Some Perfect World

Chapter 9: Maturity

Harry wasn't sure which came first on Sunday morning: the stabbing pain in his eyes from the sunlight, the foul, fuzzy dryness of his mouth, or the surge of nausea in his gut. He rolled onto his side, facing into the shadows, and drew his knees up toward his chin, then groaned and stretched out again when that made the nausea worse. He couldn't decide whether to race for the toilet or stay in bed until Friday.

Ah. This must be a hangover.

As he hadn't ever really had much alcohol before, Harry been spared the experience until today. Now, the Whomping Willow had taken up residence inside his skull, and had left a couple of branches in his belly for good measure. He deeply regretted every refill of rakiya, every swallow of Zagorka.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

At first, Harry thought the sensation of tilting was another morning-after symptom. No matter how he adjusted his head, shoulders and hips, he couldn't shake the feeling that one side of his bed was lower than the other.

He braced himself for a return of the flat-spinning sensation he'd fought when trying to fall asleep the night before, but it never came. Finally, he started to wonder whether there might be another cause for his sense of imbalance. He split his eyelids open a millimeter to investigate the situation.

"Drink this," said Ron, who was sitting there, next to Harry's prone form. "It'll help."

Harry shifted into a half-upright position, still squinting woundedly. If Ron was playing games with him right now, Harry would repay him copiously in vomit.

Ron held the mug out toward Harry, nudging it into his fingers. "Hangover cure. Tastes horrible, but if you can keep it down, it'll sort you right out. The twins swear by it."

Harry raised an eyebrow. A wave of nausea hit him immediately, as his forehead erupted in agony. He closed his eyes in supplication and fell back onto the pillow, one hand covering his face and the other clenching his gut.

He'd never before imagined that it might be possible to feel pain in an eyebrow.

After a moment's rest, Harry raised himself back up on his elbow and peered at his best mate, who waited with increasing impatience. The cup in his hand was smoking pungently, intensifying Harry's queasy misgivings. Anything involving the twins had to be met with suspicion by anyone with half a brain; years of acquaintance had taught him that.

Harry doubted that as much as half of his brain was functioning at the moment, but considered that beside the point.

"Drink it, Harry."

Harry scowled, but took the mug and examined its contents. The lumpy, grey concoction gave off a foul odor. Harry wrinkled his nose and pushed the potion away from his face.

"I know, it's awful, but I promise it works. Trust me, Harry."

Harry looked up, finally able to focus on Ron's eyes. At the same moment, he heard an echo of Charlie's voice from the night before, saying, 'You'll want to listen to Ron in the morning. He'll sort you out.' The memory was blurry enough to have been a dream, but his roiling gut told him to believe it.

Anyway, this was Ron. Even on the rare occasions they had rowed, Ron had never done anything deliberate to hurt Harry.

As small a thing as it seemed, if Ron had asked Harry to trust him, Harry was going to do so.

He lifted the mug to his lips and took a long drink.

The liquid tasted worse than it smelled, but the texture was the most horrible part: viscous, slimy, thick and chewy. Harry clenched his jaws shut against his gag reflex, slapping both hands over his mouth. He squinched his eyes closed tightly and curled into a ball, lying on his side. He was dimly aware that Ron was awkwardly patting circles on his back, as if to help the potion stay down.

A second passed, and then another. The gag reflex began to relax.

The potion stayed down. Barely.

After a few more seconds, the Whomping Willow melted into mist. The buzzing in Harry's ears faded away, and his stomach calmed itself. He opened his eyes experimentally to see the sun flowing in through the parted curtains, but the brightness was now more cheerful than painful. The air from the open window smelled sweet and clean, and Ron looked thoroughly relieved.

"Thanks," Harry told him, smiling sheepishly.

"Anytime, mate," replied Ron.

The best thing about this morning was that Ron was here, and he was smiling. Harry didn't care if his amusement came at Harry's own expense. He only cared that life was getting back to normal.

"Think it'll be just the one time, thanks," said Harry with a penitent duck of his head. "No more rakiya for me."

"You're such a lightweight."

"Only because I don't have your brothers."

Ron's expression darkened at Harry's joke, derailing Harry's hopes of an easy resolution. He didn't understand what his offence had been, this time, but it didn't take long to find out.

"Been talking to Charlie a lot, have you?"

"Not really a lot, no," responded Harry carefully. "I've only written him a couple of letters, you know, for advice and stuff. I figured he would know how I'm feeling. About being gay, I mean."

Ron continued to glare.

"You didn't have to get my big brother to take your side for you," he muttered moodily. "You could have talked to me yourself."

"I didn't, Ron. I never meant for him to get into this. I asked him for some advice, when you got so angry about Draco and me being friends, but -"

"Will you stop calling him that??"

Harry started at Ron's outburst. Seamus gave an abrupt snort in his sleep, and rolled over.

"Who? Call who what?" asked Harry in confusion, although he had a suspicion he already knew the answer.

"You know who," snarled Ron. "That self-absorbed, stuck-up, over-privileged, spoiled git, that's who!"

Harry sat up a little straighter, pulling away from his friend. When was Ron going to accept Harry's friendship with Draco? When was he going to stop trying to come between them?

"Draco and I are friends, Ron," Harry said quietly. "I would really like it if you would understand that."

Ron's eyes went five shades darker in the shadows of the quiet dormitory. "You already have plenty of real friends, Harry. You don't need Malfoy, whatever he might be doing to try to convince you otherwise."

"What -?"

