The Spinning World

Loss has twisted itself into a hard bone in the pit of Daphne Greengrass' stomach. It has sat there since the start of term, heavy and calcified, and if she understood it better, it would make her angry. She wants to understand it, has tried, but it only makes her feel small, like a little baby, or maybe how Hogwarts must make the Muggle first years feel. She wants to stomp her feet and scream that she was not ready for this. Something indefinable and bright was taken away from her when she sat beside Draco and heard for the first time the way Pansy died, and its absence hurts so badly that she has become afraid that that bone will just tear her belly open with its weight. She doesn't know how to grieve. Her entire body doesn't know what to do with its weight. She has thought that it must be something a person learns how to do, like riding a broom, but then her brain doubles back on itself and cries again: I wasn't ready for this.

Orla Quirke and Tracey Davis sat down beside her silently. Daphne had retreated to the lakeside to work on her Potions essay (twelve inches on the properties of moonstone, and she could use a little emotional equilibrium), but she had put it aside some time ago to wallow in her feelings. They peeled off their shoes and socks and dipped their feet into the shallow water that lapped gently at the bank. Pansy had adopted this spot on the lake as "their spot" back in second year, above a small shelf of earth rather than the gently sloping ground that gave easily away to sand and pebbles, as most of the lake's shore was. The weather was still warm enough for them to have left their scarves in the dormitories, but the air carried a sting as it lifted their hair away from their faces. Summer was leaving them, and Daphne had realised that it was taking Pansy with it, as though she was not already gone. When autumn slipped in between essays and late night study sessions, when it made way for bitter winter, their lives would go right along with it and Pansy would stay the way that she was, the way they last saw her on the platform of 9 3/4, excited with plans for summer hols. They would have left her behind them.

The giant squid floated past them placidly, about twenty yards out. It sent a curious tentacle towards Orla's and Tracey's bare feet, which glimmered like pale fish in the water. Daphne's feet, as dark as her mother's or more, would vanish into the lake like shadows. She kept them tucked, cross-legged, beneath her robe, where they shifted restlessly against her shins.

"How is the essay?" Orla asked.

Daphne opened her mouth and forced words past the tangle of Pansy's dead that was caught in her throat. "Hard. Professor Snape said we had to do a good job on it, because the Draught of Peace might come up on our O.W.L.s"

"O.W.L.s already," Tracey muttered darkly. Her hands passed restlessly over the grass. Daphne's fingers reached up and toyed with her prefect's badge, pinned carefully over her heart. It made her queasy to look at it. Pansy had gotten better grades than her; Pansy had been more popular. It had seemed natural to assume that the Slytherin prefects would be Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. Instead it was Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass, and not even Harry bloody Potter was a prefect. You-Know-Who back for real - and for months the Daily Prophet had tried to make his return sound like the hallucinations of a fame-hungry Potter, and hadn't they been embarrassed when all those Death Eaters showed up - and Pansy gone and no one had even noticed when Orla had arrived for school with smart little jewels in each ear.

Orla and Tracey's voices drifted over her and slipped away on the wind. A tentacle rose in the center of the lake and fell under the surface with a splash. Orla had lifted her feet from the water and was carefully flicking beads of water from her toes. The wind lifted Daphne's hair from the back of her neck and took with it all thoughts. She clung stubbornly to that bone of horror and confusion, forcing it down past words about homework and new earrings and things that didn't matter. Pansy Parkinson was dead and raped and gone and burned.

Daphne hung her head and let her mind come around again to where it had been trying to stray for hours: I wasn't ready for this - I wasn't ready for this.

----------

Unlike most of his Housemates, Draco Malfoy was having a wonderful morning. He had spent the previous night carefully Transfiguring a miniature Dingwall Gin out of a pair of Gregory's old socks. By the time he had carted his prize down to breakfast, hidden neatly in a pocket, it was not only able to walk but, more importantly, moo as well. Millicent had pushed her way to his side at the Slytherin table and hunkered down on her elbows, overflowing with advice as they carefully adjusted the tiny cow with their wands. They had achieved a bit of fire from its nostrils before Potions, and it was only when they rose from the bench that they noticed that not only had neither of them eaten any breakfast, but Draco hadn't done his Potions homework.

It didn't matter. Professor Snape looked him up and down - and gave him an extension.

It made Weasley howl, and really, that was something that always gave Draco's days a bump up from great to fabulous.

And that wasn't even the best part. The best part - oh, what a day! - had been when Harry actually defended him against Weasel and Granger.

If it hadn't been for that vicious tartan cat woman, the day would have been perfect. Unfortunately, she did not recognise the genius of a Transfiguration based on smell alone: something that smelled like cattle into actual cattle. The task had been to transform silkworms into sparrows, and Draco was summarily given detention for the following week.

Draco spent the rest of the day in profitable piffle. He complained to Harry about how appallingly Harry's Head of House had treated him, complained to Vincent and Greg how unsympathetic Gryffindors were, and recommended several hair straightening potions to Granger that enraged her Freckled Weasel so much that his face turned as red as his hair. He escaped into the dungeons at the end of the day without any physical violence, and as he and his dorm mates tucked themselves into bed, he realized that he had spent the entire day saying any thought that had popped into mind and had not dwelled on a single important thing. It had been a wonderful day, indeed.

The Slytherin dorms settled into a sleepy quiet as students shrugged out of robes and into pajamas, discussing this or that. Gregory wandered over to Draco's bed with his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework clutched in one fist, moaning about the vagueness of everything Professor Umbridge assigned. Blaise chuckled over a letter from his mother. Theo breezed in and out, damp from his shower, trailing the scent of shampoo after him like a banner of cleanliness.

