The Society for the Admiration of Harry Potter

It took a lot, that night, to slip away from Pansy. She was concerned--rightly so, Draco reminded himself. Draco had refused to tell her where he was going. He intended, some time before the year was over, to take her and the rest of his friends into Hogsmeade some dull night, and it would be better if it were a surprise.

It didn't help Pansy's nerves much that he was going with Potter, of all people. Come to think of it, that didn't do much for Draco's nerves.

And so he was half-an-hour late for meeting Potter at the library, their designated meeting place. Thinking ahead, he brought a bag of sickles and galleons and his Invisibility Cloak--last time, they were nearly caught by more than one teacher.

"There you are," Potter said, sounding annoyed, when he arrived. "I wouldn't have skipped the--club--meeting if I'd had known you'd be so late. Guess you Slytherins never learned punctuality"

"Or we just choose to ignore it," Draco said lightly.

Potter frowned, before Draco's innocent look forced him into a smile. "Yeah, maybe that's it," he said. "Anyway. Let's go. I brought--" he paused and reached into his bag, before pulling out with a flourish--an Invisibility Cloak. Draco stared. "It's an Invisibility Cloak," Potter said, taking Draco's silence for ignorance. "It turns you--"

"Yes, I know," Draco said. "Prat." He pulled his own out of his bag, and Potter stared at it in stunned silence before laughing.

"I though these were supposed to be rare," he said.

"Not if you have money," Draco said grimly.

Potter frowned, and looked almost sad. Draco wanted to grab his shoulder or his hand or--. Instead, he said, "Well, let's put these on."

They did. They walked in silence until they reached a fork in the corridor, then Draco stopped suddenly. A gust of air beside him told him that Potter was still walking, but Draco had no idea which way he had gone.

"Potter?" he asked, trying to keep his voice down. "Potter, are you there?"

Halfway down the path to the left, Potter's head and torso appeared with a swoosh. "Look," he said. "This isn't going to work." Draco said nothing, but allowed the cloak to fall back from his head and shoulders. "When I go places with Ron and Hermione, we all three stand under the cloak," Potter said.

Draco was silent. Now would probably be the time to protest, before Potter suggested what Draco thought he was about to.

"You can come under my cloak," Potter said reluctantly, and if it were anyone else Draco would have laughed at the horrible innuendo that could be found in a sentence such as the one Potter had just made.

And really, he didn't want to come under Potter's cloak. No he did not. He did not want to exist under Potter's cloak.

"Okay," he heard himself staying.

It was luckily he and Potter were both rather small and skinny. But all the same their wrists banged as they walked, and Potter was breathing on the back of his ear, and altogether Draco was relieved when they got through the one-eyed-witch and Potter said they could take the cloak off. Potter's face was flushed and sweaty when they emerged, and, from the feel of his own neck, Draco probably looked much the same.

They walked in silence for what felt like a long time. It had never seemed this far to Hogsmeade before, walking on a sunny afternoon with Pansy at his side and Greg and Vince behind him. He and Potter scrabbled through the dark together; both panting with exhaustion, neither willing to be the first to give in and rest.

They emerged in Honeydukes, both beneath their separate cloaks. Draco bought a pack of Droobles, which he had been running low on, and Potter bought a pack of chocolate covered roaches.

"For Ron," he said to Draco's incredulous stare. "I've always kind of wondered if he'd be able to tell the difference between these and chocolate covered peanuts.

Once they were outside of Honeydukes, though, Potter began to look apprehensive. Draco was confused as to why for a moment, before he remembered something Potter had said when they had come last time.

"Ah-ha!" he exclaimed. "That's right. No Three Broomsticks for you. I'm picking where we eat. It will be somewhere new and exciting and you will love it."

Potter sighed and looked longingly in the direction of the small, cozy pub. Yellow light glowed through the front windows, and laughter flitted out the front doors as a man and a woman stumbled out, singing drunkenly.

"Fine," Potter said, sounding resigned. "I'll go wherever you want. But let's look around a bit, first."

So they did. Draco was amazed at how unimpressed most of the wizards and witches around them seemed at two fifteen-year-olds out of school in the middle of the week. Some of them even seemed to be on a familiar basis with Harry, nodding cordially as he passed. Draco blew thoughtfully on his Droobles, and wondered if--

Suddenly, somehow, without Draco noticing it, they were in front of the Shrieking Shack. Draco gulped and backed a few steps away.

"Ah, Potter," he said. "It's getting very cold. Very, very cold. We do not want to be out here."