"He's blackmailing you or something, isn't he, Harry?" insisted Ron. "Look, whatever it is, you don't need him. I can help."

Harry let out a long, defeated sigh. Ron's accusations were infuriating, but Harry was pretty sure he knew what was really going through his head.

"So that's it, then. You're just going to be jealous of Draco, of me being friends with him. You can't trust me enough to believe that you're my best mate, and no other friendship could ever be more important!" Harry's words were tender, but his tone was sharp.

"Jealous? Of that -" Ron broke off, apparently having run out of colourful insults for the moment - "of Malfoy?" The blue eyes were almost black now; the deep voice kept its hard edge. "I'm not jealous of anyone, Harry. I'm only trying to watch out for you, which is something you seem incapable of doing for yourself, lately."

"Merlin's beard, Ron!" Harry snapped, understanding too well the half-truth of his friend's protest. "When was the last time Draco gave you any trouble at all? When, since last summer, has he even spoken to you? He's not the privileged rich kid anymore, as you should know. It's common knowledge that he lost his parents, and the Ministry seized all of his inheritance. He almost lost his life to avoid joining the Death Eaters, too. He's just an orphan now, like me."

Harry braced himself for the cutting response he expected, but Ron was struck silent.

For a long moment, the two boys stared at each other with wide eyes, neither moving nor speaking. Harry almost dared to believe that he had convinced Ron at last.

Finally, Ron spoke. "What do you mean, about Malfoy almost losing his life?"

Harry's heart dropped into his intestines. That was Draco's secret, told to Harry in confidence. Draco had trusted Harry with the story, and Harry had gone and blabbed about it to the person who arguably hated Draco more than anyone. Worse yet, Harry hadn't even realised he'd said it, until he'd heard the words in Ron's voice.

He was going to have to be much more careful, if he was going to keep Draco's trust.

"Forget it," he replied, looking away. "It's nothing."

"Harry?"

"Leave it, Ron," he repeated forcefully, then pushed himself into a standing position on other side of the bed. The irrational part of his brain raged against Ron for getting Harry so worked up that he'd broken Draco's confidence. He needed to get away before he said anything else he'd regret.

"Harry, will you tell me what you meant?" Ron was almost pleading with him. Harry knew Ron hated the idea of Harry knowing a secret and not sharing it, but he had to keep this one to himself.

"I'm going to have a bath now. See you at breakfast."

Although the blue eyes burned into him all the way to the door, Harry refused to look back.

***

A distant clock was chiming the five o'clock bells. They'd been in the Potions lab since four, and Draco had barely spoken to him in the past hour.

Draco had arrived, essay in hand, ready to compare notes about their dreams. When Harry had feigned regret about having "accidentally" left his essay back in the Tower, Draco had closed his books brusquely and suggested they study potions from their their Healing unit, instead.

Harry suspected that Draco was feeling more slighted than he let on. He wished there were some way of explaining why it was impossible to share the details of his dream with Draco, of all people.

He wished there were some way of reaching out and taking the chill away from the air between them.

It had been a bad day, all around. Harry and Ron hadn't spoken another word to each other since the scene in the dormitory that morning. Harry's nerves felt jagged as broken glass over that conflict, and he needed everything to be alright with at least one of his friends.

Harry watched Draco finish the sentence he was writing. He willed him to look up, to make some sort of contact.

Draco nibbled on the end of his quill for a moment, then began a new paragraph. His eyes remained fixed to the page.

That bubbling anger welled inside Harry's gut again. He was so unimaginably tired of Draco always having the upper hand. He wanted, if only for one moment, to feel as though Draco wanted more from him than he wanted from Draco.

He wanted Draco to admit to what had happened between them, and to thinking and dreaming and hoping about it throughout the weeks since it had happened, the same way Harry had been doing.

And he wanted, very much, for Draco to look at him.

Draco paused in his writing to read over his last few lines. The tip of his quill feathered lightly over his parted lips.

Harry's breath went shallow, despite himself.

"I'm sorry I left you in the library yesterday," blurted Harry suddenly. He hated himself for his weakness, but couldn't keep from babbling on, "I had no idea you were going to come looking for me. And then it turned out -"

"- that Krum and one of the other Weasleys were visiting, I know," finished Draco, eyes still scanning the parchment.

He lay down his quill and looked up, at long last. When he did, he registered Harry's surprise.

Draco explained, "I got to be friends with Krum when he was here for the Tournament, you know. Nothing like Granger was, of course, but we've kept in touch."

Harry blinked. He remembered that the Durmstrang students had always sat with the Slytherins during meals that year, but had never imagined that any lasting friendships had been forged. At the time, of course, he'd assumed that Malfoy had only been latching onto celebrity to feel important. It hadn't occurred to him that he and Krum might actually get along.

Krum had said he'd been going to visit some other people before leaving last night. Harry had assumed he had meant members of the staff or something. To be honest, Harry hadn't given it the slightest thought.

"Did he come see you, then? Last night?" Harry asked.

Draco nodded. "He brought me some of that horrid Bulgarian moonshine, too. Lucky I knew to drink it slowly."

Harry shuddered at the memory of his waking that morning. "I'll know that, too, next time."

Draco smirked at him, but gently. "Ah, I see. Has Potter the Pure had his first hangover?"

"Don't call me that. And yes."

Despite himself, Harry let a sparkle of amusement jump to his eyes.

It wasn't reflected in Draco's. He seemed to have other thoughts on his mind.

"I still don't see why you waste your time with that family," Draco muttered.

Harry closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. The last thing he wanted was a fight.