Draco's pajamas were stiff and cool on his legs, still too new to be comfortable. He plucked unconsciously at the fabric, pointing with his other hand to Gregory's paper, advice falling meaninglessly from his lips. Theo returned to the dorm, looking up to the clock on the wall. The hour of curfew had descended upon Hogwarts, and their bodies, trained for years, responded naturally. Lights went out, conversation stilled in new darkness, and sleep came.

Draco counted to one hundred, and then did it again. Vincent was a soft snuffling presence to his left; Gregory wheezing and snoring on his right. Slowly, cautiously, he pushed his blankets away and crawled on hands and knees to the foot of his bed. His pajama bottoms rode up on his shins, and his blanket was warm against his skin. He eased out of his bed as quietly as possible, stealing around to the trunk that sat at the foot of his bed. The click of the latch betrayed him.

"What are you doing?" Theo whispered. Draco jumped and mentally cursed.

"Go to sleep, Theo," he whispered back, reaching regardless into his trunk. He had slipped back behind his curtains with his prize when he heard Theo's feet pad across the stone floor. The mattress creaked as Theo settled at the foot of it. His wand illuminated the small space, and Draco shrank back instinctively.

"What's that?" Theo asked, gesturing with his wand. "It looks like something a house elf would wear."

"Ha bloody ha," Draco whispered back. He fought the effort to clench his fingers around Remus' jumper. Even if Theo could guess what it was, it wasn't like Draco was going to jerk off on it or anything - and Sirius certainly didn't need it - and he just wanted it. "What do you want?"

Theo shrugged, a smile on his face. The light made his eyes look beady and tired. "I wanted to see what you were doing. I thought your little act today was impressive."

Draco flushed. He had always liked Theo; Theo made him feel stupid. He had never been Draco's the way that Vincent and Greg were, although they had known each other practically as long. Pansy had never understood it. But Theo made Draco feel small. Last year he had been puffed up and exuberant with every snip of gossip that that journalist made eager use of, every "POTTER STINKS" badge that appeared on the breast of the students around him, and then Theo would crawl into his bed when everyone else was asleep and make him feel small again. It only happened maybe three or four times, and progressed little past damp fumblings at each other's bodies, but this was a familiar enough situation that Draco drew back unconsciously.

"It worked, didn't it?"

"I don't know, I think even Vince and Greg are getting a little suspicious."

Draco snorted. "Are you here to look after Vince and Greg's welfare?"

"No," Theo replied thoughtfully. "But I thought you were."

Draco stared at his hands, irritation warring with his feelings of friendship. "Vince and Greg are fine. I'm fine."

Theo nodded solemnly, and they were silent for a long moment. Draco twisted the jumper between his fingers, absently winding a sleeve around his dead arm. He couldn't feel the softness or the warmth on his skin, but somehow the touch was pleasing nonetheless.

"Why Potter?" Theo asked suddenly.

Draco looked up, his eyes hooded. He had been asked that question before. To Daphne and Millicent, he had explained that it was all part of a glorious and evil plan. Vincent and Greg had accepted that he didn't quite know himself. "You want the truth?"

"I ask because I want you to lie to me."

Draco smiled but said nothing, his eyes cast downward. Theo held his hand up, palm facing outwards. "If I'm a prick, may I be eaten by dragons and pooped out for house elf food," he said solemnly.

The long forgotten childhood oath startled a laugh out of Draco. He looked up to see Theo's eyes dancing, and grinned. "Remember when we made Greg stay in the rose garden and convinced him that we were actually going to look for dragons to eat him?" Theo nodded. "We left him there for hours. And it got dark and cold but since I told him he wasn't allowed to move, he stayed right where he was, right underneath that really awful old rosebush with the gigantic thorns?"

"I remember."

Draco hesitated. "And do you remember that Vince finally took some coal and scratched a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, because Harry Potter could save anybody?"

Theo seemed to consider that carefully. "Is that why?"

"Maybe. Part of it. I guess."

Draco unwound the jumper from his hands and reached up to tug off his shirt. Theo's eyes drifted thoughtfully over his belly and chest in the brief moment that it took for Draco to pull the jumper over his head. Safely covered, Draco rested a hand, unconsciously, above his heart, only the tips of his fingers peeking out from the overlong sleeves. He raised his head to meet Theo's gaze.

Really, Theo looked more like his mother. It was only his eyes that looked like his father - and maybe the set of his jaw -

"I never thought you'd be into Gryffindors," Theo drawled. His voice was throaty, and Draco leaned closer almost without thinking.

"Why, you think I only like tall, dark - " He broke off abruptly, flushing. "I bet Hagrid could find me a dragon," he finished softly. "You prick."

Theo had the grace to look embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

Draco stared at his hands. "Go back to bed, Theo."

Theo hesitated, and leaned forward to wrap his hand around Draco's ankle, squeezing briefly before vanishing back to his own bed.

Draco pushed off his pajama bottoms before slipping beneath the covers, kicking them down to the bottom of his bed and snuggling down into his blankets in only the jumper and his pants. He stared sightlessly into the dark, wordless guilt roiling in his chest.

He shifted onto his left side and reached out, pushing aside the curtains of his bed until he could see the table that stood between his and Vincent's beds. His fingers grasped at the treasures that lay scattered at its surface until it found its prize. He dragged the jellyfish close to the edge of the table, until he could see it clearly even in the dim shadows. He watched it drift until sleep overtook him.