Potter looked at him mildly. "What are you so afraid of, Malfoy?"

Draco was starting to remember exactly why he had hated--did hate--Harry Potter. It had a lot to do with him being a totally oblivious git. "Ghosts," Draco said slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. "It's called the Shrieking Shack for a reason. This place is haunted."

Potter sniggered. "By Lupin, yeah," he said.

Draco stared at him for a moment. "Do you mean to tell me that--"

"Yeah. No ghosts. Just a werewolf." Potter grinned. "But if you're still scared, Malfoy, I completely understand. I--"

Draco sneered. "You're on, Potter."

He slipped beneath the small wire fence meant to keep people away from the Shack.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?"

"Scared?"

"Never," Potter said, and slipped beneath the fence. "You wish, right?" he added with a nostalgic smile.

But Draco had already taken off; sprinting for the Shack with all his legs could manage. His cloak blew out behind him, and he dropped his money bag as he ran, scattering gold coins in mud and grass.

He became aware, suddenly, of a presence just behind him--Potter, breathing heavily and running with his fists balled tightly at his side. And he was getting closer. Draco put on another burst of speed, all he could manage now, going all out, and closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth.

Potter, behind him (now more beside than behind) was laughing. "Nice try, Malfoy!" he yelled, his voice thick.

And Draco's eyes were still closed, but surely he was nearly there. The ground was hardening beneath his feet, more like concrete than mud, and that had to mean something--he felt the brush of Potter's cloak as he passed, and Draco opened his eyes, grabbed Potter's shoulder and pulled him back (did that count as cheating?) and crashed headlong into the door of the Shrieking Shack.

Unfortunately, the doors of hundred-year-old shacks were not designed to be crashed into by fifteen-year-old boys. Draco saw a rain of splinters and dry wood as the door fell away around him, and he was suddenly inside the Shrieking Shack.

And, with a loud, painful sounding grunt, Potter came toppling in after him.

Draco hissed with pain as Potter landed on his arm at a ridiculously awkward angle. Draco clutched his arm, and Potter sat up.

"Malfoy!" he said. "Are you okay?"

Draco glared at him. Potter didn't get the hint, and, rather than getting up, touched his shoulder.

"Malfoy?" he said, a little tremulously if you asked Draco.

"Get off, Potter, you bloody git." Draco glared, and Potter obeyed; jumping to his feet as if he had been stung. Blanching, Potter bent down and pulled Draco to his feet, brushing invisible dust away.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy," Potter said (why was he still touching Draco's shoulder?). "Did I hurt you?"

"No, you just slammed me through a wooden wall and landed on me afterwards. Don't worry. It's no big deal," Draco groused.

Potter's hand was still there.

"I really am sorry, Malfoy," he said earnestly. "And to be fair, I think that wood was rotten, anyway. It couldn't have hurt that much."

Draco glared, and pointedly pulled a chunk of wood out of his hair. "Thank you for that assessment, Potter," he said icily. But Potter seemed so genuinely upset, and, more than that, so crestfallen at Draco's reaction, that Draco almost felt bad. He wasn't going to give Potter the satisfaction of knowing he was right, but he shrugged to show that he wasn't really hurt.

The small, swift movement of his shoulders seemed to remind Potter that he was still touching Draco. He glanced across at his hand and then dropped it quickly, blushing and trying to make it look subtle by running it through his hair.

Draco just smirked. Potter blushed redder.

"Let's go somewhere and get a drink," Potter said, looking everywhere but Draco. "I'm thirsty, aren't you?"

Draco glanced at him--Potter was acting strangely, and for a boy who passed out and had visions in the middle of class, that was certainly saying something.

But anyway, he was thirsty.

"Okay, Potter," Draco said, stepping easily through the ruined door to the un-haunted shack.

Potter surveyed the ruins grimly as he exited. "We should probably fix this," he said, rolling up his sleeves.

But Draco was faster. "Now, now," he chided. "We wouldn't want the little hero to over-exert himself." Potter looked furious, so Draco smiled to show he was joking. "You're not bad, Potter," he said casually, pulling out his wand. "Reparo."

Potter looked completely stunned. Speech was obviously beyond him.

"And by the way," Draco added. "I won the race."

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

They wandered the streets of Hogsmeade for about half an hour before they finally decided where to eat. Potter, especially, was attracting even more attention than he usually did--muddy and covered in wood-dust, with a huge tear along the back of his robes (he hadn't noticed it, and Draco didn't intend to point it out).