The response was too deeply ingrained, though. He couldn't let Draco get away with making dismissive comments about the Weasleys; he wouldn't do it when he was eleven, and he couldn't do it now.

"'That family' is my family, Draco. They've always taken care of me, unlike my blood relatives did. I never knew what a family was until I met the Weasleys."

Draco looked unimpressed. "They're not good enough for you, Harry. None of them are."

Harry shook his head. "That's where you're wrong, Draco. They love me. And I love them. I understand you might never have had a chance to know how that feels, but -"

A dangerous silence cut Harry's words short, more abruptly than any shout. Draco wore the face he had when Hermione had slapped him so many years ago.

"Why, you condescending little shit."

Harry's mouth snapped closed with an audible click. In the blink of an eye, his friend Draco had vanished. In its place had returned the proud, self-important Malfoy he'd always known.

"Hey, Draco, look -"

"Don't you 'Hey, Draco' me!" he snapped, icy-faced. "So, you think I never had a real family, is that it? 'Poor little orphaned son of Death Eaters, Mum and Dad must never have cared for him.' That's what you think, isn't it? Is that why you wanted to be friends, Potter? Because you think we have some demented, deprived childhood experience in common?"

"Look, I -"

"I was loved, alright?"

Draco's silver eyes had turned to liquid fire. The animosity there made Harry's joints freeze.

"Forget what you think you know about my father," hissed Draco. "My father was the best man in the world to me. I was adored and cherished and given everything any normal child wants: birthday parties and Quidditch games and every toy you can imagine. My father taught me how to fly and my mother kissed my scraped knees when I fell off my first broom, and I was happy, most of the time."

"Draco -"

"And now you come along, assuming that I grew up in the shadows of some marble mausoleum, seen and not heard, raised by nannies and left up on a shelf like an expensive treasure?"

"Draco, I-"

But Draco pushed back roughly from the desk, upsetting his chair.

"Fuck you, Potter, I don't need your pity."

Harry sat, speechless. He'd never heard Draco swear before, even when he'd lost at Quidditch.

A heavy, dull ache settled just behind Harry's throat. Draco's guess at his assumptions had been entirely too close for comfort. Worse yet, he'd never questioned those assumptions at all, but had thought he was being a good friend.

Harry's head began to throb, too. None of what Draco was saying meshed with what Harry knew of Lucius. It didn't make sense.

As he thought about it, though, Harry conceded that Lucius could have been a very different man around his son. It was silly to have assumed that the conniving, back-stabbing politician or the snivelling Death Eater behind the mask was the man whom Draco had admired and worked so hard to please. Harry really had no way of knowing what sort of father Lucius had been.

He looked up to meet Draco's eyes, which were still somehow both smouldering and icy. While it was perversely exciting to see Draco riled up for a change, Harry couldn't stand to see the anger there. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You're right, I did have those assumptions. I was wrong. I'm sorry."

Draco softened slightly. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Harry watched his lips, wishing for the thousandth time that he could kiss them again. Instead, he'd fallen once more into a position of pleading for Draco's favour.

Before Harry's bitterness could well up again, Draco's lips parted to speak.

"Do you know why I hated you, Harry?"

Harry's eyes snapped up at hearing his first name again. He'd always thought he knew the answer to this question, but maybe all of his assumptions had been wrong. He shook his head fractionally.

"First Year, well, I only hated you because you were more popular than I was and got more attention than I did and got on your House Team and won the House Cup and because you hated me. But that's not important."

Some unimportant protest or comment died on Harry's tongue when Draco lightly moistened his own lips and continued.

"But after First Year, after everyone found out that Voldemort wasn't really dead, my father started to change. He'd been so happy and unburdened since I was a baby, thinking you'd defeated the Dark Lord, because although Father agreed with his ideals and the importance of Blood, he had never wanted to be the Dark Lord's slave. For many years, he'd thought he'd been freed.

"That was why I'd wanted to be your friend, by the way. I saw you as something of a personal hero, even though I sensed on some level that I shouldn't be expressing that view out loud with my parents. They were free, but their side had lost and Mother's sister was in Azkaban, so it was a touchy subject. But I knew what you had done for my family, and I admired you for it. And hated you all the more when you didn't admire me back.

"Then Quirrell went after you, and we all found out the Dark Lord was still out there. Father was still Father, still the good man I'd known, for a few more years, but that summer was when he started to change. He started to become secretive, locking his study and forbidding me from touching things in certain areas of the Manor.

"You have to understand, Harry, that before that I'd always had whatever I wanted. Well, that part probably isn't a surprise to you." A sparkle of warmth touched his eyes as he smirked. "It was such a shock when I was suddenly being told 'no' at every turn, and I knew it had something to do with you and your mysterious one hundred seventy extra points at the end of First Year, and I wasn't allowed to argue with Father, so I started to get angry at you, instead.

"It finally got really bad the summer before Fourth Year. My parents got word that the Dark Lord was making his move to return, and they turned into these people I didn't know. The way you saw them.

"I hated you because you hadn't finished the job the first time. I hated you because every time my parents were angry and weird and not my parents, your name seemed to be on the tip of everyone's tongue. I hated you because if you'd only done what you were supposed to have done in the first place, I could have had my parents the way I wanted them forever."

Draco blinked a few times, and found Harry's eyes again. The chilly fire had melted to the usual pewter pools, and the angry creases in his brow fell smooth. He gave half a conceding shrug and half a bitter chuckle.

"Of course," he continued, "I had no idea what would happen once you did finish it. So I didn't know that by failing the first time, you'd allowed me to live the happy childhood that you yourself never got to have."