------------------------

The knock on the classroom door was far more timid than Snape was expecting. He raised his eyebrows, the enchanted quill that he used to correct papers stilling as his attention wandered. The oak door was ominous in the silence behind it.

Draco never knocked on the classroom door. The office, of course, was Snape's private domain and rarely visited by any but a handful of Slytherins, but the Potions classroom was as open a space as Snape had ever maintained in his life, and it was far from unheard of for Draco or his cronies to hang about after class to talk with their Head of House. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that it was, indeed, time for Draco to begin his detention, but the door stayed ominously shut and silent.

"Enter," he called commandingly.

Draco eased around the door, opening it only as far as necessary to squeeze through. His eyes were startlingly pale in the dim light of the Potions classroom. "Good evening, sir," he said. "I have detention with you?"

Snape nodded curtly. "I have the pleasure of your company for the next two hours, Draco. You may begin by scrubbing those cauldrons clean, without magic. I will give you further instructions when you complete that task."

Draco nodded, dropping his book bag on a nearby desk and walking over to the sink to get a brush and a bucket of soapy water. He paused over the stack of cauldrons, and Snape expected a barrage of observations and questions: Anything this shoddy has to be first year work; let me guess, a Gryffindor started this. But Draco merely rolled up his sleeves and knelt, setting willingly enough to the task. Snape steepled his fingers and watched his godson from the corner of his eye. The quill scratched thoughtfully over a particularly abysmal third year essay at his elbow.

"You've been avoiding me," he said softly. Draco's shoulder's hunched, but the hand holding the brush never hesitated.

"No, sir. I haven't."

"If I recall correctly, I've sent several requests through your Housemates for your presence. I have yet to see you outside of class this term."

"Is that why I'm having detention with you instead of Professor McGonagall?" Draco asked. His tone was indecipherable, edging on furious. The coarse brush scraping over the bottom of the blackened cauldron was louder than his voice.

"Yes, that's right," Snape snapped. The quill jumped and fell over onto the parchment paper. "And I would have expected you to be grateful for it."

"What makes you think I'm not?" Draco asked, twisting his head around to look at Snape. His face was a mask.

Snape's fists clenched, his fingernails digging painfully into his palms. "It would be in your best interest to remember that no matter what allowances I have made for you recently, I am still your Head of House. You should not forget it."

"I never forgot it," Draco said angrily. His fingers clenched on the brush. "I didn't want to talk to you, ok? I just wanted to forget - I want to - " He trailed off, his cheeks pink. They stared at each other from a gulf deeper than the span of a classroom. Snape leaned back in his chair, taken aback.

Draco made a sudden movement, as though to pick up the cauldron he had been scrubbing with his other hand and return to work on it. His fingers, fused together, spasmed around the pewter edge of the cauldron, and it dropped from his hand with a cheerful clang, rolling on the stone. He set down his brush carefully and reached for the fallen cauldron, holding his dead arm close against his chest.

"Carry on, then," Snape said tonelessly, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen, and Draco turned his back. They worked in silence.

Draco's concentration on the cauldrons was absolute, with only a flutter of thought forming around his mind. Snape pursed his lips, reaching delicately out to skate the edge of his mental fingers around those thoughts. He had never tried to put what he saw through Legilimancy into words. It went beyond that; beyond those brief flashes of memory that were all he saw when he first learned the art. The things he observed were beyond words, or colours, or thought. They simply were, and came with a context far more complete than mere memory.

The boy was tired, and as he pushed irritably at his sleeves to get them higher out of his way, his wrists looked thin and fragile. He was losing weight. Snape had no eyes into the Slytherin house; although he doubted that Draco had told his friends not to talk to their Head of House. Snape, effectively, had been shut out. No fifth years had darkened his office doorway, burdened with care or O.W.L. worries, and none of the younger students knew what was going on. Likely as not, no one outside of Slytherin House knew the turmoil that was going on inside it; Salazar's children had closed ranks around Draco Malfoy. Snape had seen that loathsome toad looking for toeholds to dig herself up the barriers of Hogwarts, cozening up to older Slytherins who watched her shrewdly and gave nothing away. They presented an acidic, inscrutable front to the rest of the school.

Inside the dorms, a different order ruled. Pansy had been a popular girl, and Draco was charismatic and well liked. Uncertainty was breeding in the dungeons as each student - regardless of heritage or family allegiances - wondered if they would have to make their own choice, between family and friend, between Hogwarts and the Dark Lord.

It was little wonder that none of his Slytherins lingered any more after class or dropped by before supper; his history as a Death Eater was well known, and in previous years Snape had subtly encouraged the rumors. The sides of dark and light thought him coy and clever, a willing spy, and when pressed he had delivered scornful lectures to each on how idiotic the other side was to trust him. What would he tell his students to choose, if one of them came to him?

Draco set the last cauldron aside and looked to Snape for further instruction. Snape glanced at the clock that hung at the back of the classroom. Nearly three quarters of an hour had passed. He didn't believe that he'd ever spent this much time around Draco without the boy straining to talk to him.

"Re-label the supply jars in the wet cabinet, checking against the inventory sheet to make sure that the correct amount is inside. I believe that should keep you occupied until your detention is over."

