Some Perfect World

"Is this seat taken?"

Harry looked up from Bathilda Bagshot's chapter on Goblin Rebellions, to see Seamus's easy grin. With a raised eyebrow, he surveyed the seven empty chairs around his table.

"Does it look taken?" he asked dourly.

Seamus hesitated, taking his hand off the back of the chair. His smile faltered, and he looked as though he couldn't decide whether he was welcome.

"Go ahead, sit," said Harry quickly, and the smile returned.

"Found anything good?" Seamus gestured toward Harry's open text.

Harry shook his head blearily. "This book is almost as boring as Binns's lectures. I can't wait until N.E.W.T.s are over."

"Yeah," agreed Seamus. He opened his mouth as though to add something, but only smiled again, and started to unpack his books.

The one glimmer of good fortune in Harry's life was that he was actually ahead on his revision for N.E.W.T.s. Most of the Gryffindors had been giving Harry a wide berth since the explosive argument he and Ron had had Friday afternoon. Hermione and Ginny didn't want to appear to be choosing sides, but since Ron was Hermione's boyfriend and Ginny's brother, they felt uncomfortable spending time away from Ron to be with Harry. So, finding himself uncomfortable around all of his friends, Harry had spent most of the weekend in the library.

Harry was sure everyone didn't mean to shut him out so completely, but he was feeling very, very isolated. More so, even, than he had during the rushed days of preparation for his final confrontation with Voldemort.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry tried to find clues that would explain Seamus's presence. He hadn't expected Seamus, of all people, to be the one to cross the invisible boundary and remind him he had friends. After all, Seamus had been the one who had believed everything the Daily Prophet had written about him in Fifth Year.

Maybe he'd learnt his lesson.

Harry finally realised that Seamus was stealing sidelong glances back at him. Once they both caught each other, both began to chuckle.

"Checking up on me?" asked Harry, but without the bitterness that question could have contained.

"Maybe a little," admitted Seamus. "How are you doing?"

Harry exhaled slowly. "I'm ..." he began, then was surprised to find he hadn't the slightest idea how he was. He shrugged. "I miss Ron, but I'm angry at him, and I miss Draco, but I don't want to make Ron angrier."

Draco had been keeping his distance all weekend. He'd said a brief 'good morning' before Friday's Defence lesson, but hadn't spoken to Harry since. It was Harry's own fault, really; Ron had been present, and already very grumpy, and Harry had completely botched his attempt to act friendly to Draco while placating Ron. Instead, he'd managed to give Draco the cold shoulder while simultaneously making Ron's anger smoulder more furiously. The row he and Ron had had later had been inevitable, after that.

To Harry's great surprise, Seamus didn't flinch or look murderous at Harry's mention of Draco - which Harry couldn't believe had actually escaped his lips. He simply sat for a moment, first looking at Harry, then watching the light play over the surface of the table.

A sunbeam slanted across the space between them. The dust mites billowed and swirled in it, from an invisible draught, or perhaps from the breath Harry had expelled while speaking. His second finger was warm at the tip, where a corner of the light barely touched it.

"Yeah," said Seamus sympathetically. "Ron's being a bit of an idiot, isn't he?"

Harry's jaw stayed behind when his head snapped up. He sat there, gape-mouthed, half wanting to thump Seamus out of loyalty to Ron, half unbelieving that he might have just heard Seamus defend Harry's friendship with a Slytherin.

This was Seamus. 'Let's tell nasty stories about Slytherin girls at meals' Seamus. He couldn't possibly be supporting Harry's decision.

Could he?

"The thing is," continued Seamus, now staring into the same sunbeam that had distracted Harry a moment earlier, "I can understand why it's hard for Ron. Having you be friends with Malfoy, I mean."

Seamus must have noticed Harry's tensing expression, because he held up his hands and spoke in a rush: "The Weasleys are one of the nicest families in Wizarding Britain, but they've always been poor. The Malfoys are one of the nastiest and snobbiest, and they've always been rich. Mam told me stories about them, when I got my letter. You know Mrs. Parkinson is Mam's cousin? They were really close, coming up in school together. But she was friends with Narcissa, too, and when Mam married Dad, it was like she'd died; Pansy's mam never spoke to her again. That's how the lot of them are.

"When you picked Ron for your best friend, instead of Malfoy, a lot of us were glad. It was like we all finally won one against those Purebloods. And Ron, too ... I mean, it's not because he didn't really want to be your friend, but ..."

Harry picked up the thought as Seamus trailed off. "... but having me brush off Malfoy in favour of him was the icing on the cake."

Seamus's smile was bright with relief. "So now that you're friends with Malfoy, it's like they're winning, after all."

Harry gaped again. "How is that possible? All those people, their parents are gone because of me! How can you say the Slytherins have won?"

Harry's stomach did a sick, slow roll. It did every time he thought about how he'd left Draco with no parents, no matter how evil they had been.

"I see what you mean," answered Seamus, tracing the grain of the table with his eyes for a moment before he looked back at Harry. "It's still a victory, though, for them, if you choose Malfoy over us."

"I'm not," said Harry vehemently. "Ron will always be my best friend, and Hermione, too. Gryffindors will always be my family. Only Draco has changed so much, he deserves a chance."

Seamus nodded, and stayed quiet.

When he finally spoke, he asked, "You saw his dad, as a Death Eater, didn't you?"

Harry remembered that day in Little Hangleton, at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, and shuddered.

"Yeah, I saw him."

"Do you know why Malfoy didn't join up, too?"

"So you believe he didn't?" Harry's words came out in a rush.

He was so relieved to know another Gryffindor was on his side, he didn't stop to think about the answer to the question.

Seamus snorted. "Of course I believe that. And so does Ron, he was only being stupid. If Malfoy had been a Death Eater, he would be just like his parents right now."

Harry's stomach rolled again. The children of the Death Eaters might have been as snobby and nasty as their parents, and some might have been planning to join up, too, but he still hated that they had all lost their families. He hated that he hadn't ever had a choice in the matter.