In these final words, Draco's tone became apologetic, almost tender. Harry felt winded. He'd never heard Draco give such personal information, and so much of it, and all at once. His head reeled as he tried to absorb it all.

It all sounded so almost-plausible, and Harry wanted to believe Draco had had a better life than most people assumed. It had broken his heart, hearing about Draco's ordeal with the Light Protection, and thinking Lucius had always treated Draco as secondary to his goals as a Death Eater. It really was a relief to know that Draco had been happy, once, even though he clearly wasn't anymore.

Yet through it all, Draco stood comfortably slouched against the wall, without a trace of tension in his stance. He was as completely undisturbed and unflappable as ever, which some part of Harry knew was a lie, because he'd just heard Draco swear, but at the same time, a bigger part of his brain was still angry and jealous and wanted to see Draco suffer a little.

Before he'd really understood this desire, this urge to see Draco suffer, Harry's heard his voice take the situation away from the friendly context they'd created.

"If he was still good during Second Year, then why did he give Riddle's diary to Ginny?"

Draco's eyes grew dark, tightening at the corners. The edges of his mouth pinched together and curved downward.

"What diary?" A foreboding vulnerability crept into the proud voice.

Harry's breath stopped in his chest. He knew he'd found a chink in the shining armour of Lucius-the-father. He knew he'd found a sure way to cut Draco to the core. The logical part of his brain surged to the fore: Draco was his friend, whatever else they might ever have been, and he really didn't want to hurt him. He needed to stop before he shattered the image.

"Nothing, never mind."

"Harry, what are you on about?"

Harry refused to meet Draco's searching gaze.

"Harry, my father never had Tom Riddle's diary. He told me it had ended up in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, and Weasley had accidentally brought it home one day."

"And you believed that?" shot Harry back angrily, before he remembered he had been trying to drop the subject.

Draco had his sore subjects; Harry had his own. He had already discovered that he couldn't let Draco get away with saying anything to denigrate the Weasleys. He couldn't.

"Why shouldn't I?" asked Draco simply. "My father said it was the truth."

Harry narrowed his eyes, but repeated to himself that he didn't really want to hurt Draco, after all. He tried to force his features into a neutral expression. No matter how hard he tried to hide his doubt, though, Harry felt the grey eyes still fixed on his face.

"What aren't you telling me, Harry?"

Harry clamped his jaw closed, but the eyes wouldn't let him be. He was powerless against them.

Silently wishing he were stronger even as he inhaled, Harry met Draco's gaze and spoke. "Remember the day your father and Mr. Weasley got in that fight? At Flourish and Blotts?"

Draco nodded, eyes narrowed.

"When we all met up that day, your father slipped the diary into Ginny's cauldron with her other school things."

"You saw him do it?"

"No." Harry shook his head. He really wished he'd never mentioned it.

"Then what gives you the right to accuse an innocent man?"

An 'innocent' man?!? Harry sighed. He wanted to say something to make this whole conversation go away, but he wasn't physically capable of pretending to agree that Lucius Malfoy was innocent, especially in this case.

Now that he'd begun, he had to finish telling the truth as he knew it.

"Dobby told me. And when I accused your father in front of Dumbledore, he didn't deny it. He just said, 'Prove it,' and turned all white when Dumbledore warned him not to try anything like that again."

"You trusted the word of a house elf?" Draco's disbelief was palpable.

"I trusted my own eyes, Draco." Harry met Draco's gaze as steadily as he could, despite the pain he saw welling up there. "He did it, Draco. I'm sorry."

"No. You're lying." In Draco's voice was a simple request: Make it not true. Leave me the memory of the father I knew.

Harry dropped his eyes. He looked at the desk, his own fingers, the wall. He couldn't bring himself to look at Draco. He hated that he couldn't have kept his mouth shut in the first place, and all because Draco wouldn't acknowledge one stupid kiss in a dungeon alcove.

"Harry, tell me you were lying." The voice had begun to plead. It was a wrenching sound, in a voice that had never betrayed anything but pride.

It would have been so easy to say.

"I can't Draco. I'm sorry. Really."

A small, strangled noise emerged from Draco's throat, drawing Harry's attention to him at last. His normally fair face had gone a sickly white, and his relaxed posture had crumpled against the wall so he appeared to be barely holding himself up.

His eyes were full of hurt. They were staring at Harry, reflecting his own guilt back one thousand times over.

Harry stood on shaky legs and stepped quietly over to Draco's side. He ached to wrap his arms around him, but didn't trust that he would be allowed, so he simply leaned close next to him against the wall, feeling the warmth where their shoulders supported each other. Draco's body felt strangely stiff and unyielding, but Harry forced himself to stand his ground.

"She was just a little girl," Harry murmured gently. He said it as a sort of apology. Whatever his motivations, he really hadn't meant to destroy any of Draco's few happy memories. His guilt for his selfishness was strangling him. Had he really raised the subject only to get Draco's attention?

Underneath all his self-flagellation, though, Harry knew this was important. If Draco was really going to be in his life, as he hoped, Draco had to know the truth of what had happened that year. He had to start to see things from Harry's point of view.

"It was Ginny's first year at Hogwarts," he told him, "after hearing about the school her whole life. She had to spend it in fear, possessed by the Darkest wizard of our age, and committing unspeakable acts that she detested. It's a miracle she's faring so well these days, or even that she survived at all."

Draco swallowed and nodded. He looked so utterly defeated, Harry couldn't help but want to comfort him.