Draco nodded wordlessly, and went to fetch the new labels and a quill. They were kept in a drawer beside the sink, and he found them unerringly. He began his task as methodically as Snape himself would, which was hardly surprising. He removed the heavy glass jars from the low cabinet a group at a time, wiping the dust off of them with a cloth before setting them on the scale and marking down the amount. Once verified, the jar was moved to another area of the counter to await its label. He was quick and efficient and obscurely Snape felt proud.

Draco marked the labels with careful loops, his gray eyes flickering back and forth between the label and the inventory sheet. Under his quill the words rolled out gracefully: Acromantula Venom, Armadillo Bile, Bubotuber Pus, Bundimun Secretion. The jars clinked thoughtfully together as Draco set them back in their proper places, returning with a new load, noises as orderly as the ticking of the clock. Time passed, and tension eased almost palpably. Snape let out a breath that he hadn't been aware of holding and looked back to his essays, the quill making short work of them. It took him a long time to notice the silence that had fallen over Draco's area of work.

Snape looked up when he realized it had been some time since he last heard the potion jars clink or the scale groan under their weight. Draco was standing, very still, a jar balanced on the palm of his bad hand and steadied with the other, his expression almost perplexed. His brows were knitted in an almost curious way, as if they were unsure of how to convey what was going on behind them. His thumb stroked a slow pattern over the cramped lettering of Snape's own hand: Gillyweed.

"Draco?" Snape said. Draco's head snapped up, his eyes wide and startled.

"Yes, sir?"

"Is there a problem?"

Draco shook his head, wordlessly, and set the jar of gillyweed down on the scale, turning his face away from Snape, who felt quite baffled.

Not so long ago, he had known all of his Slytherins, known their birthdays and Potions abilities and sometimes even the convoluted little jokes that had been born in the groups. He had known quite a bit about Draco and his friends, seen some of them get taller and more insufferable every time he socialized with the Malfoys or the Notts or others. They had tumbled into Hogwarts like a pack of self-entitled puppies, Draco lording Snape's favour over the lot of them.

It had been Dumbledore who told him of the relationship that had ... developed between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. He had felt stung, at the time, that Draco hadn't told Snape himself, but that had been during those dim, hurried days between a dusty corridor in the Ministry and the dingy safe house where they had ended their summer. Draco and Black had been as lifeless as Inferi, and would go where they were pointed but do little else. No, Snape hadn't been bothered by that until Draco began to talk again, and laugh again, but not with him. Only with Potter. He would vanish when Snape came to visit that ugly Muggle safe house, and if cornered, had talked to the floor instead of to his own godfather.

Never mind, Snape had thought. He had plenty of time to win back Draco's trust at Hogwarts.

He had never thought that Draco would avoid him at school.

Snape glanced up at the clock. A fair amount of time had passed since Draco had began his second task, and it was nearly ten o'clock already. "That's enough," he said clearly. "Finish the jars that you have out, and then you may go."

"Thank you, sir," Draco said distantly. His hands were steady as he recorded the final measurements on the parchment and returned the jars, stooping, back to their places. He closed and locked the cabinet fastidiously, leaving the parchment paper and inventory sheet on the counter above it. His face opened as he walked back to where he had laid his book bag over a desk, relaxing in preparation of leaving the Potions classroom.

Snape cleared his throat. Draco paused, his hand on his book bag. "Before you leave," he said, "there was something I wanted to discuss with you."

Draco pulled his book bag over his shoulder and walked slowly around Snape's desk, where the professor waited. He stared at a point somewhere above Snape's shoulder and didn't say anything, his expression obstinate.

"Have you been to see Madam Pomfrey since you arrived at Hogwarts?" Snape asked.

"No, sir."

"Any discomfort or tightness while the scarring healed?"

Draco looked uncomfortable. "Not really. On my back, a little - below my shoulder blades. But it's more itchy than a real bother."

"Mm," Snape said, noncommittally. "Give me your hand."

Draco hesitated, and a flash of irritation sparked in Snape's chest. He tried to push it away, as he had - mostly - buried the anger and confusion of earlier. It stayed where it was, gnawing like a splinter buried beneath the skin, even when Draco finally extended his right hand.

Snape ran his wand over the inside of Draco's wrist and down to his fingertips, repeating the movement on the back of his hand as well. The thumb was still separate, but the other fingers had fused together, as though they had healed that way, even though Snape knew that Lupin had taken pains to see that each finger was bandaged separately. The skin was pale, with only the faintest hint of texture, as though the burn had been some wound incurred in childhood and hadn't been an angry, oozing scab bare weeks ago. The burn had changed, and the flesh below it had died, sometime between the time that the Brond Atol curse had been pulled out of Draco's body and when Snape was finally able to examine him, hours later. There was no sensitivity or movement in the hand any longer, but the dropped cauldron was the first time that Snape had seen Draco try and use his right hand since the injury was incurred.

"Open your mouth," Snape said. He stood, wand ready. Draco's eyes widened.

"No," he said forcefully. "Why should I?"

"I have your best interests at heart, Draco," Snape snarled. "I would like to check for spell damage, so open your mouth."

"I'm not comfortable with that, Professor," Draco said, his words formal and his tone harsh. Snape's eyes narrowed. He took a deep breath. He was very conscious of the tremor that was visible in Draco's left hand.

"Why don't you trust me anymore?" he asked quietly. Draco's chin jerked away, and he stared defiantly into space, his face pink. "Why are you so angry with me?"

Draco's eyes moved slowly to his own, and when he spoke it was a low hiss. "You should know why."

