Come Hither

Chapter 11

Mysterious Memories, Terrifying Truths & Exquisite Eventualities

"Lemon Drops," he intoned, and the statue moved aside to let him through. He ascended the stairs and knocked on the door.

"Come in!" Harry entered the headmaster's office.

"Good morning, Harry. I trust you have your wand at the moment?" said the old headmaster with an amused smile.

Harry flushed, remembering yesterday. "Good morning, sir." He sat down in his usual chair.

Dumbledore nodded as Harry took his seat.

Before Dumbledore could open his mouth again, Harry set off. "What's going to happen to Malfoy?"

"Harry, we needn't delve into matters we shouldn't be," Dumbledore was quick to inform. "Now is not the time--"

"Just tell me... please." Harry's beseeching emeralds penetrated the aged cerulean eyes of Dumbledore.

"Harry," he began softly, "it is inappropriate to divulge anything Mr Malfoy has disclosed to me, especially since he has asked for my express confidence."

"Just tell me if he's going back to Voldemort," Harry pressed relentlessly. It was all he needed to know.

Dumbledore held Harry's eyes with sadness and regret. "I cannot, Harry."

"He's going to see him tonight, isn't he," said the Gryffindor knowingly, although it was still a question.

Dumbledore's expression didn't change even minutely.

Harry saw that he wasn't going to get an answer from Dumbledore. He felt a lot of trepidation despite the lack of a definitive answer. It just had to be. Malfoy couldn't have looked so terrified at the letter for any other reason than having to face that monster again. It had to be only possibility: Malfoy was going back to Voldemort tonight.

"Dumbledore," he began solemnly, "I know you know that Malfoy is going back to him again tonight, there's just no other explanation." He fixed his eyes on the old man.

Dumbledore wasn't shaking. "That's quite an assumption, Harry," the old mage said with a small smile.

This play of obliviousness was angering Harry. "It's no assumption! Why does it matter if you keep Draco's confidence or not?! Okay, tell me this: are you going to let him go back to that monster so he can do to him what he did last time?"

Dumbledore remained silent and maintained a serene smile.

Harry's breath was slightly quickening, his stomach giving a little twist in his gut. He looked on expectantly at the headmaster for an answer. Seeing that none was forthcoming, he stood up and went to the door. Dumbledore could go to hell!

"Harry," he heard from behind. He turned around one last time.

Dumbledore stood up from his chair and came around his desk. "You need your training. You cannot let anything disrupt it, not in a time like this. Professor Slughorn is due here in a few minutes through my fireplace, just for you." Seeing that Harry wasn't moving away from the door, he continued, "Harry, Professor Slughorn has something very vital that we need from him and only you can get it."

Harry was caught off guard. He was still seething from Dumbledore refusing to tell him about Malfoy's situation, and then he got hit with this new revelation. In a tight, still terse voice, he asked, "What's this thing you need from him?" He made sure to keep the pronoun singular.

"A memory, Harry, Professor Slughorn has a memory that is imperative we acquire." Either Dumbledore deliberately made sure to reinstate the inclusive pronoun, or it was an oversight. He paused and his eyes wondered to a spot just in front of Harry, unfocused. Then they looked at Harry directly again, a little sharper. "I have a theory concerning Voldemort, and this memory might be the decisive conclusion I need in order to validate that theory. Please, sit down." The old man graciously gestured to the seat he had just been sitting in.

His anger ebbing away, and his curiosity about Dumbledore's words newly inspired, he slowly let his hands fall from the oak door and stalked to take the seat. Harry idly wandered when last Dumbledore had offered him a Lemon Drop. Yes, those cheerful times were over. Dumbledore gave him a small smile before returning to his own seat, whereupon he steepled his hands and eyed Harry closely.

Harry shifted uneasily in his seat. "What is this memory about?" he asked tersely, though it was forced. He hadn't yet forgiven Dumbledore for not telling him about Malfoy. He guessed Dumbledore was doing an honourable thing but it didn't help him being scared for Malfoy. Harry was the one that had gone through seeing what Voldemort had done to Malfoy, not Dumbledore.

Dumbledore drew breath before speaking. "This memory is about when Professor Slughorn was a teacher here at Hogwarts, many years ago. I think he might have been the person who had installed an idea inside of Tom's head. You see, Harry, Voldemort is, as we speak, the most exquisite exception to everything we know - life, death, good and most definitely evil. He is beyond the usual evil, Harry."