He hated that he had fought with Ron over it, too.

"I wish Ron hadn't said those things on Friday. I wish I hadn't said some of the things I did."

"Yeah," said Seamus simply. "You know Ron, though. He doesn't believe in himself. Remember how he never thought Hermione liked him?"

Harry smiled at the memory of how he and Ginny had nearly had to lock Ron and Hermione in a room together, in order to get them to stop moping over each other and start snogging already.

"It's funny," said Harry, remembering another draughty, sunlit castle room, many years earlier. "When Ron saw himself in the Mirror of Erised, in First Year, he saw himself as Quidditch Captain, Head Boy, with the House Cup. If we get that Cup, he'll have all those things. And he still doesn't think he's good enough for any of it."

"Well, that's why we love him, isn't it?"

Harry gave Seamus a very long look. There was a painful vulnerability behind his jovial demeanor.

"Yeah," said Harry slowly. "I only hope everything's going to be okay."

Seamus gave a smile that was more of a wince. "It will all work itself out," he said with a tone that sounded as though he were trying to convince Harry, or himself.

The sunbeam shifted, drawing Harry's attention to a table in a different part of the library. He remembered seeing Seamus, Dean and Ginny sitting there, only a week ago, while he penned his first letter to Charlie.

"Is everything alright with you, Seamus?" Harry asked finally, at a tone barely above a whisper.

There was something false in the bright grin. "Sure, why?"

Harry shook his head, but didn't break eye-contact. "It's only, you and Dean seemed to be having some trouble last week."

The grin dropped a fraction. "Oh, that," said Seamus. "Don't worry, we'll be fine."

A fragile note in Seamus's voice made Harry choose not to question him any further on that subject.

***

Monday morning, Harry sat morosely in Potions, barely hearing Snape drone on about N.E.W.T. preparations. He could see Draco sneaking sidelong glances at him, but felt too conflicted to meet them. Likewise, he refused to look toward Ron's seat in the back of the room, even though he could feel Ron's eyes boring into his head.

Black robes glided along the rows of desks, and Harry became aware that the Potions Master was handing sheets of parchment to each pair, and in some cases, small vials of potion. Harry blinked twice, trying to simulate an appearance of attentiveness before he had to come face-to-face with Snape.

He needn't have worried. Snape avoided Harry's eyes as he placed a sheet of comments on the desk between him and Draco.

"Congratulations, boys," he murmured in a thoroughly sarcastic tone. "You have qualified to take the Dreaming Draught."

Harry glanced at the parchment, where the Potions Master's neat script affirmed the positive result of testing their potion, and clearly outlined the instructions for the follow-up essay. Motion in his peripheral vision revealed that Draco had reached out a hand to accept one of the two vials that was being offered to them.

After what he'd learned about the hawk dreams in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Harry had planned on skipping this opportunity. After the long, strange dream a week earlier, though, he found himself with a lot of new questions.

Was it worth it to get the answers, if Snape would get to read about them, too?

"Professor," asked Harry, his hand hesitating on its way toward Snape, "if we take the potion, are we required to hand in the essay?"

Snape's eyes narrowed as he smiled unpleasantly. "Naturally," he sneered. "Our little celebrity has to play by his own rules. It's not good enough for him to do things the way the rest of us have to do."

Harry felt his temper rise, but fought to keep his voice even. "It's only, what if we learn something private in our dreams, and don't want to write about it?"

A titter ran through the class. For once, Harry hadn't been worried about 'private' dreams of that particular nature, but he wasn't surprised that everyone else thought he had. All the rest of the class knew, after all, was that Harry's dreams were showing him something about a 'Destined Love.' He wished it were still that simple.

Snape grimaced at the laughter. He plunked a vial down, rather roughly, in front of Harry.

"You will take the potion, Potter. And you will write the essay." His lips curled into a sneer. "Don't worry about me selling your secret dreams to the Daily Prophet, Potter. I'm sure even you aren't famous enough for anyone to care."

Harry braced his hands against the desk as though to stand and face the Potions Master. He wasn't sure what he would do once he got to his feet, but he couldn't allow that sneer to exist a single second longer.

His breath caught as he felt Draco's hand come to rest lightly on his elbow. And when he heard the words Draco spoke, he feared he would never breathe again.

"I believe Harry has already proven himself worthy of his fame, Professor," came Draco's calm voice. "Perhaps it is no longer necessary to fault him for the attention of others."

Snape's black eyes narrowed into obsidian slits, nostrils flaring in distaste.

The entire class held its collective breath. First Draco had lied to cover up Harry's lack of preparation, and now he was talking back to Snape. Harry was sure, if everyone could have hidden under their desks to avoid the ensuing confrontation, they would have done.

"Mr. Malfoy." Snape's words cut like daggers. "I'll ask you to remember that you are a student in my class, and I am your professor. Your being in my House will not prevent me from removing points if you do not show me the proper respect."

The voice dropped to a barely audible hiss. "I'll see you in my office at the end of the lesson."

Harry stared openly at Draco as Snape swept on to the next desk, where Parvati Patil and Morag MacDougal received the brunt of his displeasure. Draco fixed his eyes toward the front of the room, wearing a small, amused smile.

"Draco, look," began Harry. The silver eyes did just that, coming to rest on Harry's own. His heart skipped a beat, but he managed to keep his voice steady. "I really appreciate you standing up to Snape for me, but don't you think you're taking it a little far?"

The eyes scanned Harry's face, then returned steadily to meet his.

"Snape has had it in for you since you arrived. You only have a month left at this school, and he still won't leave you be." Draco's voice never rose above a quiet murmur, never lost its matter-of-fact tone. "If anyone is 'taking it a little far,' then he is."

It took Harry a long moment to find enough voice to respond.

"Wow, Draco," he whispered reverently. "You really have a handle on this friendship thing."

The smile that rewarded Harry, though barely discernible, seemed to light up the entire dungeon.