The wall in Draco's mind came down with breathtaking speed, as though the boy had consciously dropped his defences to let Snape in. Snape bit back a gasp as images, emotions flooded through his brain, erasing all sound but the silence that one can only find at the beach, the bitter taste of salt spray in his mouth, the warmth of a body beside him and bright love for them -

-- And a voice. "Professor Snape will save you."

Snape's breath caught in his throat. He was blinded, lost in the fog behind Draco's eyes and the blame and anger that laced through his senses like poison. He wrenched his mind away from Draco's, severing the connection that had bound him to Draco's thoughts. He stared at his hands, at the wood of the desk beneath them, the stone beneath the desk, his anchors to unsteady reality.

Draco's voice echoed dimly: "Can I go now, sir?"

Snape nodded but did not speak, and did not look up when the heavy classroom door closed.

---

The hall outside the Potions classroom was cold and empty when Draco stepped into it, and his footsteps echoed on the stone. He sighed softly and tugged his book bag closer to his side. He had risen early that day and slept little the night before, and he was tired. His anger at Snape melted away, nearly forgotten in the way it seemed he forgot everything these days.

School had been transformed into some other reality for Draco. It seemed impossible that barely four months ago he had stood in the same halls he passed through that very day, saw teachers who were the same as they were four months ago, sat on the same bench at the same table and waited for breakfast to appear, thinking of eggs and jam and classes just as he had four months ago. It wasn't even ridiculous that Draco still tried to talk to his friends about schoolwork or Quidditch; it was grotesque. He had begun to think that he had given up his right to be just another student, and his connections to people and places around him felt more distant and surreal by each passing day. And although he had passed on his secrets to a chosen handful, they still weighed upon him, itching as though it were his past that was carved upon his skin, rather than the byproduct of a spell. And in the center of all of it, he had begun to doubt himself. Memories of his father scooping him up like a Quaffle and throwing him over his shoulder, screaming with laughter; of his father waiting patiently by his bedside for Draco to go to sleep, his dry hand covering his son's brow; of embraces between his mother and father and the years they had shared and grown and been a family ...

Maybe.

He had been wrong.

Wrong. That no matter what his memories said, that his father had crouched over him and looked him in the eye while men in black robes had taken him one after another, that it was Draco who was wrong. The doubt grew inside his chest like an infection, a pressure that ached for someone to cut it open and wash him clean. He knew that Harry would do it, would tell him that everything was alright, that he wasn't wrong, the way Harry had done too often in the past three weeks. He felt revulsion rise in his stomach at the very idea. Their relationship - or something, Draco added automatically - had become simply one more secret to add to the weight. To give a voice to those thoughts that lay beneath those secrets - and by speaking of them, he might as well say they were true - to give a voice to it was an impossibility, as out of reach as asking for his father's forgiveness.

A small noise made him look up. He paused, and after a moment there was a swirl of movement where there had only been empty air before. Black hair, glasses and green eyes that peered cautiously at him. Draco raised his eyebrows. "Well," he said, "that explains Hogsmeade's Mysterious Floating Head of third year."

"Hey," Harry said.

"Aren't you out past curfew?" Draco asked.

Harry shrugged, unruffled by his snide tone. "I haven't seen you all week. You're always surrounded by your friends."

"So are you," Draco replied. "And I hate your friends more than you hate mine."

"Yeah," Harry said thoughtfully, "you keep saying that." Draco pulled him close and kissed him. Harry's mouth was firm against his own, and he smelled faintly of chocolate and smoke. He kissed Draco back - but only for a moment before pulling away, glancing around the empty corridor as though anyone might discover them. It was late; the only ones likely to be out were prefects, prowling the halls for errant students. But when Harry turned away, leading Draco to the tapestry of Rathbone the Resplendent and the hidden stairwell behind it, Draco followed without a word.

Anger warred with confusion in his stomach, tempered by his lifelong need for approval. He had no idea of what Harry had been telling his friends, why they thought he was still hanging around with the Slytherin. Apparently it had never even occurred to Granger's vaunted mind that there could be anything sexual involved. It rankled at him that despite their famous courage and loyalty, good little Gryffindors apparently didn't tell each other when they were snogging Slytherins.

Draco stopped in midstride. Harry checked himself after another pace or two, and turned to look at Draco. The wall of the narrow stairwell that they were climbing was dotted with thin windows to the outside - centuries ago, before the veils of secrecy came down upon the wizarding world, they had helped wizards defend Hogwarts from the occasional Muggle hoard, allowing them to stick their wand arms out to aim hexes without getting shot by the Muggles' silly sharpened sticks. The light from the wand slits flickered across Harry's face as he moved to Draco's side. "Are you alright?" he asked, frowning.

Draco frowned back, unconsciously imitating Harry's expression. That had been happening often lately, although he was not always aware of it; there seemed sometimes to be a lapse in his knowledge of social situations, and he found himself more and more often taking clues from those around him, without any trace of understanding why they were acting the way that they were. His own immediate responses felt unnatural and inappropriate, and he quashed them without thinking.

He nodded and took Harry's hand. It seemed like an accepted thing to do, and when Harry's fingers closed around his own he felt relieved that he had guessed correctly.

"Did Snape ... do something to you?" Harry asked awkwardly.

Draco laughed, a little too loudly. "Something like molest me, you mean? Don't be absurd."

Harry glared at him for a minute, and then smiled. He was quite dashing when he smiled, some foolish corner of Draco's mind noted. "Was he just ... pompous, rude and overbearing, then? His normal self?"