Harry's heart was pumping on nitrous and his eyes were wide in astonishment. "What do you mean, sir, what idea is this?" he asked curiously. He felt a sense of foreboding trepidation hovering just over the boundary of his awareness.

Dumbledore didn't say anything for a while but held his eyes sombrely. "Harry, I suspect Voldemort is at this moment immortal."

It hit Harry in the chest and plunged it to the floor with the rest of his bowels. It was the one thing in the world he wasn't prepared to hear. It was just not possible. "Sir?" was the one, raspy response he could manage.

By the look on Dumbledore's face, he knew that the man had known he would react like this. His displeasure towards the man had evaporated the moment he heard his last words, overthrown by this new realization he didn't understand yet, or was not willing to understand.

"Voldemort might be immortal," Dumbledore said, steadily and slowly as if wanting him to fully absorb the words and the severity they held. "With this memory, Harry, we might be able to prove this. And if indeed this is true, we can begin to attack it. This is why we need Professor Slughorn's memory. I cannot go any further in my... task until I know for sure." Dumbledore's demeanour was as serious as it had ever been. It was no fairy tale. It was no joke. The portraits certainly weren't smiling and Fawkes certainly wasn't singing a hopeful tune.

Harry was just reeling. He couldn't believe all of this. Voldemort might be immortal? If he was, then they had no hope. What was the use of fighting and losing more people? It was all futile. Harry instinctively knew the old man's usual inclination to use euphemisms to be politically correct and inoffensive might be at play here, and Voldemort might actually be immortal. Maybe there was an off-chance Dumbledore did mean his 'might' this time. There might still be hope. Might. "So you need Professor Slughorn's memory to prove that Voldemort is really immortal?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Correct. Once again I must ask too much of you, Harry. As you have suspected, I don't have long to live."

Harry's eyes shot to the blackened hand of Dumbledore. He grimaced, both by its sight and the fact that Dumbledore might just die. He kept silent.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and held out his hand in front of him, studying it. "I believe this idea of immortality has something to do with how I got this injury. I hunted down an ancient heirloom that had descended from Salazar Slytherin himself. Contained within it is what is known as the Resurrection Stone. I wanted to use this stone to get into contact with my deceased family in the afterlife, to explain a few things to them." Dumbledore was speaking in a low, plaintive voice, as if speaking to himself through his sorrows.

Harry listened intently, apprehensively, a million emotions flitting through him for attention.

"Is this why you haven't been to breakfast a lot?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Precisely, amongst other things."

"And the Resurrection Stone?"

Dumbledore gave a small sigh. "Yes, Harry, the Resurrection Stone. I cannot expand on that for the time being. Right now, we have to focus on getting the memory I told you about. Harry, understand this: it is very important you get the memory. This could mean either our own or Voldemort's defeat. Everything lies on this one crucial memory." Dumbledore's reinvigorated cerulean orbs pierced into Harry.

Harry was afraid and he didn't know what was going on. He was being thrown curve ball after curve ball and wasn't getting enough time to recover between blows. "How long do you have to live?" he asked alternatively.

Dumbledore was only slightly surprised by the question. He gave his once more steepled hand a cursory glance. "Well, Professor Snape estimates a year. However, I am inclined to believe that Voldemort is not going to wait that long to come to Hogwarts, as you have warned me."

Merlin, it was all over. It was pouring. Now he was reminded of that terrifying truth. Things were just falling apart around him. First, he learns that Voldemort is planning to take over Hogwarts through a vision. Then he learns that Dumbledore has literally only months to live. And thirdly, the fact that Voldemort 'might' be immortal. What hope was there? Why were they still fighting? Harry didn't know whether he wanted to throw something or cry. His eyes randomly focussed on different things around the room, focusing and defocusing.

Dumbledore gave him another bleak smile. "Harry, don't be discouraged, there's still hope. We just have to do what we have to."

Harry gave up on absorbing the eventuality that Dumbledore was going to die. He wasn't going to believe it now so he might as well stop trying to. He was barely coherent, barely registering anything the man was saying. His world had just collapsed. Thoughts were zipping past him. He caught one.

"Sir, what did you want to do last night when you asked me to take out my wand?"

He was glad to find his voice came out steady. Actually, it came out rather calm and serene, and this scared him. He felt he was cantankerously emotional, that he couldn't predict what he was going to feel. Merlin knew he was far from calm and serene. It was an idle question in the light of this more serious air, but what the hell; he almost didn't care about anything at this exact moment. He felt an apathetic whisper that took him back to his morbid summer back at Privet Drive. He folded his arms protectively.

