Becoming

Author's note: many thanks to my brilliant beta Robert (Ragnarok45) I love love love him and keep him very busy!! Well, this chapter isn't quite as sad as the last, but it's not kittens and sunshine either....

Chapter 4: January 29th, 1999

Three weeks.

It didn't feel terribly significant when I said the words out loud. In my heart, it felt long - very long - as in 'my-fingers-trembled-when-I-looked-at-the-date-on-the-calendar' long. Despite my best efforts to move on, I couldn't seem to forget about that day at the prison.

Some might say it was normal not to be able to so easily forget and push past something as traumatic as witnessing the execution of your own father, but I assure you it's not normal. I'm a Malfoy, born and bred to be unemotional, uncaring, unforgiving and generally 'un' in every other sense of the word. My father -if he were he still coherent and in his body- would have been vastly displeased to learn that I had spent three weeks wallowing in self-pity and doubt. I was unable to eat because the very smell of food made my stomach churn, unable to sleep because, when I did, the silent screams of my father haunted me; unable to look upon my own mother's sullen face: it reminded me that she was all I had left in the entire world.

But then, in a sick and twisted way, that apparently wasn't true.

It should have been, and in the end my un-Malfoy-like behavior should have also ended along with my bout into depression, but it didn't. In addition to my mind and body rejecting everything I had been taught to think and feel, it also pulled images and ideas into my grasp that had never before existed. Hope lingered like a love-starved stalker at the edge of my vision and I wanted it gone, because with hope came crushed dreams and damaged souls. I'd had enough of seeing souls damaged to last me a lifetime.

The hope within itself was a silly and fragile thing as well and it all stemmed from those stupid green eyes. The worst part of it was that they were not stupid at all. They were bright and wise and far too kind to be focused on someone like me. I had no idea what compelled Potter to do what he did that day, but it seemed one in a string of things he'd done for me lately. What brought on this newfound habit of saving me, and whether it was from death, imprisonment or a lifetime of vivid nightmares, that was exactly what he was doing: saving me.

Was he trying to make me irrevocably indebted to him or was this just yet another confusing and mind-boggling Gryffindor trait? I seemed to be incapable of wrapping my head around the way those lions think; it's as if they exist in an entirely different world from the one I was bred into.

That was why I couldn't manage to get out of my spiraling anguish, because I was trapped inside a battle between confusion and Malfoy resolve and neither was winning. I'd seen neither hide nor hair of the reluctant hero since that afternoon on the rainy rock and, though my spirit was broken, I wasn't beyond demanding some answers.

It was that very notion that led me to the Ministry - just outside of Potter's office door - paused and deciding whether or not I should attempt to knock, barge in, or simply go back home to the fortress of solitude. In the end, Potter made the decision for me by opening the door as I was standing there like a stricken fool.

"Malfoy?" he asked, clearly not expecting me to be hovering in the corridor.

I swallowed thickly and nodded curtly, trying to put on my best carefree mask even though I knew it was already too late and he'd seen my torn demeanor. Silence stretched between us until I somehow managed to croak out the words "Can we talk?" without sounding completely uneven.

"Uh, sure," he answered after hesitating for longer than I thought possible and stepped aside to let me in his office and gestured toward the chair across from his desk.

It was less of an office and more of a cubicle with an actual door, or at least that's how it felt. The walls were gray; the floor was gray; the desk and chair were gray. In fact, the only color in the room was provided by Potter's emerald eyes. It made me wonder if the room felt horribly ill when its occupant left.

I shook my head at the offered seat, preferring to stand so that I had the option of fleeing at a moments notice. It was then that I noticed the familiar silver ring on Potter's finger; my heart began to beat faster - though, before that moment, I hadn't even suspected it possible.