***

A swarm of third- and fourth-years obscured the message board in the Gryffindor Common Room when Harry returned from classes that afternoon. He spotted Ron and Hermione studying quietly in a corner by themselves, but their body language when they saw him made it clear that he wasn't welcome to approach.

Dean and Ginny were cuddled up by the fire, talking to Seamus, to Harry's great relief. Hopefully, whatever problems these friends had had were already worked out, then.

Harry dropped himself into a chair among them.

"What's the occasion?" he inquired, gesturing toward the crowd with his chin.

"Hogsmeade, a week from Saturday," answered Dean.

"Already?" asked Harry, surprised. Usually, the final Hogsmeade weekend didn't take place until just before exams.

"It's an extra," responded Ginny, who as a prefect had access to more information than the rest of them. "It's been such a warm spring that all the students will want to be outside, anyway, and this way we're out of the staff's hair."

Harry nodded absently in response. Hogsmeade would be fun, but his current row with his best friend made the prospect less appealing. Perhaps he and Draco could spend the day...

"Harry."

He snapped his attention back with a small start, to notice Ginny was leaning toward him, looking at him intently. Seamus and Dean were watching, too.

"Harry," she began again, "you have to talk to Ron. No one can stand watching you two fight like this. It's going to drive us all mad."

"She's right," added Seamus. "You've had your strop, now you need to get over it before we all go barmy."

Dean nodded his agreement. Harry wasn't sure whether to feel ambushed or touched.

Harry looked at the three pairs of eyes locked on him, and felt his shoulders go tight. Why couldn't everyone leave him to live his own life?

Hearing his own stupid thoughts, Harry forced himself to take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Really, he wanted nothing more than to reconcile with Ron, and told his friends so.

"He needs to accept that things change, though," continued Harry. "Ron will always be my best friend, and Hermione, too. All of the friends I already have are still very important to me. I only want to be free to make other friends, as well."

"Other friends are one thing, Harry," argued Dean, "but Slytherin other friends?"

Seamus's expression was communicating his displeasure, now, too. Harry didn't understand - what had happened to the supportive Seamus who had talked with him in the library the day before?

Ginny worried at her lower lip with her teeth as she watched the angry eyes of the three boys.

"I don't get it, Harry," she said evenly, catching and holding Harry's gaze. "I really don't. But if this is important to you, then you must have your reasons."

Harry had almost released the tension in his shoulders when Dean added, "It's not just sex, is it?"

Seamus coughed to cover a cackle, while Ginny said "Dean!" in a sharp voice that sounded exactly like Molly. Dean grinned mischieviously, prompting Ginny to punch him affectionately in the arm before she cocked an eyebrow at Harry. All three pairs of eyes watched for a response.

Harry sputtered and blushed deeply. "No, we're not - I mean he's not - I mean I don't even know if he'd want -"

He struggled to compose himself, drawing up very straight in his seat to look them all in the eye.

"That's not what it's about," he stated finally. "It's about recognising that Draco has changed into a decent person, and giving him another chance. Sirius came from a family exactly like the Malfoys, after all, but my dad gave him a chance, and he was good."

Harry had to drop his gaze to the floor, because his eyes had started to sting.

When he looked up again, Seamus gave him a small smile, which Harry was grateful to see. Dean looked doubtful, but remained respectfully quiet.

Ginny narrowed her eyes and nodded at Harry. "Alright," she replied carefully. "I think I see why this is so important, now. Now go and tell Ron what you've told us."

"But he won't listen!"

"Tell him anyway," Seamus interrupted firmly, leaving no room for argument. "It's Ron. He's stubborn, but he's worth it."

"He's right," added Dean, his eyes set steadily on Seamus. "Even though he's being a stupid git, no one but you can make him understand. And you'll both regret it if you don't."

Seamus returned Dean's gaze, looking slightly relieved and mostly grateful. Ginny nodded at both of them with a smile before looking at Harry again.

Seamus was right, and so was Dean. There was no disputing their logic, and anyway, they were doing much better than he and Ron were doing on working out their differences. He could do with following any advice they had to give.

Harry therefore let Ginny lead him over to where Ron and Hermione studied in the corner.

Dean and Seamus waited behind, smiling wryly at each other. Harry felt jealous, for a moment, that whatever conflict they'd had had been something they had managed to fix.

Rising color in Ron's face was the only indication that he was aware of Harry and Ginny's approach. For a long moment, he refused to look up.

Harry stood by Ron's shoulder, shaking with frustration. He was still so angry about the accusations Ron had made on Friday, and about all the horrible things they had both said. Why did he have to be the one to bridge the chasm that had grown between them?

He looked at Ron and saw the eleven-year-old boy who had walked into his compartment on the Hogwarts Express with a smudge of dirt on his nose. A part of him always saw that boy when he looked at Ron, even now. Harry couldn't possible stay angry with him.

"We can't keep fighting, Ron," he said quietly. "This isn't right."

Ron stared at his desk, his eyes dark. He didn't speak.

"You're my best friend," Harry told him finally, remembering what Seamus had said in the library on Sunday. "Nothing can change that."

He held his breath as Ron's eyes traveled upward to meet his. "And Malfoy?"

"Is my newest friend," confirmed Harry. "And you have every reason not to accept him. Please just accept my decision to give him another chance."

"Why?" burst the bitter syllable from Ron's mouth.

"Because I'm asking you," said Harry, echoing their argument in the Potions corridor.

He'd meant to say what he'd just told the others about seeing a similarity to his dad and Sirius, but now that he was faced with Ron's stubbornness, the words sounded stupid in his head.

"Because that should have been enough for you in the first place," he added instead. Seeing the colour rise in Ron's cheeks, he added, more softly, "Because if you asked, I'd do it for you."

"Trust Malfoy? The head Death Eater's son? No, you wouldn't - if I asked you that, you'd do your nut."

"I'm not asking you to trust him, Ron. I'm asking you to let me trust him."