"Ah, yes," lilted Dumbledore, his old upbeat eccentricity coming back just a little, breaking the despairing air around them just a bit. "I wanted to exploit that anger you said you felt, channel it in a directed and controlled manner. If you could learn to do this, Harry, you could unlock a fiercer, more powerful force of magic within you that would indeed give you an advantage on the battlefield, so to say." He laughed softly.

Harry was glad that this somewhat piqued his interest; it was be a welcomed temporary reprieve from the morbid gloom he was currently suffering from. "You mean I can control my anger and that would give me more magical power?" Yes, idle topics, idle, temporary respite from the truth.

Dumbledore frowned. "That's rather crudely summarised but yes, Harry, that's the essential idea." He gave a hearty chuckle, not the one Harry had grown to detest, but a lighter, genuinely amused one. Maybe there was still hope. Fawkes gave a single, melodious coo.

Harry, barely hiding a dim smile of his own, asked, "How do I do that?"

Dumbledore looked pensive. "Well, see it this way, Harry: Magic is energy, though this notion has been heavily contested for as long as record began, primarily by scholars who have borne a Muggle background, which naturally includes Muggle-borns and half-bloods, respectively. So you when you're feeling angry and you express this through tantrums or outbursts, it can be regarded as magical energy expressed in a disordered, undirected way.

"Ordinarily, this disordered magical power resulting from heightened emotion is manifested into physical bursts of energy such as what you had demonstrated in my office last night. If properly controlled, these can be used to harness a greater power of magic through a wizard's conduit - his wand. More ambitiously, one might not need to even use his wand with disordered magic, but simply harness it so finely that one can perform simple magic without the use of it. This becomes easier the more magically mature you are, of course."

Harry took a moment to absorb all of that, letting a few seconds pass. Maybe his tendency to make things explode might not have to be attributed simply to childish immaturity, maybe it could have a purpose. "So can you perform magic without using your wand?" he asked, tempted to be awed by this possibility.

Dumbledore wore a mischievous grin and, leaning forward on his desk, he whispered, "That is strictly between you and me." He smiled good-naturedly. Harry swore he caught the tiniest of twinkles in his blue eyes.

Harry returned the smile. It soon fell. "That means Voldemort can do it too, right?"

Life naturally did have a way of balancing itself.

You smile, you then frown - balance.

Dumbledore's smile also faltered. "Well, unfortunately for us, Harry, Tom is very intelligent."

Advantage Light, advantage Dark - balance.

"I suspect if he does possess this extremely rare ability then he has most definitely kept it secret from even his closest followers. You'll soon find how secretive he is. But don't worry about that. As skilled as he might be in wandless magic, I don't believe he can cast an Unforgivable, as he is most inclined to, without employing his wand."

"Why can't he just cast the Unforgivables? Do they need a lot of energy to cast or something?"

Keep the conversation going. Have no fear.

"Yes... and no. The Unforgivables..." Before Dumbledore could continue, the fireplace roared to life and in stumbled the round, squat figure of Professor Horace Slughorn.

Dumbledore stood up from his chair and smiled warmly at the man. "At last you join us. Good morning, Horace."

The wizard, clad in dark brown robes and a pointy hat, dusted off some Floo powder with his pudgy hands and turned to give Dumbledore a handshake and his own greeting, but not before he noticed the other presence in the room. His hand stopped in mid-air, leaving Dumbledore to hang, and his eyes bulged out of their eye sockets. "Yes, yes, morning," he rapped dismissively as he walked over to Harry.

Harry gulped. The man looked very interested in him. Searching for a clue on how to tackle this, his eyes went to Dumbledore, who gave him a warm smile and a nod, but his eyes weren't so light-hearted. They were serious. The memory. Harry then remembered the look Dumbledore had given him back in the first of their meetings in the Room of Requirement, that purposeful, directed nod. He had to do this. He had to get the memory; it held all the answers that Dumbledore was seeking. If endearing himself to Professor Slughorn was what he had to do in order to get this supposedly precious memory, then so be it.

Harry stood up and extended his hand, giving the man a huge smile. "Good morning, Professor Slughorn."

"Yes, yes, of course, Harry Potter," praised the man as he vice-gripped his hand in a shake. His eyes did the obligatory search to his forehead for the lightning bolt and astonishment wrote all over his face. "Well, Albus, you do tend to have the best!" he lilted excitedly without even looking at the man he was addressing and still continuing to shake Harry's hand vigorously.

"Ah, so I assume you're impressed with my latest offering?" said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling in Harry's direction.