"Draco," spoke Harry even more softly than before. The other boy looked up at his gentle tone. "It's not your fault. Your father showed you what he wanted you to see."

Draco averted his eyes, his face ashen. "I cheered him on," he said flatly. "I saw what was happening, and I welcomed it."

Harry leaned a little more heavily into Draco's shoulder. He was relieved to feel the pressure against his own shoulder increase to match it. Daring to test the waters further, he leaned his head to the right until his cheek came to rest on Draco's hair.

Draco made a quiet little sound, like a sigh, and let his head be supported by Harry's face.

"Yeah," replied Harry at last, "you did."

For a few long moments, all Harry could hear was Draco's breathing and his own pounding heart.

"I taunted you after Diggory died, too."

Harry nodded very slightly, barely enough to let Draco feel it.

A few breaths later, Draco added, "My father was there, wasn't he?"

Harry couldn't shrug without dislodging the comforting weight of Draco's shoulder, so he simply said, "Yeah."

"Merlin, you must have hated me."

Again, after a heavy sigh of an exhalation, there was nothing to say but, "Yeah, I did."

Draco's breathing became a little shallower, a little less regular. Harry was sure he was working up to saying something more.

Finally, he said it: "So why in the world would you have decided to be my friend?"

Harry could feel the tension in Draco's body while he waited for a response. A tiny, perverse part of his mind came over all giddy at the idea that Draco might be afraid of losing Harry's friendship, after all.

Ignoring the traiterous lightening in his heart, Harry asked his friend, "Would you do those things now?"

Draco's head was moving slightly back and forth against Harry's cheek before he even finished speaking.

"No, Harry," he said emphatically. "I wouldn't. I never would."

Harry let a smile touch his face, now, and reached for Draco's left arm. With his other hand, he slipped his fingers into Draco's sleeve to run them lightly up and down the scar he knew to be there.

"I know, Draco," he said. "I know you wouldn't."

***

Monday morning broke harder than even a Monday usually could, and Harry had to drag himself to breakfast and on to Potions. Ron was still angry with Harry for reasons that were becoming less clear to anyone, which forced Hermione to spend breakfast straining to make conversation with both of them. Harry was too tired to keep up his end, and merely mumbled into his porridge.

The owl post brought a few Daily Prophets to the Gryffindors, another letter for Hermione about her aunt's celebration in July, and a letter for Dean. Seamus craned his neck to look at his best mate's parchment, but Dean pocketed it quickly, making a lame joke about wanting to maintain his air of mystery.

Seamus scowled and nicked one of his kippers.

Harry yawned widely, stretching his arms, and gathered his books. He smiled sleepily at Hermione, and started the slow walk toward the Potions classroom.

As if Monday morning weren't bad enough, why did it have to start with Snape?

In an attempt to delay the inevitable, Harry stopped off at the toilet next to the stairs to the dungeons. There was no reason he needed to get to Potions any earlier than the moment the lesson began.

When he finally resigned himself that he couldn't waste any more time, Harry headed down the stairs and turned along the corridor toward the classroom. As he approached the room, it was to the sound of raised voices. Sensing trouble, Harry ducked a little outside the doorway to observe the scene without being noticed.

Trouble was clearly happening.

Ron and Draco were facing off in the back of the room, near Ron's desk. Hermione stood at Ron's side, with Dean, Parvati, Zacharias Smith, and Ernie MacMillan behind them. The other Slytherins watched with narrowed eyes from the far side of the classroom. Draco stood alone.

"What do you mean, 'Good morning'?" snarled Ron.

Harry recognised the tone Draco's voice got when he was trying very hard to hold it steady. "It means it's morning, and I wish you a good one," he replied evenly.

A moment of stunned silence met this pronouncement.

"What are you on about, Malfoy?" burst Ron's voice, rising in pitch as he became more agitated.

"Look, Weasley. You're Harry's friend, I'm Harry's friend. I thought maybe we could try being civil to each other."

Harry peeked around the door to gauge Ron's reaction to this ill-advised olive branch.

Ron's face darkened from crimson to puce. "I'm Harry's friend, alright, and I'm going to keep showing it by keeping an eye on you. Don't think I'll start trusting you just because Harry does, Malfoy. I'll figure out your game -"

"What game, Weasley?" Draco's exasperation was starting to show. "What could I possibly have to gain by pretending to be his friend? It isn't exactly making my other friends happy." He gestured toward the scowling crowd of Slytherins in the corner. "And it obviously isn't making his other friends happy, either."

He opened his hands toward Ron and Hermione, as if in offering, or supplication.

Hermione stepped forward. She spoke quietly, but with clear authority, as she asked, "Then don't you think it's better that you go?"

In the hallway, Harry let out a sigh of resignation. He'd hoped Hermione, at least, would be kinder to Draco.

He didn't want to admit that maybe that was the kindest she could be, given the circumstances.

Harry didn't know why Draco was doing what he was doing, and he didn't know whether to thank him or thump him for trying. All he wanted was peace.

As Harry stepped into the room, everyone there froze. This had been an uncomfortably common experience in previous years, but hadn't happened since the first month or so of school this year. Now that Voldemort was gone, once the initial rush of interest in the battle was over, most people left Harry alone.

Today, thanks to the very people he trusted most, Harry was thrust back into the spotlight.

Harry looked steadily at each of his friends in turn, then silently took his seat at the desk. He was simply too exhausted, and too frustrated with them all, to choose sides in this battle.

A few minutes later, Draco slipped a note onto Harry's side of the desk.