Ron looked at Harry with bewilderment. "You really don't get it, do you? If I accepted you being friends with that git, I'd have to trust him not to hurt you ... and I can't do that!"

Harry paused a moment. Ron was right, of course. He was wrong about Draco, but he was right about how Harry would have reacted if the tables had been turned. And his motives were so ... Ron. Only Ron would get angry at Harry for putting himself in a situation where he might get hurt.

This was why Ron was his best friend. This was why it was worth fighting to keep him.

"Alright, yeah, you would. You're right."

Ron's eyes narrowed. "I think you're mad, Harry."

"I know you do, Ron. But will you give him a chance? Please?"

"Even though I think he's going to hurt you?"

Harry looked at Hermione for a moment. Her forehead was wrinkled, her neck tight and strained. Having him and Ron fighting was hard on her. It was hard for all of their friends.

Ginny was standing quietly by his side. Seamus and Dean were watching from their couches. Around the room, most students were continuing their own conversations, but a few - especially the other members of the Gryffindor Quidditch side - had begun to pay attention.

"Yeah, Ron," said Harry. "Even though. If this is a mistake, then let me make it. Please."

Ron ran his long fingers roughly through his hair. Harry watched him look at Hermione, who continued to look exhausted.

"Harry, I just don't get it. Why do you think he even deserves another chance?"

Harry could only offer Ron the same answer he'd given Draco for this question: "Because I can no longer see a reason not to be his friend, Ron."

Ron's face hardened, so Harry clarified his point. "I will never like the person he used to be. I will never like the way he treated you or Hermione. Or me," he added, almost as an afterthought. "But he's not that person, anymore, Ron. Look at the way he has stood up for me with Snape."

"Oh, and that doesn't seem suspicious to you, at all? You haven't considered that maybe it's a trick?"

"It could be," answered Harry quietly, still holding Ron's eyes. "But I don't think so. In any case, I'm willing to take that risk."

Harry took a deep breath, and finally added the words he wanted to say: "My dad took a risk, being friends with Sirius. And everyone thought he'd taken a bad risk, got betrayed by someone he trusted. But they were wrong, Sirius was always good."

Ron's jaw dropped open an inch. "Harry, Malfoy isn't like Sirius. Think about all the time he's spent swaggering about, saying how great his dad was."

Harry balled his fists in frustration. "No, Draco isn't Sirius, and he's spent most of our school years being a git, but I think he's changing now. I want to give him that chance."

Ron only looked at him, his expression a muddle of anger and confusion and something a bit like pity.

When he still hadn't spoken, Harry said, "You don't have to like it. Please just don't let it come between us."

Ron's eyes narrowed for a moment, and Harry became aware of Hermione and Ginny waiting expectantly in silent witness. Finally, he nodded.

"You're right, Harry," he began. "I don't have to like it. But you are my best mate." Ron paused as though he would continue, but then his eyes fell away again, indicating that he had said all he could on this topic.

Harry felt only slightly relieved, as he stared at Ron's distant, wounded expression. Hermione furrowed her brow at the pair, while Ginny slipped away quietly. Tension still hung in the air between them, but at least they had both put the importance of their friendship into words.

For now, Harry would have to hope that would suffice.

***

In the darkness before Wednesday morning, Harry woke gasping for breath.

For a few moments as he blinked his eyes clear, he saw nothing in the blackness around his bed. For a few moments, he thought Ron's face had been only a phantasm from the dream.

Harry fumbled for his glasses in the darkness, hoping against hope that the pale blur beyond his shortsighted vision was more than a beam of moonlight. He nearly sobbed in relief when his vision cleared to reveal Ron actually sitting there, at the far end of his bed, watching him warily.

"Ron -" he began, but Ron's closed-off expression stopped him.

"You're alright, then?"

Ron's voice was so clipped and chilly that Harry tried to reach out to him, but he stood up before Harry could touch him.

Ron scrutinised Harry's face. "Was it the Dreaming Draught?"

Harry's mind went immediately to his bedside table drawer, where the tiny vial was stashed. He'd worried about it for hours after the last Potions lesson, trying to work out a way to avoid doing the assignment; once he'd got tired of thinking about it, it had slipped entirely from his mind.

"No." He shook his head blearily. "No, I haven't taken it."

Ron shrugged jerkily. "In that case, maybe you should," he said quietly. "It might help." Without another word, he turned abruptly and returned to his own bed, where he immediately drew the curtains.

Harry sat for several long minutes, staring at the dark hangings of Ron's bed. It was hollow comfort, to know Ron cared so much about his well-being, when it was that caring that had caused this rift between them.

Ron could be right, that a friendship with Draco would only hurt Harry in the end. On some level, Harry was quite touched that Ron was so upset at the idea of Harry putting himself in a situation where he could be hurt. In the end, though, if it was a mistake, it was Harry's right to make it. Ron had to let him make the choice.

Harry lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes. As soon as he did, images from the dream danced through his head: the darkness of the tunnels, Sirius's bedraggled appearance, that strangely light child, and Draco's ghostly presence throughout.

Each image was so vivid, so imbued with strong emotion, that Harry could hardly stand to relive them upon waking. He couldn't bear the idea of having to endure the dream again. He needed it to go away.

Ron's advice about the Draught was a good idea: the Draught would make Harry relive the dream again, but it would protect him from the emotional effects. It would help him understand.

He rolled over and slid open the drawer in his bedside cabinet. Seeing the vial, he was jolted with a different strong memory: that of the day they'd brewed the potion, and the spark that had zinged between him and Draco when they'd touched as he'd handed him the vials. Their first kiss had come bare moments later.

Harry liked to think of it as their "first" kiss, because he wanted so much for there to be more.

He pressed his forehead to the pillow. He had a handle on his feelings for Draco, pretty well, but any essay he wrote about his dreams would obviously give them away. He really didn't want to have to write an essay for Snape that catalogued his attraction to Draco. There were few things he wanted less.

One of those things, as it happened, was to experience that dream again.