They were discussing him like some commodity here and he found it unsettling. He continued to shake the man's hand with a smile, though.

Slughorn looked affronted. "Of course, of course. Well, we should get going then, shan't we!" he said merrily, like one would be when opening Christmas presents.

"Indeed, we should," said Dumbledore. "Horace, I've arranged your private quarters as we have discussed. You should be able to move in right this moment."

Slughorn rubbed his hands together delightedly. "Excellent, excellent! Got my luggage packed already," he sang as he patted a brown breast pocket indicatively. "Well, we should be going, Harry and I. We have a lot of bonding to do!" The man's fat fingers clasped Harry's shoulders greedily and directed him to the door.

Harry gave one last look at his headmaster, feeling sort of sold for some reason. Dumbledore nodded at him one final time before smiling, and his face disappeared behind the large oak doors of his office.

Professor Slughorn is due here in a few minutes through my fireplace, just for you...

...has something very vital that we need from him and only you can get it...

...Once again I must ask too much of you...

...it is very important you get the memory...

Harry looked up at the man holding his shoulder, who grinned at him widely, holding an excited gleam in his eyes.

Get the memory by all means necessary...

They emerged from behind the large, golden phoenix gargoyle and stepped into the hallway. Slughorn was looking decidedly cheery as he looked around the hallway, through the windows, and into the bright, warm lit day.

"Mr Potter! So exactly what subjects do you excel in, hm?" asked Slughorn. The man was impressively energetic for his age - his eyebrows were hyperactive and his light-switch smile never wavered, not to mention his swift waddling as he led them to Merlin knew where.

Harry was taken aback by the unexpected question. "Er, Defence Against the Dark Arts."

Slughorn nodded merrily and seemed to sort of jump on his short legs without doing so, if that was possible. "Excellent! Defence Against the Dark Arts. Well, it's only natural, I guess, considering you're the Boy-Who-Lived and all. But no, no, let's not spoil the mood with any of that; I'm sure you don't enjoy being called so." He inhaled indulgently. "I was wondering if you could do something for me. I was thinking of starting a club." The man looked at him intensely as he trotted along.

Harry was thrown off by yet another non sequitur. "Er, okay..."

Slughorn nodded, for what, Harry only vaguely knew. "Yes, exclusive club. The Slug Club, I call it, and I was wondering if you could help me gather some members, you know, the, hem hem, popular kids in your school, yeah?" Despite walking quite briskly, the man wasn't near looking out of breath, and Harry was almost jogging in order to keep up, despite the man's shortness.

The requested favour surprised Harry. The man wanted him to round up famous people in Hogwarts? "I don't understand," he said with a frown.

Slughorn explained the Slug Club as they made their way through the castle to the sixth floor. They went into a narrow passage a little to the right of the middle of the hallway, on the third floor. The passage was lined with dusty torch brackets that looked like they hadn't been used for centuries. Slughorn ushered him into his private quarters and closed the door behind them. It was a shabby, dimly lit room but it had adequate requirements for one man.

"I want you to gather as many of your peers that are, not to be too ambitious, er, outstanding, as possible," Slughorn said, fashioning him a grin. "You know, your mother was in the Slug Club. Lily Evans, yes, she was one bright witch, that one..." The man trailed off pensively. He disappeared into another room but returned soon after with a framed photo.

This caught Harry's attention. Any light shed on his parents would be welcomed, even if it had to come from strange, overly eager men.

"My mother, sir?" he prodded cautiously, trying to encourage the professor to expand on that point. His eyes raptly held onto the object he was holding.

Slughorn looked at the photo for a moment before handing it to him. "Yes, your mother. You have her eyes, you know? Smart girl - sharp, intelligent - she was one of my favourites. That was the Slug Club then." He vaguely pointed at the moving photo.

Harry inspected it intensely and searched out his mother. There she was, a little to the right of the frame, looking to be holding onto a random bloke. She had a big smile on her face, looking so naive. At that moment, it was unbeknownst to her that she would fall at the hands of the darkest wizard of the century. Then he spotted his father a row back and to the left, far away from her. It was strange to see them this far apart but Harry rationalized that they had probably never looked in the other's direction before at the time the picture was taken. They both looked a lot smaller than most of the other kids in the photo. This could possibly indicate that they were first years in the photo. He fleetingly wondered if he could get Slughorn to extract some memories containing his parents as well, apart from the one he needed the most.

"Ah, James Potter, yes, I had to get him as well - a pureblood of a noble house, descendent of the Peverells."