The band had been one of two pieces of jewelry I wore at all times, the only other bauble was also a ring, though it was more ornate - containing the Malfoy crest - and would be passed to my heir just as it had been with me. The one I had given to Potter had been placed on my finger at birth and worn on the same finger - constantly adjusting its size automatically so that the fit was perfect - up until the moment I handed it off. I wondered if Potter even understood the significance of that ring? I was loathe to part with the trinket, as it was a heirloom passed through the Black lineage, but I needed something important to me to show that I was accepting of the debt between us. Even if it meant nothing to the Gryffindor, it meant something to me.

Even so, there was no way I could've resisted the opportunity of getting a rise out of the brunette: I could have placed the band on any of his fingers and it would have held the same sentiment, but at the time I found humor in watching Potter's face pale when I slid the band onto his ring finger, even if it was his right hand and not the marriage hand.

Now, seeing that it still adorned his finger made my stomach clench. I had fully expected him to remove it the very moment he was able. I'd seen it on his finger at the trial, but brushed it away as Potter knowing that he would see me that day. I myself often wore clothing or jewelry that people gave to me when I knew I was going to see them, but this meeting today was unexpected - just an average day in an average week - which indicated that he probably wore the ring more often than he didn't.

I wasn't sure what that snippet of information meant to me, but I knew it meant something.

"So what's on your mind, Malfoy?" Harry asked when it seemed clear I'd lost my tongue. It wasn't lost on me that he continued to call me by my surname. The fact stung me slightly, though I wasn't certain why; it wasn't as if I was calling him 'Harry', though in my mind I thought of him that way easily: as easily as I thought of Narcissa as Mother.

"It's been three weeks," I whispered and Harry simply nodded.

"How are you?" he asked as if he were my best mate. His eyes radiated with concern, and that - for some twisted reason - seemed to make me angry.

"I'm terrible. You've not said a word to me: no owls, no floo calls; nothing! I know you know where the Manor is, and yet still nothing!" I shouted, not understanding my own outburst as it happened. Dear Merlin, was I turning into a girl, or worse yet, a Hufflepuff?

"I-" Potter stammered, obviously taken aback but I cut him off with even more inane ramblings before I could seem to help myself, ignoring his attempt to get even that simple word in.

"No, I suppose you've been busy with your real friends and your girlfriend and your job!" I continued.

"What the fuck, Malfoy?" he shouted back, suddenly on the defensive. Anger flashed dangerously across his eyes. "What do you want from me?"

"I want to know why you were there in the first place, why you even bothered, what you bartered to get my charges dropped, and why I haven't seen you in three weeks," I demanded, knowing full well that I had no right to demand anything of him - however, Malfoy's care very little for technicalities.

"Would you sit down," he replied, so I did - though it was begrudgingly. He took a deep breath before leveling his gaze at me. "I went to the prison for moral support. I hadn't intended you even knowing I was there but then when I saw you -" he paused slightly, seeming to choke on his words, "I couldn't let you see it. I just couldn't. I bothered because it's what I would have done for any of my friends."

"Is that what we are now?" I asked tentatively, completely taken aback by his seemingly innocent slip and not sure what I wanted the answer to be. I'd never had a friend: not really. Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, Blaise, they were all just enamored with my status with the Dark Lord. I'd grown up with them but I never felt comfortable with them. I always knew that the smallest error could lose me my place as their leader; I wouldn't even need to be the one to make the mistake and they'd have been gone faster than you could say 'fake'.

Potter's infuriating answer was to simply shrug. "I suppose so, yeah."

"And the trial," I pressed seeing as though he was in an explanatory mood. "You told Kingsley that you'd made a deal that included my mother's and my release."

Harry cringed and shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Malfoy. What's done is done."

"Don't give me that shite. If I'm going to owe you for something I'd like to at least know what that something was," I griped.

"You don't owe me for anything. I don't expect anything from you, Malfoy," he replied tersely.

"You're wearing the ring," I pointed out.

"Do you want it back?" he asked, but it wasn't lost on me that he made no move to take it off his finger.