I'm sorry, it read. I thought I could help.

Harry exhaled sadly. I know, he wrote, and pushed it back toward his friend.

***

The week dragged by. Harry felt more alone than he had since he had first met Hagrid, the way he had felt when he'd lived with the Dursleys and no one had ever been on his side and he'd had no reason to expect that anyone ever would.

But no, things were improving imperceptibly. He only needed a little patience to see it.

Tuesday afternoon in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Hermione had smiled at Draco. It had been cursory and fleeting, but unmistakable.

Wednesday in History of Magic, Draco had nodded on his way past the desk that Harry and Ron shared, and Ron's face had gone only one shade pinker in annoyance.

Thursday morning, Ron had laughed at a joke Harry had made at breakfast, and looked at Harry with the laughter still dancing in his eyes.

Thursday afternoon, the Dreaming Draught essays had been due in Potions. Harry had looked around as the students passed in their scrolls, and realised how few had actually completed the assignment. Hermione had, of course, and Goyle as well. Hannah and Millicent had done it, too, as had Zacharias, but not Dean.

Harry glanced at the parchment in Draco's hand, curious about the dreams which Draco had been so willing to share, and the revelations he'd found from taking the Draught. He'd had ample opportunity to find out, but fear had made him avoid the risk of letting Draco see his own essay. In any case, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.

When all the other students had handed in their scrolls, Snape stared around the room, finally bringing his eyes to rest on Harry. Harry had straightened his back, glared at the professor, and after another moment's hesitation, had fumbled in his bookbag for the scroll he'd been carrying around for over a week. He had decided he didn't really care that what he had written was still rough and disorganised; he only cared to show Snape he was able to rise to any challenge put before him.

It seemed to take forever for Harry to find that scroll, but he had finally risen to hand in his essay. Snape's eyes had never left him until a full minute after he had returned to his seat and begun work on the day's potion.

Friday night found Harry and Draco studying in the Potions Lab again. The argument that had tainted their previous study session appeared to be forgotten, along with the unpleasantness of much of the past week.

The two boys sat quietly side-by-side as they revised the current chapter, taking notes from time to time. The more they relaxed in each other's presence, the more aware Harry became of Draco's every movement.

This was becoming a disturbing trend.

At each page turn, Draco would shift his weight slightly to his left - toward Harry - and let out a quiet sigh. Sometimes, the shift would carry him into the faintest hint of contact with Harry's shoulder before he readjusted himself.

When Draco was deep in thought, concentrating on a particularly difficult passage in the text, he would brush the feathery end of his quill slowly back and forth across his mouth. Sometimes he would part his lips slightly, letting the wisps glide along his upper lip, along the edge that was hidden when his mouth was closed, or against the very point of his tongue.

The more Harry watched, the more agitated he felt. The same anger that he'd felt all week returned in full force. How dare Draco take away the only decent kiss Harry had ever had, by refusing to take responsibility for his role? Didn't he know how much his denial hurt Harry? Didn't he know how crazy it was driving him?

Harry tried to rein in his feelings. The last time, he'd let himself get carried away into deliberately hurting Draco. He couldn't let that happen again.

Why couldn't Harry just enjoy being around Draco, without getting caught up in these thoughts and feelings? Only it was getting worse every time. Pretty soon, Harry was going to lose his patience entirely, and he didn't know how to keep it from happening.

Harry was so mired in his train of thought that he failed to notice how long he had been staring at Draco, until the grey eyes flicked up and met his.

"Something wrong, Harry?" Draco returned his focus to the reading.

"Huh? No."

"No?"

Yes. "No."

"Really?"

Yes. No. Wait, what?

"Harry?"

Harry could only stare at him, tongue-tied.

Draco looked up again. "Alright. What's wrong, then?"

He was so cool and collected, Harry wanted to throw himself on top of him and send them both crashing to the floor, just to crack Draco's cool veneer and get him flustered.

He couldn't believe he'd come this close to saying it. It wasn't too late. He could backpedal and the whole thing would be forgotten.

Except that Harry couldn't forget it.

Here goes.

"Look, are we ever going to talk about this?"

Draco regarded him cautiously, as one would a previously friendly dog who has suddenly begun to growl.

"Alright then," he responded lightly. "Which part of the text did you want to discuss?"

Harry felt his neck grow hot with frustration.

"Not the text, Draco. I mean this." His hand flailed between them in a pointing gesture. "You. Me. Us. The alcove in the corridor." He flung his arm wildly toward the door.

Draco stared at Harry for a long time, his face completely impassive. Finally, he lay down his quill and spoke.

"I've explained to you about that already, Harry. It was a spell. I had nothing to do with it."

"Bollocks!" shouted Harry, much more loudly than he'd intended.

Draco's eyes went a bit wider, but he kept his composure.

"Harry, I'm sorry if it meant something more to you. It was never my intention to lead you on. But you're going to have to understand that there is no 'this' to talk about. I'm happy we're friends. But that's all we are."

The words fell like hailstones on Harry's fragile skull. There was no way, after everything that Draco had shared of himself, after the way he'd caressed Harry's scar, after he'd even tried to make peace with Ron, that Harry was going to accept that the kiss had meant nothing to Draco.

Harry pressed his palms into the desk. He pushed his body away from Draco, seeking a safe distance even as his neck strained forward.

"Why are you so afraid?" he spurted. "What is so horrible about wanting something more with me that you can't admit it even to yourself?"

Draco was starting to look angry now. He stood up quickly, knocking over his stool, then whirled to face his accuser. "What makes you think I'm afraid? Maybe you're just not used to rejection, have you thought of that?"

