched the other boy's gaze. "Quite alright, Draco." Harry savoured the feel of saying his new friend's name out loud. "It's all in the past now."

The silver eyes softened further. Their owner seemed to enjoy hearing his first name in the other boy's mouth, as well.

The two boys simply stared at each other for a moment in the half-light. Harry wondered whether he was imagining that they seemed to be beginning much more than a friendship. He pushed the thought away, though. It was no good hoping for more than he'd been offered. Draco seemed pretty adamant about insisting that he wasn't gay.

Draco finally broke the silence. "But you haven't answered my question," he persisted. "Why do you want to be my friend, now?"

Harry thought for a moment. He knew the answer, knew his motives both basic and ulterior, but he didn't know how to explain them. A recounting of every thought and impulse and dream since the rematch would not only confuse Draco, it would probably send him running away, screaming.

Harry couldn't explain it sufficiently, though, without talking about the dreams. And he couldn't talk about the dreams without confirming any fear Draco might have about his intentions, especially after the spectacle Dumbledore had made in Defence Against the Dark Arts on Friday morning.

Harry couldn't explain it, but he thought he could make Draco understand.

"I suppose it's only that I couldn't see a reason not to be friends, anymore," he responded simply.

Draco examined his former nemesis for a long moment, considering this.

"Well," he said finally, "I suppose I can't, either."

The two Seekers smiled at each other freely for the first time, though hesitantly. For the first time, being Seekers seemed like something they had in common, instead of another reason to be opponents and enemies.

After a brief moment, Draco turned back toward the library. Harry watched him walk away until long after he had disappeared around the corner. Harry's heart was beating wildly in his chest.

Suddenly, the last few weeks at Hogwarts seemed full of possibilities. As Harry followed the corridor into a new beam of sunlight, he could almost literally feel a giant weight lift from his chest.

He sighed blissfully as he placed his foot on the first step up toward West Tower and the Owlery. Draco was going to be his friend. Draco was his friend.

The sky outside the window was a bit brighter than it had looked from the library.

Harry was so happy, he could sing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

End of Part I