"No," I responded immediately, even though the ghost of it still haunted my own finger from wearing it every day for over seventeen years and then suddenly finding it missing from its true place. "It's yours now, but it's a symbol of my debt to you."

"That's not what it is to me," Harry muttered, a bashful look on his face that made me grin slightly.

"What is it to you?" I asked, craving the knowledge he kept tucked deep in the recesses of his mind.

"I agreed to work here at the Ministry in exchange for your release," he replied abruptly shifting topics to something he must have been more comfortable answering.

"What?" I asked, taken off guard by the remark and sudden change of subject.

"I didn't want to work here, and after the war they offered me a position with the Aurors which I refused. I didn't want to be their poster boy; I didn't want them to be able to use my name to further their corruption. However, when I went to them to plead your innocence, they wouldn't accept my testimony unless I agreed to the original proposal," he sighed, and looked as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his chest. "No one else knows that it wasn't my choice. I hate coming here every day: I hate the way they try to manipulate the public, but I would have hated it more to see you hauled away and given The Kiss."

It was far more thorough of an answer than I had expected from the usually timid Gryffindor, but it wasn't the answer I wanted to hear. "So you live in misery so that I get to live at all?" I asked, not understanding why Potter would agree to such an arrangement.

"It's not so bad as that," Harry reasoned. "And it's only for a few years."

"How many?" I asked.

"Five," he muttered. "Which is when Kingsley retires."

"It still seems like too much," I told him. "Unless," I added, letting the word hang in the air between us for him to pick up and do with as he would.

"Unless what?" he asked eyeing me with a look that could have been confusion, guilt or even embarrassment.

"Unless you have some hidden thing to gain with your arrangement," I offered.

"Like what?" he asked, clearly put off by the idea; I merely shrugged. Who was I to accuse Potter of trying to manipulate the system? He didn't really seem like the type, but I'd been wrong about him before.

"So what do friends do?" I asked, taking the opportunity to change the subject myself.

"What?" Harry asked, eyeing me unusually.

"If we're friends then shouldn't you have visited me after -" I began, but couldn't finish. Potter seemed to know what I meant.

"Should I have?" he asked carefully. "I didn't know if you'd want to see me."

"Did you want to see me?" I asked, not sure why I seemed to just turn to quivering mush when I was talking to Potter.

He nodded and gave me a weak smile. "I was worried about you."

"I'm resilient," I informed him. I didn't want him to feel somehow obligated to check up on me, but all he said was a simple 'I know' and then when both smiled awkwardly at one another until I got up.

"So, then friends?" I asked, unsure if that was actually the conclusion we had come to.

"Friends," Potter confirmed with a nod and a gentle smile.

"Well, I suppose that's settled then," I muttered and offered my hand to the same boy who snubbed it several years before. This time he accepted it without hesitation; however, I couldn't help but note the quiet trepidation that lingered in his usually bright gaze. Was he put off by the idea of befriending me or was it something else that shadowed his eyes? Perhaps he also felt the inexplicable pull that I did when I touched him, and with nothing in the way to distract me away from it the feeling seemed even stronger.

"Well, there is one more thing, something that's rather important," he told me firmly.

"What's that?" I asked, wondering if I should be worried.

"My friends all call me 'Harry'," he replied.

"Harry," I repeated, grimacing slightly at the feel of the word in my mouth. Sure, I thought of him by his given name occasionally, but I never uttered the word out loud. It was rather sobering. "Well, then I suppose you best be calling me 'Draco'," I offered in return and he grinned across at me.

"I-I should probably get back to work," he stammered, but didn't release my grip.

"But I'll see you?" I asked, not willing to be the first to pull away either.

I'm not even sure what happened then, or how it happened as it was all sort of a blur. Harry was moving forward, and then like the graceful Gryffindor he was, he began falling. Instinctually, I reached out to grab him, but his ankle wrapped around mine and we both went toppling to the thinly carpeted floor. The force of the fall knocked the wind out of me, but I ended up safely cushioned on top of Potter's weight.