Professor Slughorn was talking as though these people he gathered to join his club were rare collectibles he attained through effort. The man wasn't interested in the person per se, but on their worth, on what roots they possessed, on their statue and popularity. Harry's dislike for the man grew exponentially.

"Then there was Lucius Malfoy."

Without indication, Harry's eyes darted to the young man with the long, blond hair, easily spotted despite the black and white nature of the photo. The pompous raising of his chin helped as well. Malfoy had that effortlessly superior air about him that Harry had always known him to have, his flawless hair and expensive robes setting him apart from others.

"Very intriguing fellow, he was then. A little snobbish, of course, as you know these rich pureblood households tend to be." Slughorn didn't seem too irked by this, though. He sat down next to him on the green matte couch.

His father and his mother had been in the Slug Club. Slughorn was yet another person who knew them. He was getting off course here; he shouldn't be thinking about this, shouldn't go down that alley. He should be working to get the memory, not wanting to find out more about his parents. He needed to avenge them, what's what he had to do, and that meant getting the memory. It was that simple. The Wizarding world needed the memory. Get the memory by all means necessary.

Harry turned big, innocent green eyes to the man sitting next to him. Was it too early? The man had just arrived, after all.

Slughorn beamed at him. "So, Harry, what do you say?"

Harry was flummoxed yet again. He shook his head and returned to the current situation. "Sorry?"

Slughorn didn't look the slightest bit irritated. "The Slug Club, would you like to assist me in founding it?"

"Oh, of course..." Perhaps this was an open window. Tentatively, he continued, "...if you can do one thing for me." He was beginning to learn the skill of negotiation at the tender age of fifteen; war called for no inflexibility.

Slughorn seemed floored by this. Then he raised an eyebrow, and a childish grin broke on his lined face. "Ah, I see. Not a layoff are you, hey, Harry?" he teased. "Well then, what are your terms, Mr Potter?"

It amazed Harry that, to Slughorn, this was just an innocent matter of negotiation, of beginning a fan club, or whatever it was, and to Harry it meant life or death, literally.

"I," he began in a nervous rasp, "I need a memory from you."

Slughorn frowned at the enigmatic words. "A memory, you say?" he reiterated bemusedly, his eyes whizzing about as his brain tried to think where this was going.

Harry nodded. "An important memory. It has to do with you and Voldemort."

The flinch didn't help matters and Slughorn's horrified, widened eyes didn't indicate anything good either. "You," the man breathed incredulously. Then he went still and understanding seemed to dawn on his face. "Dumbledore put you up to this, didn't he?" He looked close to cardiac arrest.

Shit! He had blown it, big time! Did he have to say the Dark Lord's name? The situation was getting out of control.

Slughorn stood up quickly as though repulsed by him, and a cloud formed over his head. "I should have known Dumbledore wouldn't just beg me to come back to Hogwarts to assist Professor Snape in teaching Potions! Or-or- or to start my prestigious Slug Club! He sent you to do his dirty work! I will not have this! Get out!"

The man looked increasingly deranged and out of control with every passing second, so Harry quickly took his leave and ran out of the door, back to Gryffindor Tower.

He was beyond disappointed with himself. Along the way, his run was demoted into a trot in which he mentally berated himself for his lack of tact. Dammit! There was no way Slughorn was going to give him the memory now! He couldn't approach him for at least another week or something, until the man had calmed down or forgotten about it. He might even decide to leave Hogwarts!

He messed up royally and he had only himself to blame. Why couldn't he have had a better plan? Why did he have to be so rushed to get to the memory? He should have been strategic about this, should have seen it as a directive, a mission, an objective. He should have been more conscious and responsible. It was he who was in danger, not forgetting to mention bloody Wizarding Britain!

"What's wrong, dear?" came the consoling coo from the Fat Lady as he approached her portrait.

"Nothing," he grumbled, still furious with himself and just life in general for its unfairness. He muttered the password and the Fat Lady let him through without further trouble or questions. He proceeded into the Gryffindor common room, where he found Ginny sitting on Dean's lap and Ron and Hermione looking over Useless Magic. This picture was conflicting: Ron and Hermione's positions suggested he hadn't been gone for long, since Ron didn't have a long attention span when a book was involved, and Dean's appearance - an image of Dean's naked dark-skinned buttons came to his mind - was altogether new.

"Hi, Dean," he said a little stiffly as he made to ascend the stairs without looking at anyone.

"What happened?" came Hermione's cautious voice from behind, following's Dean's reciprocal reply.