"That sounds about right," Draco replied, leaning against the wall and folding his arms. His shoulder covered part of the wand slit, and after a moment, Harry's shoulder covered the other half.

"I'd never thought I'd say this," he said, "But don't let Snape get to you. He's probably just as - er - upset by everything that's happened as you are."

"Are you actually trying to empathise with Professor Snape?" Draco asked, amused.

Harry made a retching noise. "I guess if I can learn to like you of all people, I can - ugh - at least try and hate Snape maybe just a little bit less."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled." Draco's head dropped onto Harry's shoulder, and Harry's arm snaked around his waist.

"Doesn't mean I'll put any effort into his class."

"You should," Draco mumbled. "If you're not crossing wands with him, he's a good teacher."

Harry snorted. "He might be if he didn't hate kids. He probably only teaches because he can't do anything else."

"He likes making potions."

"He likes bullying children," Harry said firmly. Draco shrugged and closed his eyes. Far below them, there was an echo of footsteps. If anyone came near where they stood, they would have plenty of warning.

"That's probably part of the appeal of teaching," he said absently. Harry laughed and said something meaningless, and Draco answered with something similar. He was aware of speaking, of returning Harry's banter, but the words drifted away from him and became faint. He could feel the blood beating in the tips of his fingers - on one hand, at any rate. The confession, those terrible words, hovered in his mouth like the latch to a door.

Harry shifted against him, and Draco looked up to find baffled green eyes staring at him, obviously awaiting some sort of response. He straightened quickly, standing up and away from Harry. Harry's arm around him tensed but didn't move away. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" Draco asked.

Harry blinked rapidly, his brows knit thoughtfully together. "I asked you something serious," he said. "Weren't you listening?"

Draco looked at his feet and didn't answer. "Are you alright?" Harry asked. "You've been weird lately."

"I'm alright," Draco said. He lifted his face to look Harry in the eye, his jaw mulishly set. "What did you ask me?"

Still Harry hesitated. When Draco opened his mouth, scowling, Harry waved a hand at him. "I'm just embarrassed," he said, "I'm trying to think of how to say it. I - didn't know about wizarding stuff until I was eleven. I'd never heard of Hogwarts until I got my letter. I know - stop smirking. But I was thinking the other day, how everything you say sounds sort of weird to me, like you're being translated from some sort of foreign language or something, and then I sort of realized that you were - because I hear you like ... like a Muggle would hear you. I don't know anything about our world except what I'm told - "

Draco sniffed.

" - so I guess I'm asking, well - don't laugh at me if I want to ask you something that sounds really stupid to you, ok?"

Draco shut his mouth. His eyes were bright and mischievous. "Why don't you ask Weasel?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I dunno. Well - some of the stuff I want to know ... well, Ron would ask why I want to know."

Draco nodded slowly, a smug smile on his lips. "It's fine, Harry. I don't mind if you admit that I'm simply more clever than Weasel is."

"Arse," Harry muttered.

"I notice you're not denying it."

"Fine, I'm denying it!" Harry said, grinning.

Draco raked a hand over his scalp, a gesture that had looked far more impressive when his hair was long. "Even though you are clearly lying, the Grand Draco Malfoy is ready to hear your stupid Muggle questions. Ask away, peasant."

Harry's grin slid away slowly from his face, and his eyes shifted away from Draco. "Draco," he said seriously, "do wizards hate gay people?"

Draco frowned and looked at Harry. "Why would wizards hate gay people? What's wrong with being gay?"

"Well, nothing," Harry said hastily, his face red. "Just - my cousin Dudley always says stupid things - "

"What does your cousin have against being happy?" Draco said blankly. "Do Muggles not like to be happy?"

Harry stared at him, his eyes wide. His mouth twitched. "This is sort of what I meant about the different language thing. That word ... that's a word that Muggles use for ... er ... homosexual. You know what that is, right?"

Draco scoffed. "Obviously, yes."

Harry's blush deepened. "Sorry."

Draco laughed. "What a ridiculous idea. Do Muggles do that? Merlin, it would be like ... hating Blaise because he's black." Harry stared at the ground, vaguely embarrassed. Draco paused. "Muggles do that too, then?"

His eyes flicked over Harry's face, thinking. He leaned back against the wall, making himself comfortable. "No," he said finally. "Wizards do not hate ... gays, if you like that word. It's different for Muggles?"

Harry nodded. He stared at his shoes, and so Draco looked down at them as well. They looked at Harry's shoes and not at each other. "There was ... this boy," Harry said uncomfortably. "At my school, when I was young. We were only nine or ten, but all the other boys picked on him - they picked on me, for never having clothes that fit right, or for having glasses - but they picked on him because he didn't like sports much, and talked weird. They called him all kinds of names because they thought he was a poof - I mean, who knows if he was, you know? We were just little kids."

Draco nudged Harry's foot with his own, tapping the top of it. The trainers on his feet had been Harry's own, scuffed with long years of wear, given unwillingly to Draco when he first arrived at the Farmhouse. When Snape had brought Draco's school things to their safe house, he had forgotten shoes and so Draco had continued wearing these without thinking much of it. Harry laughed, a small huff of air, and lifted his own foot to ward off the attack.

"I hear it's because of religion," Draco said thoughtfully. Harry's foot stilled, and he glanced up. "That's what my - my father used to say, anyway. That Muggles had a lot of problems because they believed in some sort of ... spiritual manifesto - that this group of people had more right to one land than that group, that one group were winners - no - sinners just because they had been born a certain colour or loved certain people. It didn't make any sense to me, really."