If understanding the dream would make it stop, it might be worth having to deal with whatever he learned. It might even be worth having to show what he learned to Snape.

Harry slipped the sheet of parchment from beneath the vial, and lumosed his wand so he could read it. Snape's instructions told him almost nothing about how to use the potion, only that he should concentrate on the dream, drink the full contents of the vial, and go to sleep. Most of the sheet was filled with a list of books he should consult for help with interpreting the symbols; at the bottom, a length requirement was noted: thirty inches.

Bloody Snape, thought Harry. He might be ahead on his revisions, but that didn't mean he had time to write an essay that long.

He would worry about the essay later. He would take the Draught, and do the research ... and see.

Harry replaced the parchment and picked up the vial. "Nothing to lose, right?" he whispered as he uncorked it.

He lifted the tiny vessel toward Ron's curtained bed in a silent toast before drinking the lot. Immediately sleepy, which he remembered was an intended effect of the potion, Harry replaced the vial in the drawer, along with his wand and glasses, and pulled the blankets up to his chin.

As he drifted off Harry's last thought was that he hadn't ever heard Ron's snores start up again.

***

Hermione nearly dropped her books when she saw Harry had arrived at the library before she had the following morning. Harry had to allow himself a bit of a snicker at her expense - he was probably the first person to arrive before her since Krum had left after the Tournament.

"What ...?" she stammered as he cleared a space on the table for her things.

After gaping a moment longer Hermione got control of her wits.

"You've taken the Dreaming Draught, haven't you?" she asked. "Oh, Harry, I'm so relieved. I was so worried!"

Harry rolled his shoulders, once, to loosen them. He really didn't like it when Hermione fussed over him, but he forced himself to shake off his annoyance. He had to remember that he was really grateful to have friends who cared so much that sometimes they worried a little too much.

He didn't want to talk about it, though. Avoiding her searching gaze, he ran his finger along the page of Who Am I to Disagree?: Gleaning the Sweet from Your Dreams, by Ann Spode.

It was unlikely that any portion of his dream would turn up in a volume on positive symbology, but it was worth a try.

Halfway down the page, Harry jammed his finger in surprise. Wincing and shaking his hand, he peered closer at the text.

Tunnels: dark and/or narrow, he read. Passing through a narrow and/or darkened tunnel in a dream clearly indicates a form of rebirth, an emergence or recognition of new knowledge hitherto hidden, often represented as a light source, which might seem ghostly, distant, or otherwise mysterious. [See: Rebirth Imagery, p. 822; see also: Ghostlike Apparitions, p. 131]

Harry flipped over to the page on Rebirth Imagery. Scanning the list, he was surprised to find the mysterious baby, sounds of the ocean, and even the crushingly final feelings of drowning, all listed as symbols of rebirth.

Something in his subconscious was clearly trying to tell him to look for another chance. Or was it encouraging him in his choice to give Draco another chance? It was all very unclear, and Harry really couldn't see how all of this was different from Divination.

He turned back to page one hundred thirty-one, to read more about Ghostlike Apparitions.

At the top of the page, he read: Ghostlike Apparitions: The appearance of an insubstantial, ghostlike apparition in a dream indicates that knowledge to be gained or goal sought is ephemeral, uncertain, perhaps unobtainable; also, the dreamer may fear what is ahead, may not want to know.

Harry thought again of Draco, of how he spent so much of the dream following a faint outline of Draco's form in the darkness.

There was so much he still didn't know about Draco, and so much he wanted to learn. Or did he? Perhaps his subconscious was telling him what his conscious mind wouldn't admit: that he was setting himself up for disaster, that Draco would hurt him, that he would regret having tried to be with him.

Harry's eyes kept drawing back to the word unobtainable. Maybe it was all impossible, in the first place. He pushed the book away.

Hermione looked up. "Finding out anything interesting?"

He couldn't help smiling. To Hermione, everything was available, in books. All the knowledge in the world was printed, somewhere, if one could only but find the right page.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "Some of what I'm finding might be relevant, but I can't tell for sure."

He showed her the notes he'd scrawled so far. Hermione tugged absently at a stray curl as she squinted to decipher his writing.

After a moment, she looked up. "I think you've made a good start. It all makes sense to me. What do you think?"

Harry retrieved his notes and skimmed them again. "It might do," he answered, then froze as his gaze settled on an open page of And the Horse You Rode In On: What Our Nightmares Can Tell Us That We Don't Want to Know, by Alexander Mann.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Guilt," he answered hollowly, staring at an entry headed Haunting.

When Hermione didn't answer, Harry looked up to see why. She was simply looking at him sadly. "It isn't your fault," she said quietly.

That was something about having best friends; they knew without having to ask, sometimes.

He only wished he believed her.

"If I hadn't killed Voldemort, Draco would still have parents," he said in a flat, dull voice.

Hermione touched the back of his hand, very lightly, with her fingertips. His eyes followed her arm back up to her face.

"If you hadn't killed Voldemort, he would have killed you," she said.

"And if I'd killed him sooner, Remus would still have Sirius," Harry replied, thinking of the skating couple and their tender kiss. It had never occurred to him, before Sirius had died, to notice how close he and Lupin had been. Harry had known the two men had been childhood friends, and hadn't thought any more of it.

If Sirius had been alive, Harry could have talked to him about being gay. Sirius could have been there for him. He could have seen Sirius and Remus happy together, and maybe even seen them as a glimpse of his own future.

Harry watched his fingers turn the book automatically over to the page on Guilt Symbology.

There was so much there, as well. The ghostlike apparitions, apparently, could have something to do with feelings of guilt; seeing Sirius in his Azkaban-escapee state fell under this category, as well, as did Draco in Trelawney's spectacles.

"You did everything you could," offered Hermione. "You did the very best you could."

Harry blinked at her, slightly shocked. He remembered the words of the baby in his dream: 'Have you done all you could?'

As he looked over his notes about the possible meanings of the dream, he began to suspect that the answer was no.