"Why is everybody staring at us?" Draco asked irritably, knowing perfectly well that if he saw someone looking like they must have, he would point, stare, and laugh.

"Not much fun, is it?" said Potter. But he didn't sound upset. In fact, a curious, smug expression settled on his face as Draco shot death-glares at giggling passer-by.

Draco steadfastly ignored him, and instead paused outside a restaurant. There were several animal carcasses hanging in the window; one which looked suspiciously like a dog, and plates beneath them to catch the trickle of blood.

Potter turned green. He looked as if he would be sick. "I'm not eating there, Malfoy," he said. "I'll go back to the castle without you before I'll go in there."

"Hmm," Draco said thoughtfully, studying the window. In truth, this wasn't anywhere he himself would willingly eat. But there was no reason for Potter to know that.

Actually, he was feeling a bit nauseous himself.

"Let's move on," he said. "I wouldn't want to offend Potter's sensibilities, after all."

Potter gladly led the way down the street, buzzing in front of several groups of people without so much as an apology. Draco followed him at a slower pace, shrugging at an indignant witch that Potter had knocked down in his hurry to escape.

The same thing happened three more times--outside Witches' Brew, which promised live and dancing entertainment; Crow's Nest, which looked about as clean as a real bird nest and whose only patron was a shirtless man; and The Food of Life, which catered specifically to vampires and served only raw meat.

"Prude," Malfoy said sourly as they marched away from that one. "Vampires are quite interesting; I've always wanted to meet one."

"I don't care about your sick fantasies, Malfoy," Potter said firmly, grabbing Draco's wrist and tugging him decidedly in the opposite direction.

Draco pulled at his wrist, and Potter dropped it. "Actually," Draco said thoughtfully, blithely ignoring Potter's last statement. "I think I know exactly where we should go."

The perfect place, incidentally, was on the other side of town, further away from Hogwarts than Potter had even been (so he said). It didn't help that it was cold out, and that neither of them had thought to bring gloves. By the time they were nearly there, even Potter was complaining.

"Why in the world did I listen to you? I was right all these years, what in the world was I thinking? Oh, Hermione! That's right, she made me. I'm going to murder her."

"As long as you don't kill me," Draco said absently.

"You're next on my list," Potter informed him.

"Ah, look!" Draco said brightly. "We're here!"

"Thank god," Potter said fervently, and raced to the door without bothering to look in the windows first. Draco was grateful. This, certainly, wasn't the sort of place Potter would usually come.

Draco followed Potter inside, to find that he had stopped short with his back pressed against the door. A young-looking witch in deep purple robes glared at them, wrinkling her nose at the state of their clothes.

"We'll take a table for two, please," Draco said serenely, as Potter tried to make eye-contact with the floor.

"I'm sorry, sirs," she said, not sounding at all apologetic. "But we have a strict dress-robes only possibility. Our patrons deserve only the best, after all."

"Let's just go, Malfoy," Potter whispered. "She's right; we shouldn't be here."

Looking around, Draco could see why he might think that. This was, without a doubt, one of the most opulent restaurants in all of Britain; and certainly in Hogsmeade. The floors were pure white marble with gold inlaid around them. The ceiling, similar to that of the Great Hall, had been bewitched to look like the sky; but rather than reflecting the real sky it continuously showed a velvety moonlit night. The handle on the glass door looked to Draco like dragon bone.

It was a bit gaudy for Draco's taste, actually.

But he knew better than Potter, after all. They belonged here as much as anyone, even if this witch didn't seem to think so.

"I'd like to speak to the manager," Draco said icily, glaring.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir," the witch replied with just as much venom. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"We aren't leaving until we speak to the manager!" Draco said loudly, grabbing Potter's hand to stop him from fleeing. "So you might as well get him now."

Red with fury, the witch turned and tottered away, unstable on her high heels. As soon as she was gone, Potter sighed with relief. "This is ridiculous, Malfoy," he hissed lowly. "We should leave now, before the manager gets in here."

"Shut up, you stupid prat," Draco said, annoyed. "I know what I'm doing."

Potter looked up for almost the first time since they'd entered to glare at Draco. "Just because your father--" he began hotly. But he stopped abruptly as the purple-robed witch returned whispered frantically at the elegant black witch who accompanied her.

"Hello, Mrs. Zabini," Draco said in his most charming voice. "How lovely to see you."

The frown that had been on the witch's face softened slightly. "Hello, Draco," she said. "It's been so long since we've seen you; Blaise so wanted you to come home with him for Christmas."

Draco sighed. "I wanted to, Mrs. Zabini, believe me. But...family duties, you know..."