"Doesn't make sense to me either, and I grew up with Muggles," Harry said. "But the wizarding world has problems too. A lot of people hate Muggles just because they were born without magic... and isn't that the same thing? You can't help being a Muggle any more than people can help being - gay."

Draco's face hardened. "That isn't the same thing at all," he said sharply. "Someone being gay, or black, or left-handed isn't a threat to your survival. No matter how many homosexuals there are in the world, they're never going to rise up and try and kill everyone who isn't homosexual. But Muggles have done that to us, and if they ever found out about our world they'd try and do it again." He moved to stand in front of Harry, his hands spread wide. "Why do you think we don't want the Mudbloods to come to Hogwarts? Every Muggle that knows about us is one more Muggle that could destroy everything!"

Harry was quiet for a moment, his eyebrows raised. "Wow," he said, a little awed. "I knew that you ... felt strongly about stuff like that, but I thought it was all ... blind hatred or something."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Don't be an asshole, Potter," he said belligerently. "And it's true. I could tell you ... the names of every Malfoy patriarch, for sixteen generations. And I could tell you all about Pleione Black's exploits for William the Conqueror. And all that history could be destroyed in just a single day, if some stupid Mudblood thinks that our worlds could use a little more integration, or social changes or something."

Harry stared at the ground, silent. Draco folded his arms and looked over Harry's shoulder, trying to see the moon. It was far past curfew, but he felt more alert than he had in weeks. It was almost a relief to be able to argue, to debate about something that he had believed in since childhood, and his mother's voice echoed through his memory, filling it with far away stories about their ancestors.

"I never thought of it that way," Harry said at last. "But stop saying Mudblood. You sound like an idiot."

Draco laughed. "I'm just trying to ensure that we're on equal footing, intellectually speaking."

Harry grabbed him around the waist and pulled him close, their bodies pressed together from knees to chest, their feet tangling together. They kissed messily, nearly laughing into each other's mouths. Draco's fingers snarled into Harry's hair. Harry's eyes slid closed.

After a long while, Draco moved away and rested his forehead against Harry's. Harry could feel Draco's breath on his face. His glasses had been pushed up over his forehead some time ago, and he could feel one earpiece threatening to slide off his head altogether. One of Draco's hands was curled on his collarbone; the other steadied himself against the wall.

"So," Draco said, "That's why you haven't told Granger and Weasel, is it?"

Harry winced, his eyes still closed. He reached up a hand and steadied his glasses. "Sort of," he said. "It's just ... scary, you know? I mean, six months ago I'd only liked one girl and never kissed anybody. I'd never even thought about ... you know. Being with a boy. And I don't even know if I am gay, Draco ... it's all just confusing and huge."

"That's just because your pathetic little mind can't handle anything bigger than Quidditch," Draco said, but it sounded feeble even to his ears. Harry smiled.

"It took me a while to get used to Remus and Sirius. Not because I thought it was wrong, or gross, just ... Draco, you can't even imagine where I grew up. I bet you've never even seen perfectly mowed lawns or perfectly trimmed hydrangea bushes - people like Remus and Sirius or me and you are just a whole other world than that. So it's scary enough even by itself to say that I - I like boys, and maybe girls too and that's just as confusing - "

"Can't it just be both?" Draco asked, agitated. "Do you have to give names to everything?"

Harry captured the hand that had curled into a fist on his collarbone, reaching with his other hand to cup Draco's cheek. His chest felt tight, and he was dizzy. The moment hung suspended between them, frighteningly monumental in the way everything seems monumental when one is a teenager and in love - or something. It seemed almost as though he and Draco were the only ones in the castle, in the world, and that was all that mattered and they were the only ones that mattered -

Harry drew in a deep breath and tried to calm himself. His thoughts ran away from him like wild, melodramatic horses, and suggested that maybe everything would be alright if he and Draco just - ran away together, went back to the Farmhouse or -

Harry took another deep breath and opened his eyes.

"I'll tell Ron and Hermione," he said.

Draco's mouth twitched. His expression was doubtful. "Right."

"I promise."

Draco said nothing, but leaned forward and kissed him again.

---

He could hear the noise of the Gryffindor Tower from two flights below it, as he made his way up the winding stairs to his bed. He kept a hand on his wand, safe inside the pocket of his jeans. The cool air of the castle had wiped the flush from his cheeks and by the time he reached the Fat Lady he supposed he looked innocent enough that she merely raised an eyebrow at him. The common room was full of people, their faces pink from the fire that burned cheerfully in the hearth. A brief hail went up in the corner that Seamus, Dean, Ginny and some others were sitting, and Harry waved blankly at them and headed to where Ron and Hermione were.

"Hey, Harry," Ron said, glancing over at him as Harry threw himself into the empty armchair beside them. Hermione was seated on the floor beside the low table, textbooks spread out before her. She smiled at him vaguely but otherwise did not detach herself from her studies. "Where've you been?"

Harry forced himself to tell the truth. "I ... went to find Draco after his detention."

Hermione raised her head and stared at him. Ron's eyes narrowed. "Why?" he asked, appalled. "Why do you keep talking to him?"

Harry shrugged, uncomfortably. A single sentence formed itself into a loop in his brain, singing over and over: I'm snogging Draco Malfoy. I'm snogging Draco Malfoy. I'm snogging Draco Malfoy and I hope you'll still want to be friends with me. "I was worried about him," he answered.