***

Few places at Hogwarts were as deserted as the Potions classroom on a Friday night. This was probably why Draco had suggested they meet at this time, so they could study without being disturbed. Harry noticed Draco had not mentioned what reactions their friendship had elicited from the other Slytherins, but it was safe to guess that they had not been positive.

Especially after everything Harry had learned while researching his dream, Harry could hardly blame them. He was more aware of his guilty feelings than ever. Most of Slytherin House, and a handful of students in the other Houses, were now orphans because of him. Harry hated that he'd been forced to cause other children to endure the loss of their parents, as he had lost his.

Harry knew his dreams were right about another element, as well. He did wish for another chance, a new start, somewhere he wouldn't have to be the One Who Had Saved the World. In the course of his so-called heroics, Harry had also ruined lives. The angry eyes he saw at breakfast every morning served as a more-than-adequate reminder of that. He longed to escape the accusations in those glares.

Harry smiled at Draco, who was scrutinising the instructions for the potion they were reviewing. Things were good between them now. It was relaxing to find some time alone with someone who was on his side, and away from all of the angry eyes that reminded Harry of his guilt.

It was relaxing, yet disturbingly exciting. Being alone with Draco held its own set of challenges.

As much as Harry was trying to concentrate on simply being Draco's good friend, he couldn't help entertaining a thrill of excitement at being alone together so late at night. Every time Draco's eyes met his over the cauldron, Harry lost complete track of the process they were practising, and kept nearly fouling up the whole thing.

Trying to focus on the current step of the procedure for the Pain-Eliminating Potion they'd covered the previous week, Harry picked up the vial of powdered unicorn horn. Draco caught his wrist just in time to stop him from adding the whole quantity, which had not yet been measured.

Harry looked up sharply at the contact. Draco's eyes became everything he could see for a second that seemed endless.

Finally breaking the gaze, Harry exhaled.

"Sorry," he explained, pulling his wrist unwillingly from Draco's grip to set down the precious powder. With his other hand, he pushed his fringe out of his eyes. "I don't know where my mind is tonight."

Draco didn't respond, nor did his hand completely leave Harry's. An uncomfortable moment passed before Harry understood that Draco was staring at his forehead. The familiar impulse to flatten the fringe over his scar passed through him and vanished.

"It's fading, isn't it?" asked Draco without breaking his gaze.

The hand that had been holding Harry's wrist started to reach out, then stopped and hung in midair between them.

Harry allowed his head to bob slightly in affirmation. He was transfixed by Draco's attention.

"It's alright," he ventured, making a point of looking at the extended fingers. "You can."

Draco hesitated, then seemed to watch his hand move of its own will to bridge the gap between them. His fingers, once arrived, traced lightly over the lightning-bolt-shaped scar that seemed to have defined Harry's adolescence.

Harry breathed very shallowly. He was nearly overwhelmed by the urge to grasp Draco's wrist and bury his lips in the softest part of Draco's palm.

Draco's gaze flicked the few degrees from his fingertips to Harry's eyes. "Did it start healing?" he asked. "After you killed him?"

Harry nodded again, enchanted by Draco's proximity. It was like dreaming all over again, suddenly to be this close to the boy who had haunted his dreams and waking thoughts for weeks. He couldn't move, for fear of breaking the spell.

In the midst of a caught breath, however, Harry's attention was captured thoroughly by surprise, and he spoke before he could think:

"Draco, what is that?"

Draco's sleeve had fallen back to reveal a scar of his own, on the inside of his forearm. It resembled the one on Harry's forehead in shape and color, only differing in size.

It also looked rougher, somehow, as though each line had been sliced deliberately into the flesh.

Harry caught the extended arm - Draco's left - before he could draw it back. The arm tensed a moment, then relaxed as Draco allowed Harry to pull it closer for better examination.

He cupped it delicately in his right hand, running the fingers of his left over the familiar shape.

"Did you do this?" he enquired, looking up into the raw eyes that watched him, more vulnerable than Harry had ever seen them. "Is this how you got free?"

Draco didn't ask what Harry meant; it would have insulted both of them to have claimed ignorance. He simply nodded, and looked away.

"I knew what was going to happen when I came of age," said Draco in a detached monotone. "Father escaped Azkaban when Sixth Year had barely begun - I knew he would, like I told you. Only I was so angry with you for beating him, I couldn't let on how scared I was. The truth was, I didn't want to see him. I didn't want to go home for the Christmas holidays. My birthday was the day I would have arrived."

Harry sat silently, completely absorbed. It was more than he could have hoped, to hear Draco say unequivocally that he hadn't wanted to join his father. It was almost more than he could believe.

The contrary part of Harry's mind conjured the thoroughly unwelcome image of Draco, proud and insolent, pushing his way into Harry's compartment on the Hogwarts Express to rub salt in the wounds that were still fresh from Cedric's death. Before Harry could force his mind away, it let Draco's long-ago words echo, taunting him for having chosen the 'wrong' side.

The Draco he had once known had supported his Death Eater parents. He had supported Voldemort.

Harry gritted his molars together and focused his eyes on the Draco who sat before him.

Something must have changed, over the past couple of years. At the moment, Harry didn't care what had happened, so long as it was true. He was afraid, though, if he so much as moved, that the glamour would crack and Draco would go back to being the selfish, spoilt prat Harry had always known before.

Harry sat, therefore, perfectly still. He dragged his mind back to the thread of Draco's story.

So Draco's birthday fell on the Solstice. Harry had even heard somewhere that he'd been born at the exact moment of winter's arrival. If Lucius had had his way, then, Draco would have been branded with the Dark Mark on his first night home from Hogwarts that winter.

"But you didn't go home, after all," he murmured, assuming that must be the case from Draco's choice of words, although he couldn't remember ever seeing him at Hogwarts that Christmas.

"No," agreed Draco with a gentle shake of his head. "I couldn't, after what I had done. My father would have had me destroyed."

Harry winced at the thought of anyone, even Lucius Malfoy, being willing to throw away his child so easily. Even more, he hated the idea of any child being raised with the knowledge of his own expendability.