"Rejection, what -?" Harry stared at Draco, dumbfounded at the extent of his denial. Draco's eyes challenged Harry to overrule him, and Harry was all too willing to comply.

Harry left his seat and strode quickly over to Draco, stopping only a breath away. He could see the panicked fluttering of the capillaries in his eyelids. Harry lifted his chin and stared down into Draco's hard, unyielding eyes.

"If I believed for one second that you weren't really attracted to me, then I would never have brought it up."

Draco tried to hide a nervous swallow. He didn't quite succeed in meeting Harry's stare. "Attracted to you? Are you mad? Harry, I like girls."

"Yeah? Prove it." Harry leaned even closer, in challenge. At this range, the grey eyes shattered into thousands of tiny prisms of silver. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me."

Harry didn't know what had come over him. He'd never been so brave, or so forceful. Against Dark wizards, sure, in battle he'd been courageous. But he'd never been able to stand up to anyone on a personal matter before. He was terrified at what might happen next, but also thrilled at the surge of power he felt from the fear in Draco's expression.

Fear?

Yes, that's what it was. Draco looked terrified.

His gaze dropped to the floor before Harry could examine it more closely.

The only sound was the blood rushing in Harry's ears; neither of them was breathing, and the classroom was too isolated to hear any sound at all from any other part of the castle.

"I can't, okay?" Harry barely heard the whisper, even standing so close.

"What?"

"I said I can't. I can't be with you." Draco's eyes flicked up into Harry's for the briefest of seconds. "I'm sorry, Harry, but it's impossible."

Harry's heart and lungs stopped. He wasn't sure whether this was an admission or an ultimate rejection. Unsure how to react, he stayed silent and still.

Draco focused on a point somewhere across the room. "I'm the last Malfoy, Harry. Do you understand that?"

Harry didn't know anything about the Malfoy side of Draco's family tree, having only seen the Black side. It didn't surprise him, though, to hear that Draco was the only remaining member of the line.

Draco glanced back for just long enough to see Harry nod absently.

"My family - we weren't always bad people. I don't just mean my parents. I mean, the entire Malfoy line, going back dozens of generations. We were always powerful and respected and Pureblooded, but we used to be good. I'm the last one left because my father and uncle and cousins were all Death Eaters. I'm the only one who can restore the line."

Harry started to breathe again, but only because he was about to pass out if he didn't. He still wasn't sure what Draco was trying to tell him, but he was starting to get an idea.

"I can't be with you, Harry, because I have to marry a witch and keep my family alive. Don't you see? It doesn't matter what I want."

Harry closed his eyes for a long moment, breathing deeply. He scarcely dared believe what Draco had just told him. Or had just implied, at least. Had he just admitted to being gay? To having feelings for Harry?

He knew he should stop. He had pushed Draco further than he was willing to go on his own, into admitting something he had probably never wanted to say out loud. But now that the moment was in his grasp, Harry had to know.

"Draco?" Harry could barely hear himself speak. "What are you saying?"

Draco continued to look at the floor. "You know what I'm saying, Harry. Even you can't be that thick."

Harry focused his gaze on Draco's averted eyes. He knew he didn't quite feel right, but still let himself say, "Let's pretend I am."

Draco made a funny noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. He was even nearer to Harry now. Harry could have counted the tiny points of silver stubble on Draco's upper lip.

"I really like you, Harry."

Harry could not think. A tingling sensation was spreading through him, paralysing his arms, legs and brain.

Draco was much too close. Harry could see every last one of his pale eyelashes ...

***

Harry returned to the common room half an hour later to find Hermione and Ron in the best seats by the fire; nearly everybody else had gone to bed. Hermione was writing a very long letter; she had already filled half a roll of parchment, which was dangling from the edge of the table. Ron was lying on the hearthrug, trying to finish his Transfiguration homework.

"Out late, aren't you?" he asked, as Harry sank into the armchair next to Hermione's.

Harry didn't answer. He was in a state of shock. Half of him wanted to tell Hermione what had just happened, and even Ron, despite the fit he would have, but the other half wanted to take the secret with him to the grave.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Hermione asked, peering at him over the tip of her quill.

Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. In truth, he didn't know whether he was alright or not. "What's up?" said Ron, hoisting himself up on his elbow to get a clearer view of Harry. "What's happened?"

Harry didn't quite know how to set about telling them, and still wasn't sure whether he wanted to do. Just as he had decided not to say anything, Hermione took matters out of his hands.

"Is it Malfoy?" she asked carefully, glancing toward her fiancé. "Did something happen while you were studying together?"

Numbly surprised, although he didn't know why he should be, Harry nodded. Ron looked at him darkly, averting his eyes when Hermione shot him a warning glare.

"So - er - what was it that happened?" asked Ron in a voice that clearly failed to attain the desired degree of ease.

"He -" Harry began, rather hoarsely, knowing he must be mad to say anything in front of Ron; he cleared his throat and tried again. "He - er -"

Hermione's eyes suddenly went as wide as Ron's went narrow. She jumped up from her chair and grabbed Harry's hand.

"Harry, come with me. Now."

"Why?" both boys asked in chorus.

"Never mind. Only it's important."

"Alright, then," said Ron, starting to pack up his homework, but his progress was quelled by a sharp look from Hermione.

"No, Ron, you wait here. We'll only be a minute." Hermione was talking very quickly, and the pitch of her voice was climbing steadily. "Harry, come on!" She yanked at his hand, until he was obliged to follow her.