"I don't want to talk about it," Harry snapped tersely, not bothering to sugar-coat his words, and immediately went up to the boy's dormitory, leaving a worried-looking Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Dean behind.

He swung the door open and found Seamus lounging on his four-poster with a magazine in his hands.

"Hey, Seamus." He was instantly reminded of 'the moan', that someone had had sex in this room, on one of these beds, except for his and Ron's, of course. Or maybe- no, he couldn't even begin to ponder on that disgusting thought.

Seamus looked over the top of his magazine to him. He sat up. "Good morning, Harry," greeted the boy in false cheer and looked back at his magazine.

Harry had intended on just seething away in some corner, or maybe reading Useless Magic again, but he thought the former was childish and pathetic, and he couldn't do the latter since the book was downstairs with Ron and Hermione. He saw that all wasn't right with the Irish lad, and now that he was here, he could maybe ask some questions; he was still curious about that whole 'moan' incident. Maybe this could get his mind over his anger and disappointment.

"Seamus," he prodded in sudden trepidation. Why was he feeling scared?

The Irish teen looked up from the book with raised, expectant eyebrows. There was a sombre droop to them, though, and his lips were curled down in a slight frown.

Dismissing his original question, Harry asked, "Are you all right?"

Seamus looked a little taken aback by this. "I'm fine, Harry." However, it seemed his tone convinced even him that he was faking it.

Harry approached the bed and sat down on it. Merlin, now he didn't know how to ask this question, especially now that it was established that Seamus was bothered by something.

"You want to talk about it?"

Seamus looked up at him, but quickly shook his head and put on a smile. "I'm fine, mate, ain't got me kilt in a bunch. How about you?"

Harry shrugged. "Fine, I guess." Before any awkward silence could arise, he asked, "Seamus, do you know who, er, who... who..." He knew he was already turning pink.

Seamus raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

Harry's eyelids fluttered. "I just, er, wanted to know, who, er, moaned a few minutes ago..."

The other boy had been close to laughing at him, seeing how hard it was for him to articulate his words, but the amusement quickly vanished. Seamus then looked sheepish and had his own matching spots of pink on his cheeks. "Oh, er, that was- that was me. Sorry."

Harry became alarmed - the boy probably thought he was homophobic or something. "Oh, no! I mean, I don't mind that you moaned that a- I mean, you have sex with who you want to, right? I don't mind at all, I was just wondering..." What was his question? What was he wondering?

"Yes?" prodded the young Irishman.

"You had sex...?"

Not his most intelligent question.

Seamus had a sceptic look on his face. "...Er, having moaned, I would assume so, yes," he deadpanned mockingly, joking.

Harry flushed in embarrassment. One wasn't immune to this if one were talking about these matters. He cleared his throat. "I just mean... what did it feel like? Wait, is gay sex the same as, er... normal sex? No, that's not right. It can't be. What I mean is wh- what does it feel like? I guess that's what I'm asking? It's still sex, right? What you did? With Dean?"

Seamus looked apprehensive to answer, despite his amusement at Harry's flustering. "Well, yeah, it is sex, I guess. I mean, you can't call it sex only when a boy and a girl done it, right?" Harry nodded vigorously. "So it was sex. And you wanted to know how it feels?"

Harry looked embarrassed but then nodded, though more hesitant than prior.

Seamus made a show to roll his eyes up and part his lips widely in silent pleasure.

Harry's own eyes widened and he gaped, intrigued beyond anything (he wasn't interested in gay sex specifically, Merlin no. He was interested in the general idea of sex, of receiving pleasure, notorious pleasure). They both laughed. "So you, er--" he cleared his throat, "--you actually put your thing into him?" His cheeks were on fire again but his eyes were gleaming.

Seamus seemed more comfortable about talking now. "Actually, it was the other way round," he giggled embarrassedly.

Harry's eyebrows immediately creased. He didn't understand. How can one get pleasure when one is being pumped into? Shouldn't one be feeling pain? The bloody bloke is ramming it up there!

Seamus rolled his eyes to the stars. Heterosexuals, they didn't even know anything about their own bodies. "Harry, Harry, Harry," tutted the boy. "In your body, up there--" He gestured skywards with his index, hoping Harry caught on. Harry didn't. Seamus was forced to be blunt. "In your arse, there's this place where if you just even brush it with your finger, Merlin's kilt, you feel like you'll explode!"

Harry's jaw dropped.