We laughed for nearly a full minute, neither of us making a move to get up, but as the chuckling ceased, it seemed we both simultaneously noticed our compromising situation. All at once, I realized that our faces were only inches apart and I could feel his body responding to me, as I was sure he could feel mine. Suddenly I was wanting for air and I could only think of one way to get it.

"Harry?" I asked, my voice a nearly inaudible whisper.

"Hmm?" he breathed in response.

"Harry, do friends kiss?" I asked, not sure where the words came from, but it was too late, they were out there for Harry to poke fun off or scoff at as he chose. Gooseflesh covered my arms as I waited for whatever insults he might hurl, but none came. Instead he simply stared at me with those hooded green eyes, his thick ebony lashes drooping seductively as if daring me to do it.

So I did.

It was just a chaste brush of lips at first, hardly even worthy of a relative, let alone a lover, but Harry whimpered at the touch and it spurned me onward until I could taste the very core of him. A deep ache seemed to erupt through my entire being and I swiftly realized that there was no possible way to fill the void within me. It was as if the more I took from his swollen lips, the more I wanted, leaving me completely unquenchable.

Sweetness filled my mouth as Harry's innate flavors mingled with my own, but just as I began to notice the sugar; another layer would reveal itself followed by another. It was so different, so unexpected, so wrong, and that - coupled with the feel of Harry beneath me - made me rock my hips forward, catching us both in a violent gasp.

"Malfoy," he whispered urgently, pushing me backward and my heart broke at the formality of it. So we were already returning to that? Had I already messed up a relationship that had only begun to unfold? Had I read him wrongly?

I moved aside quickly and got to my feet while Harry looked on with flushed cheeks and wide eyes. I'm not sure what he would have said - if anything - because I simply bolted before he got a chance to try.

"I should go," I muttered and left, walking as quickly to the lift as I could manage without drawing too much attention. When I got inside the claustrophobic box my chest was heaving and my heart was racing.

How could I have fouled up so thoroughly when Harry was being so nice? What was I even doing in the first place? I must have lost my mind thinking that it would be a good idea to kiss someone like him. He was straight - engaged, even - and I was straight; at least, I had thought so before I had felt the sudden urge to kiss Potter.

My whole body shook with anger, mostly at myself for being a naïve idiot, but partially at Harry for refusing me. Who did he think he was? Did he think he was better than me? But then, of course he did, and he'd be right. He's Harry bloody Potter, and who was I? A lowly ex-Death Eater who was only alive because of him.

Taking deep breaths, I exited the lift and walked outside and to the nearest alley where I Apparated back to the Manor gates. My eyes blurred behind tears that I refused to shed as I walked forward and grasped the cool iron and heaved it open.

"Are you just going to ignore me then?" a voice asked from nearby. I whirled around and saw Harry leaning on the adjacent stone column. I hadn't seen him in my haste to get inside and wasn't even sure how he had beaten me there, but all I could do was stare at him unblinkingly, knowing that the moment I closed my eyes, tears would fall; I was done humiliating myself in front of Potter. The only excuse I had for why it happened the first time was due to my irrational state of depression.

"Come to insult me, Potter? Well, let's have it then," I told him with a curt wave.

He merely shook his head and stepped closer, so close that I could feel the heat that radiated from his body. "We need to talk," he replied, grabbing my arm.

As soon as our flesh connected it was like wild fire scalding me and I looked at him, wondering what was going through his mind in that moment. He let go abruptly though, and just stared at me for a moment before stepping back. "I can't do this right now, but we need to talk, okay?"

I found myself just nodding weakly at his insistence, clearly unable to form a logical thought of my own. Then he was gone; just like that: a spin and a pop and no more Harry Potter. I let out a sigh that sounded more relieved than I felt and went inside; avoiding my mother's probing gaze and headed straight for my bedchamber: part of me wishing I had never left to start with.

Author's Note: O.o. First kiss, what does this mean? Not what you think I'm sure...