"But what did you do?" Harry wasn't sure how to make his question any more clearly, so he simply traced the scar again, letting his eyes communicate the rest.

Draco's eyes followed Harry's finger up and down his forearm. Harry brushed the skin impossibly lightly, feeling the tiniest variations in its topography. Draco's arm was completely relaxed in his hand, permitting, welcoming.

For a long moment, neither spoke, absorbed in the sensation of contact.

"I had read about it," came Draco's quiet words at last. "I found a book in the Restricted Section that outlined ancient protection spells against procedures like the Dark Mark. The Dark Lord wasn't the first to brand his followers with magical Binding Spells, simply the most recent. Long ago, a few wizards found a way to resist."

Harry was familiar with one such process from helping Snape, but wanted to hear Draco's account. He remained silent, letting the words wash over him as he continued to stare at the silver lines in the milky flesh.

"I knew I could go to Snape for help, or to Dumbledore, but I was afraid they would try to talk me out of it. The Light Protection is a very advanced procedure, and very dangerous. There was a strong possibility that I would not survive. But because of Father's plans, I had to do this before I came of age, which made Dumbledore and Snape responsible for the outcome. I couldn't give them the chance to stop me. I didn't know whether anyone else would understand: I would rather have died than have taken the Dark Mark."

Harry blinked and swallowed the rising burn in his chest. It hurt to think of Draco being so alone, making such a terrifying decision.

Despite Harry's fascination with Draco's story, his eyes had their own priorities. His gaze stayed riveted on the delicate shapes Draco's mouth made as he spoke.

"The night before the train left for Break, I came to this room. I cleared the desks away from the middle of the floor and drew the pentagram around myself for protection. I had already prepared the potion I was to drink and the balm I was to spread across my arm. All that remained was to speak the incantation, and break the skin so it would not accept the Mark.

"It probably won't surprise you that I had already had some experience with very advanced spells, most of which were the kind of thing Dumbledore doesn't teach. My father had seen to that. I had managed to hold off on starting to learn anything really horrible - I'd faked being ill the last week of the summer after Father had given me a text to read about the Cruciatus curse - but I had learned enough to know I didn't want to follow the road my parents had chosen for me.

"Before I started the spell, I had memorised the words exactly, and learnt to focus my mind completely on the task at hand. I spread the balm on my arm and pointed the tip of my wand at my flesh, exactly where the Dark Mark was meant to be made. I knew the spot precisely, from seeing my parents' so many times since Voldemort had returned.

"I had chosen the shape of your scar" - his eyes flicked back to Harry's forehead - "because I knew yours had protected you. And because I knew I would be near you, here at Hogwarts, so maybe that would be the protection that would be strongest here.

"I used my wand, and the spell, to gouge the shape into my skin so that the Dark Mark could never be placed there. When I started to cut my skin, though, something went wrong. I think I was too intent, channeling too much of my energy into the spell. I didn't know how much power I had.

"I cut too deep, or maybe too close to the vein. It made me bleed too much - there was so much blood. I remember everything being covered in red. I felt myself getting weak. There was this warm, wet puddle that was getting into my robes and my hair, and I couldn't quite get my brain around the fact that that was me, my life, soaking into the stones.

"I knew I was dying, though. I knew I had to choose between finishing the incantation, and saving my life. I chose to save my soul."

Harry blinked for the first time in minutes. As he forced himself to draw a breath, a dull pain seized the bottom of his lungs. It was hard to accept how close he had come to losing Draco before he'd ever really known him.

"Then what happened?" he prompted quietly.

Draco's eyes flicked toward Harry's, breaking the trance that had held them. When he spoke again, his voice was steady and objective.

"I'm not entirely sure," he admitted. "I woke up in the Hospital Wing, nearly a week later. My arm was swathed in bandages, and I was too weak to sit up. I couldn't stand or walk until the day before all the other students returned.

"My only guess is that Snape found me, and brought me to Dumbledore. Snape has always known when I needed him, somehow. I think it was Snape who ensured that I lived."

Harry looked at Draco for a long moment, thinking back over his behaviour in the last few Potions lessons.

"If Snape has always been there for you, though," he asked, "then why did you stand up for me?"

Draco scowled and squared his shoulders, pulling completely away from Harry.

"Snape wouldn't even be here, if it weren't for you. I know he hated your dad, and that you look like him and everything, but that's no excuse for Snape never giving you a chance." The corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. "If anyone understands that a son and a father can be different, I can."

Harry thought back, with yet another pang of guilt, on that awful day when he'd seen his father in Snape's Pensieve, hanging a teenage Snape up by his ankles. Harry was sure there were reasons he should look up to his father's memory, but he was also sure that wasn't one of them.

He walked around the desk to take Draco's arm again. Draco didn't resist as Harry pushed his sleeve back to expose his scar.

He laid his hand flat, lightly, over the silvery mark. "I'm glad," he said, without looking up. "I'm glad you did this. And glad you survived it."

He raised his eyes now to meet Draco's. Their faces were so close, Harry could feel the other boy's breath against his skin. It reminded him of the day they'd kissed, only this Draco was so different, so much more complicated, than the boy who had accosted him in the shadowy corridor.

He wanted, more than ever, to kiss those lips again.

Draco nodded solemnly in response to Harry's words. "It was the only choice I had. And I didn't even know -" He broke off, blinked twice, then continued, "I didn't even know, then, about what was going to happen to the rest - to my parents and all of them who had the Mark."

Harry's heart constricted. He thought again of his dream, and his feelings of guilt over the fates of the Death Eaters who had children at Hogwarts. He knew that, ultimately, the responsibility for the terrible fate of those men and women lay in their own hands, and in Voldemort's, but that never seemed to make him feel any better about it.