"It's like electricity and fire all at once going through your body. When er--" the boy cleared his throat, "--when Dean was, you know--" Harry nodded, mouth still agape, both boys blushing furiously once more, "--he was hitting that special place and it felt... soooo good, it was beyond anything I've ever felt!" Harry swallowed, and his mouth fell once more. "And he kept hitting it until I couldn't take it anymore and I came. It feels good both to be bottom and to be the one on top. But of course Dean wouldn't even go there, he wanted to top."

Harry's throat had gone dry. He pushed his shirt a little to the side to relieve some steam. His eyes were bulged at hearing all of this. "So you enjoyed it as much as he did? And he didn't hurt you?"

Seamus nodded.

"Wow..."

Seamus guffawed at the taken look on Harry's face.

Harry was vaguely indignant at first at being the butt of a joke, but he soon joined in with the other boy, finding himself and his questions ridiculous and laughable as well. Merlin, he needed to get laid. Even gay blokes were getting it on!

When the hysteria had died out, Harry asked, "What are you reading?"

Seamus handed him the book as he lay down on his bed, a smile lingering on his face.

Harry took the proffered magazine and studied it. It turned out to be Witch Weekly and the page it was open on was a list of the sexiest male teenagers of that year in the Wizarding world. Next to it were some pictures of the mentioned boys. The majority of the list consisted of school kids from Durmstrang, Beaubaxton, and Hogwarts. And of these school students, the list was dominated by Beaubaxton.

Harry wasn't surprised at all to find Draco Malfoy in the top five at number four on the list, surpassed by only three students from Beaubaxton, of which the top two names had a 'V' in parenthesis next to them. Looking down at the key, which also contained the abbreviations for the three schools - (H - Hogwarts), (D - Durmstrang), (B - Beaubaxton), Harry found that the 'V' stood for 'Veela'. He nearly snorted. Malfoy was only surpassed by Veelas, which was beyond completely understandable. Merlin, it was ridiculous, especially considering how rare male Veelas were. So Malfoy was practically number two on the list, and Harry didn't think that Fabian Giovanni looked any better than Draco did at all...

Draco's picture wasn't included, despite being in the top five, as was the case for a few names along the list. It was probably because they didn't have an inside man in the castle to take those pictures. Harry wondered if they could have hired Colin Creevey. It would at least get him off his back. He thought Malfoy would probably hex the small boy into oblivion if he were to be irritated daily by a flashing camera.

His amusement shortly fell, however. Now those very same famous looks that landed him on this list were playing him to a disadvantage. From what Harry gathered from Voldemort in the vision, Voldemort was taking a disturbing interest in Malfoy. He was captivated by Malfoy's body - the purity his paleness represented, the absolute lack of any impurities such as moles, pimples, or scars; the simple things - the indentation of his hip bones on his skin, his fingers - supremely kept, shining with natural goodness rather than any cosmetic measures; the boy's mere knees, his mere feet!

And it wasn't just physical. Voldemort was delighted by Malfoy's naivety - the mere naivety of being a young teenager, of never having seen crimes with his own eyes, of not having witnessed the atrocity that was life itself. Voldemort was crazy and maybe this was what prompted the possible second invitation Malfoy had received this morning. Maybe Voldemort was growing too enthralled with the Slytherin Sex God, or former Slytherin Sex God now.

A girl's magazine wasn't exactly Harry's cup of tea, so he gave it back to the other boy and left his bed with an amicable air between him and Seamus.

Not wanting to dwell on the negative issues, or rather, one serious negative issue, and feeling more sociable after the light-hearted talk with Seamus, he went out of the boys' dormitory and down the stairs into the common room. He was met with worried eyes all round. He ignored these pointedly and marched over to his two friends. Ron had been shooting glances at Dean that were meant to be surreptitious but this being Ron, Harry could clearly read his blatant resentment towards the bloke when he came down. Hermione had been looking quite uncomfortable with the whole situation, especially since it appeared Ginny and Dean wished to be alone. So he grabbed Hermione and Ron to go outside to the grounds.

The three of them climbed out of the portrait hole and made for Hagrid's hut for a little visit. Gryffindor had the Quidditch pitched booked for two o'clock and it was only a little to midday so they had some time free until then. Harry also wanted to tell them about the whole Slughorn issue, feeling he still needed to vent out some steam, despite the refreshing laughter he shared with Seamus. And besides, he had promised them he wasn't going to keep secrets from them.

"You know Professor Slughorn? The one I told you about when I went for the first meeting?"

Ron and Hermione nodded.

He sincerely regretted to tell them his next words. "Dumbledore says that he has a very important memory concerning Voldemort (flinches). He thinks that Slughorn put an idea in his head, of immortality. I don't know the exact details but Dumbledore thinks Slughorn is the key to finding out whether Voldemort might be immortal or not."