The Head Girl bedchamber was located on the girls' side of the dormitories, but had its own entrance so that any student could reach her in an emergency. It also made for convenient access for distressed friends who needed late-night advice.

No sooner had they crossed the threshold to her room, than Hermione rounded on him.

"Did you kiss again?" she demanded, both excited and stern.

Harry swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and decided to tell Hermione as much as he possibly could.

He closed the door and crossed to a chair to sit down.

"No," he answered sadly. "We didn't."

She continued to stare at him in a silent demand for more information.

"I mean we almost -" he continued without meaning to speak, "but it felt all wrong somehow. I couldn't. He was all upset and vulnerable, and I was having the most wicked sense of déjà vu about the whole thing, and I don't know, Hermione, I couldn't."

Hermione hadn't moved. Her gaze searched Harry's face. "Is he gay?" she asked finally.

Harry considered this. Draco hadn't said it outright, but all the signs had been clear. "Yes, I think he is."

"You think? Oh, Harry..."

"No, Hermione, I mean I - I know. He didn't say the words, but did he say he liked me, and that's what he meant, and then he almost kissed me -"

"'Almost' kissed you." Hermione appeared to be searching her brain for understanding of the phrase. "What do you mean by that?"

Harry blushed. He felt dirty, telling details, even about something that didn't quite actually happen.

"Well, we were standing really close. And he said he liked me. And he wasn't looking me in the eyes, because he'd been talking about how he couldn't be gay and I was pushing him to admit it, so he was staring at the floor. And then when he finally said he liked me, he looked at me, and we were standing so close he barely had to move to kiss me. And I realised he was about to do it, and I - well, like I said, I couldn't."

"Right," she said quietly. "So what did happen?"

Harry shrugged miserably. "I - I sort of took a step back, and put a hand on his chest, like to say it was okay, we didn't have to ... you know. And then I sort of left my hand there for a moment, and he looked at me, with those eyes, and I couldn't look at him anymore because it was too much. So I picked up my things and got out of there."

"And came back here."

Harry tilted his head side to side. "Eventually. First, I had to walk around a bit, to clear my head." He met her eyes for the first time in several minutes. "Sorry if I worried you."

Hermione smiled. "It's okay, Harry. I understand."

Harry dropped his eyes to the dry cracks in his knuckles. It was just hitting him: Draco liked him. Draco had tried to kiss him.

And Harry had passed up the opportunity. He had to clamp his hand on his kneecap to keep from smacking his palm to his face; he didn't fancy breaking his spectacles against his nose at the moment.

"Merlin, Hermione," he said, looking up again. "He finally wanted to kiss me again, and I pushed him away. What if I never get another chance?"

Hermione met his gaze very directly. She took a step toward him, then another. It took Harry's brain a moment to understand that she was marching directly at him.

By the time his mind had cleared, Hermione was leaning over him with her hands on both of his shoulders and a wicked grin on her face.

"You said he wanted to kiss you, right?"

Harry flashed back to the look of sorrow, pain and shame he'd seen on Draco's face.

"Well ..."

Hermione backed off a bit, without breaking eye-contact. Her expression took on a note of concern.

"What's wrong, Harry?"

Harry shrugged miserably.

"I felt like I'd forced him into saying what he did, Hermione. He looked so miserable, and I made him feel that way, and I'm supposed to be his friend." He let his right hand wander up to his shoulder and grasp her fingers. "I want him to be happy when he kisses me. I want to know he means it."

He looked down, dejectedly, letting his own words sink in. He'd really only bullied Draco into the moment. It probably was never even supposed to have happened. Her weight leaned onto his shoulders again, and her grin returned.

"The thing is, Harry," she said, "I've never known Draco Malfoy to do anything he didn't want to do. But," she added, "if you really were worried, then you did the right thing." She lifted her free hand to run it lightly over the top of his impossible hair. "You're going to be fine. And I wouldn't be surprised if you got another chance."

Harry let a relieved smile come to his lips. Hermione wasn't the kind of friend who told him what he wanted to hear; she didn't tend to mince her words. If she said he might get another chance to kiss Draco, then she really believed it could happen.

"Now go get some sleep!" she mock-ordered him. "And send my fiancé up to tell me goodnight." With those words, she dropped him a wink that was downright lascivious.

Harry twigged pretty quickly, considering how distracted he was.

For a moment he could only sit frozen to his chair, staring openmouthed at her.

She just held a finger to her lips and made shooing gestures with the other hand. "Go on."

When Harry returned to the common room, Ron was snoozing lightly on the rug. Harry considered letting him sleep, and then remembered what awaited his best mate if he would wake up. He bent over the large, sleeping boy and shook his shoulder lightly.

Ron's eyes cracked open. "Hmm? 'Snot morning yet. Lemmee sleep."

Harry poked Ron a bit harder, until the bleary eyes opened again. "Harry? What?"

Harry gave his best friend a sly smile. "You'd better get in there," Harry told Ron, pointing his chin toward Hermione's room. He then gave a slight mock-bow with a flourish and told him, "Your lady awaits."

Ron let his shock show for a moment, then smiled and extended a hand for Harry to help him up. A broad grin had stretched across Ron's face, and just like that, Harry felt the tension between them dissipate into nothing.

It didn't mean Ron was willing to accept Draco, but it meant he was willing to let Harry give it a chance. It meant that willingness was enough for Harry.

Harry smiled and shook his head as he climbed the steps to his own dormitory. He hadn't sorted everything out yet, but it was good to have some degree of normalcy restored in his own House, at least.