Draco saw Harry's expression, and continued, "It's a good thing, really, what happened to me. The other kids with Death Eaters for parents - they used to look up to me. When I risked everything to avoid taking the Mark, they all decided to resist, too. Snape helped shield them from their parents; his cover was blown once you helped him deactivate his Mark, so he was free to help even the ones who aren't in Slytherin. That's why we still have all our classmates."

The darkness seemed to creep out of the corners of the dungeon classroom, gathering around the grey in Draco's hooded eyes. Harry was acutely aware, all over again, of why they were there alone.

"You said 'used to' look up to you," Harry commented flatly. "They're angry because of me, aren't they?"

Draco shrugged a single shoulder, looking down at his arm. "They're angry because their parents are dead," he answered simply. "They blamed me because they blamed Father because their parents all did what he told them to do." He glanced up and saw the look in Harry's eyes. "I mean, yeah, they blame you, too, of course. They have to blame someone, after all, because that's the way they've been taught to think. So they're not happy I'm friends with you, now, but they really haven't been fond of me in quite a while."

"What about you? Weren't you taught to think that way?"

Draco shrugged the same shoulder again. "I was taught to think a lot of things," he said.

Harry held Draco's gaze, wishing he could communicate a tithe of his sympathy for all Draco had lost. Harry had grown up with no parents and no friends, but he hadn't remembered any other way. He didn't think he would like to have all that Draco had had, and then lose it all at once.

"Draco, I'm sorry," said Harry quietly. "About your parents."

Draco's regard changed sharply.

"Don't you ever be sorry for what you did," he said harshly, insistently. "You saved us all."

Harry shook his head, looking away. "Don't -" he pleaded, closing his eyes against the tightness in his chest.

Killing Voldemort hadn't saved anyone, really. It was just something he'd had to do, or die trying. The world was better than if he'd failed, he did understand that, but sometimes he didn't really care.

Harry hadn't wanted to kill. It didn't matter what kind of life it was that he had taken; he didn't feel triumph, he only felt stained.

Draco was wrong. Harry hadn't saved anyone. His parents were still dead, Sirius was still dead, Draco and the other Death Eaters' children were still orphaned, and so many people still hated Harry and Draco for that fact.

Harry felt his face growing hot, and his collar felt itchy. He was sick of being the 'saviour.' He wanted it not to be true. He wanted Draco to have a family again, even if it meant him being an insufferable snob who hated everyone and everything that Harry loved.

A cool, smooth hand covered Harry's where it rested over Draco's scar. Harry let his eyes open at the sensation. The face he saw didn't look like the one he used to see contorted into a hateful sneer, back when they were younger. So much had changed about Draco; that much, Harry was sure, was true.

Draco was regarding him intently. "You saved me, Harry, whether you knew it or not. Don't you ever be sorry for that."

His pale pink lips made soft, insistent shapes as he spoke the words. Harry didn't really hear them; he was too busy watching the tip of Draco's tongue dance in and out of sight behind his teeth.

Harry leaned closer. He could smell the scent of Draco's soap and clothes and exhaustion. The tiny, fair hairs just above Draco's left ear were slightly mussed, and wanted Harry's fingertips to smooth them gently into a single direction.

Something about the intensity of Draco's expression looked like trust, and under its weight Harry felt that he existed only because Draco was seeing him. He feared that if Draco looked away, he would vanish as a wisp of steam over the surface of the Lake on nights when the air temperature dropped too suddenly for the water to keep up and the breeze swept ripples across in the darkness.

Something about Draco was drawing Harry closer. His lips still looked soft, and Harry dared to believe he could lean forward another inch and feel them for himself again.

It was in precisely that moment that Draco's eyes dropped shut and his head tipped back, pulling those lips away.

At the edges of his vision, Harry sensed that the torches in their sconces might have brightened; the darkness receded back into its corners, leaving only a plain classroom occupied by two plain boys.

Draco looked paler than Harry had noticed a moment earlier. His eyelids appeared bruised from fatigue. Harry couldn't help wondering whether Draco had slept at all, lately, either.

"I'm very tired, Harry," he said in a barely audible whisper. "I think I need to go to sleep, now."

When Draco opened his eyes, they wore invisible shields. Harry swallowed and held his breath as Draco pulled away, then stood up and began packing away his books and the potion ingredients. Automatically, Harry joined the task, avoiding the horrible, shielded eyes.

They had to throw away the unfinished potion, but it didn't matter at all.

Harry and Draco didn't look at each other again until they reached the foot of the stairs Harry would have to climb to leave the dungeons. They didn't say any words, simply nodded once guardedly and went each his separate way.

Harry fought himself not to look back. He couldn't bear the idea that Draco wouldn't be watching.

The curfew bells were chiming their final toll as Harry reached the Fat Lady.

"Are you alright, dear?" asked the voluptuous portrait. Harry nodded distantly, still reeling from Draco's story, and from the tension in his own wound-up body as he'd stood so painfully close to the boy he wanted so intensely.

"Oh, good!" she gushed. "Your friends will be so happy to see you, they just can't wait to share their news."

"Canary creams," replied Harry, thoroughly perplexed and too spent to care.

"Yes, indeed!" sang the Fat Lady, as she swung forward to admit him.

A quiet common room greeted Harry as he entered. He was about to head up to an early bed when he heard his name called from the direction of the fireplace.

Hermione and Ron were sitting together on the very same couch they had shared when Harry had told them who would be refereeing the Seeker rematch. The day seemed years, not weeks, ago. Both looked happier than he had ever seen them, glowing and contented. Both pairs of eyes lit up as they gestured him over to join them.

Hermione reached out, misty-eyed to take Harry's hand as he sat on the chair nearest them. Ron, all evidence of disagreement gone, clapped a hand to Harry's shoulder.

Harry remembered the Fat Lady's words about "news," and returned the expectant looks of his friends.

"So?" he prompted. "What's the occasion?"

Hermione flushed happily and held up her left hand. A tiny, but finely cut, stone glinted from the gold-coloured band on her fourth finger.

"We wanted you to be the first to know," she told him as Ron looked on, grinning proudly. "Ron has asked me to be his wife."