Hermione's eyebrows disappeared into her hair. "Harry," she said seriously, "Ron and I - we've been talking about this - and we understand if maybe you feel guilty about Malfoy. With no one to talk to during the summer, you two probably became close, am I right?"

Harry frowned and straightened up in his seat. Ron's eyes were an earnest blue and fairly shone in the firelight. "I had Sirius to talk to, it wasn't really like that ..."

"But it's not the same, Harry," Hermione said earnestly. "You didn't have anyone your own age. Sirius is...well."

"Look, you two just don't know Draco that well. Maybe if you gave him a chance, you might ..." Harry trailed off, watching Ron and Hermione's expressions darken.

Ron made a horrified noise. "I'd rather be eaten by a hippogriff than get to know Draco Malfoy any better than I already do."

Hermione sighed and put down her quill, pushing her books aside. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His pants still felt slightly itchy despite Draco's cleaning charm, and he had hoped that given the late hour and the mass of homework still surrounding Hermione, he would have been able to put off a serious conversation until at least the morning. "No, Harry. We wouldn't. I know that ... well, what he went through was horrible, but you don't really believe that simply suffering through bad things would make him a better person, do you? And he certainly doesn't seem like he wants to join our side, or stop hating the Muggleborn wizards." Harry looked away, and her tone grew more intense, pursuing her point. "He is a Slytherin to the core, Harry. He is a self-serving bully who doesn't care about other people. You can't simply wish for a person to change, or force them to - well, there is Imperius, but that's an academic question and anyway it's beside the point. A person will only change if they want to, Harry. And if has gone through everything you said he has, and he's still the same person - well - "

"You don't know that he hasn't changed because you didn't know him in the first place," Harry said belligerently. "And I didn't either, not before I lived with him - and he is different. Look, I know he's an arse - I know. And I know that he can be mean and stupid but he can be really funny, too!"

"Yeah, he's hilarious," Ron said, rolling his eyes.

"You don't know him at all!" Harry shouted. He flinched, uncomfortably aware that people were staring at him. He lowered his voice, heedless in his anger. "Even if he is a Slytherin, at least he can talk to his friends! Why do you have to convince me of the error of my ways every bloody time I see you? Why can't you just - let it go, Hermione!"

She stood, her lips quivering and face pink. "I don't care what you say, Harry," she said forcefully, "Draco Malfoy is malicious and spiteful and you - he just isn't worth your time!" She fled up the stairs to the girls' dorm, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

For a long moment, Harry gaped after her, silent. Ron's mouth hung open, and they turned and looked at each other in the same moment. Harry's eyes hardened. "Well, are you going to run off too?" he asked sullenly.

Ron sighed and shook his head. "I dunno about Malfoy, Harry, but ... maybe you know what you're doing with this. I can't see it, but I trust you."

Harry stared at him. "Thanks, Ron." Ron smiled and proposed a game of chess, and although Harry's promise itched at his conscience, no more was said about Draco Malfoy for the rest of the night.

---

A light snapped on with startling brightness in the empty house. It had lain barren and forgotten for several weeks, and the barrier of sunlight and life that had protected it had vanished. The flowering bushes and tender plants had withered in the face of the approaching Scottish winter, and had been devoured gleefully by the small, furry beasts that no longer heard the tones of human voices to shoo them away from the calla lilies or the ivy. One such beast, delicately nibbling on a tendril of ivy that had curved up the face of the house and down the nearest side, raised its head and snorted an insolent puff of smoke at the light.

It was September 24^th, 1995, and the full moon had waxed overhead two weeks previous and then slowly retired to its celestial slumber. The sky above the animal was pitch dark and the stars trembled, scattered like a handful of sand across the heavens. The new moon hung invisibly in the night, and in the lonesome little house by the forest, magic was at work.

Books flew from the shelves as though invisible hands had flung them into the air, landing neatly in cartons that appeared from nowhere. Twine wrapped efficiently around them, the same invisible hand carefully writing names, dates on the top. The ladder leading to the attic heaved itself down upon the second floor, and packages sidestepped gracefully down its surface. Blankets, in the two bedrooms, folded themselves neatly, erasing the wrinkles that two boys and two men had left upon what had been, for a short time, their home.

Objects singled themselves out for special attention, lining carefully up in the hall as neat as dominos, collecting themselves into groups. A sparkle of jewelry went there, an ancient tome here. Letters, written and assembled at some unknown time, flew out of the drawer of the desk that had sat patiently in the house for decades, landing precisely upon each collected group of belongings. The hand that had written them was not strong, and one could see how the careful lines of calligraphy shook with illness or age or both. Packages sprung up around these little groups, the same neat twine making simple work of it. There were no names or dates to be written upon these boxes: instead, heavy envelopes popped out of the air atop them and were promptly engulfed with twine. The names upon these were written in a different, thicker hand, unfamiliar with wizarding letters. Severus Snape, said one. Kingsley Shacklebolt, said another. Dishware clanked and cookware crashed noisily.

The letters inside these envelopes were brief, and to the point. Legal language, not a familiar and more or less fond farewell. In accordance with the Last Will and Testament of Remus John Lupin, herein find ...

Boxes popped out of sight quietly, whisking away to far corners of the globe or somewhere close at hand. In London, in Hogsmeade, in the quiet corners of dormitories filled with sleeping children. In rooms filled with strange and delicate metal instruments that twisted and turned in an invisible breeze. A richness of wishes to be carried out. A wealth of friends accumulated over that narrow span of years, not even two score.

The house lay silent under a world that spun heedlessly overhead.