Ron's eyes nearly popped out his face and his mouth hung open as he walked alongside him.

Hermione on his other side was also similarly terrified into silence.

"You mean... You-Know-Who is immortal?" cried Ron in a small squeak, his face twisted in a horrified grimace. As usual, he oversaw the operative word, in this case, 'might'.

Hermione kept silent.

Harry nodded miserably, looking down as he kicked away a stone as they approached Hagrid's hut. Hermione flung her arm in front of him haltingly.

"There's no smoke coming from Hagrid's chimney. I don't think he's here."

"Where would he go?" Ron asked. His face was still wearing the ghost of his terror.

Harry looked on at the hut of the half-giant. Where could Hagrid be? "Let's go make sure," he said and continued along.

Once there, they knocked on the wooden door. No answer came, no oversized dogs barked, and no hinges creaked; Harry frowned and went around the hut to the window. Seeing a sufficiently tall Ron coming around as well, he decided not to hop to look into Hagrid's window, knowing his pride was in jeopardy here. Ron just had to tiptoe in order to see through the window, so Harry left him to it.

The redhead shook his head. "Nope, no one. Blimey."

Hermione worried her lower lip as she looked down pensively at the ground. "Where could he be?"

Harry shrugged, clueless.

They spent the rest of their time traipsing the castle. They also spent some time in the library. Harry had told them everything he knew about Professor Slughorn and Voldemort. Approaching two o'clock, Harry and Ron made their way to the Quidditch pitch, where they were joined by the rest of the Gryffindor team, all glad in practice gear. The session was short but rigorous. After exerting himself in doing his rounds of flying and catching multiple Snitches at once, Harry trudged along Ron off the pitch, together with their other equally muddy team-mates, and made for the showers. Whilst being kissed by the hot water, Harry looked down at his body and assessed himself in the light of Witch Weekly's bachelor list, in which he didn't feature:

What was regarded as attractive?

Was it the length of one's prick? Harry seriously didn't want to consider that.

Was it having a six-pack? Although not too defined, Harry did have a significant showing of six blocks of muscles on his abdomen, which now glistened a little impressively with water.

Was it having biceps? Again, not impressive, but it was somewhat there.

Was it height? Harry cursed the Dursleys for his stunted growth that had resulted from malnutrition by their hands.

Was it handsomeness? The glasses weren't helping any and his unkempt, raven hair wasn't doing him any favours, either.

Harry tried to dismiss of all of this, playing all of it down as people being foolish for making up stupid lists of attractive people. Seriously, what on bloody earth did Malfoy have that he didn't? Harry quickly cut off that train of thought - thinking about a bloke in the shower, especially after knowing said person's body quite intimately, was just not on. He stopped the running water and quickly dried himself off.

It was close to five o'clock when they arrived back in the Gryffindor common room. Ron immediately grabbed his arm for a game of wizard chess, which saw them to the late hours of the night. Harry wanted to call it a night when the clock read close to nine o'clock, having been through so many things that day, so many disappointments, especially with himself; it wasn't a good day today at all, indeed.

Thus, he now stood at the foot of his bed, alone in the boys' dormitory, since everyone was downstairs, still energetic and fresh. He was scared of his bed - it gave him terrible nights. He stood there, frozen, eyeing his pillow intensely, accusing it of perfidy. He didn't know whether he wanted to sleep or not. He was staring at the question of questions right in the face: to Occlude or not to Occlude, that was the question. Should he meditate and have a better chance of not having visions that night, or should he not meditate so that he could find out whether that letter Malfoy received that day was what he suspected? Was Malfoy going to be with Voldemort tonight?

He started pacing, chewing on his nails. If Malfoy was back at Malfoy Manor with Voldemort, he, Harry, shouldn't block his mind so he could... do what? See how Malfoy suffered again, watch as that sick, twisted, repulsive megalomaniac raped Draco again? Then again, should he just ignore it and get on with his life? The question of all questions. Harry released a frustrated grunt. He didn't know whether to feel disgusted with himself or what. To Occlude or not to Occlude...

Harry chose.

He slept.

***

He finds himself in the same room he was in the first time. The fire is sparkling calmly to the right of the room, mirrored on the left by a tall, ornate mirror on an antique, mahogany dressing table. The room is warmly lit, large, and very welcoming. It didn't tell that here lives a sadistic, evil Dark Lord. Harry gives a titillated, cruel grin. Young Draco was due in only a few...