Potter watched them, aghast, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"And who is this friend with you?" Mrs. Zabini, asked, her eyes traveling the length of Potter's body--clearly, she didn't recognize him with all the soot.

"Harry Potter," Draco said innocently. "And--there seems to have been a misunderstanding--we'd like a table."

Mrs. Zabini nodded slowly, sparing only a raised eyebrow for Potter. "Very well," she said, as the witch behind her opened her eyes wide with horror.

"A private room, please," Draco said firmly.

Mrs. Zabini looked taken aback, for a moment. "Very well, Draco," she said. "Goodness knows I wouldn't want to disappoint you."

Potter looked vaguely sick to his stomach.

Mrs. Zabini took his arm and began guiding him through the restaurant. There were never many people there; and since it was so late, it was almost deserted. She tapped her wand twice on the wall just below the ceiling, and a door materialized.

"Here you are, Draco...Mr. Potter," she said. Another flick of her wand, and menus materialized. "Just say my name when you're ready to order, and I'll be right in."

As soon as she was gone, Draco and Potter took their seats at the wide table in the middle of the room. The walls in here, unlike in the rest of the restaurant, were pure white, with only a few candles to illuminate them.

"Malfoy," Potter said, after a few moments of examining the menus in silence. "I can't afford this place. I didn't bring enough money."

"Don't worry, Potter," Malfoy said lazily. "I can handle it."

"I don't want you paying for my meal!"

"Oh, I'm not," Draco said mysteriously. "Order whatever you want, Potter. It'll be fine."

Looking unconvinced, Potter continued to examine the menu.

"I used to come here all the time with my parents when I was younger," Draco reminisced. "That's how I met Blaise."

"Zabini? Hey he's in the--I mean, I've met him before."

"Well, I should hope so," Draco said severely. "He's been in your classes for five years. Anyway. His mother and her fourth husband opened this place up together. Well, there wasn't much for a four-year-old to do at a restaurant like this, and she and my mother are good friends, so they brought me here to entertain him."

"And did you?"

"I poked him with my father's wand," Draco said. "He turned green and grew radishes out of his ears. Well," he said, in answer to Potter's scandalized look. "I was certainly entertained."

Potter chuckled, and Draco grinned at him. "We always got this room, too," he said. "It's amazing. Try it. Say the name of a place. Any place."

Potter looked skeptical. "Er...Privet Drive," he said.

There was a flash of light, and suddenly Draco and Potter found themselves sitting in the middle of a ridiculously neat Muggle home, with strange, unmoving photographs and what looked to Draco like tiny people in odd metal cages.

"How'd we get here?" Potter asked, astonished.

"We didn't go anywhere," Draco scoffed. "Just the walls and the floor and the ceiling changed. Here...look at this--Stonehenge!"

Instantly, the house around them vanished, and they were in the middle of a bright, grassy field, with millennia old stones stacked around them and sunlight warming their shoulders.

Potter's mouth gaped open. "This is...amazing," he croaked. "My god, Malfoy."

Draco smirked, pleased with himself. After this, Potter would never be satisfied with the dirty old Three Broomsticks ever again.

"Why don't you pick a place," Draco suggested. "Like I said, I've been here before; you haven't. It's your turn."

Potter looked quite overcome by the possibilities. He looked around him carefully, a star-struck look in his eyes. "How about--the moon?" he said, and, as easily as that, and they were there.

Draco whistled, impressed in spite of himself. The Earth was rising over the horizon, and the other half of the sky sparkled with stars. "Good choice, Potter," he breathed.

Potter smiled back at him across the table. Draco saw moon dust and starlight twinkling in his eyes.

"Here," he said. "Let's order."

When Mrs. Zabini came in, he didn't even give Potter a chance to speak. He ordered for both of them, instead. "We'll both have the salmon," he said. "And we'd like a bottle of elf-made wine, if it's all the same to you."

Mrs. Zabini's eyes glittered with the prospect of such expensive customers as she swept greedily out of the room.

Potter kicked him under the table as she left. "Malfoy!" he hissed. "We're underage!"

Draco laughed. "Since when are you one for following the rules, Potter?"

Potter blushed furiously. "I'm not, Malfoy," he seethed. "But--"

"I told you," Draco said firmly. "She's good friends with my mother. She won't turn us in. I think you'll like this wine, anyway."

And anyway, Draco would certainly enjoy watching Potter drink it. The effect that a few sips of mild firewhiskey had had on him was hard to forget--as was the information he had let slip under its effects.

"Unless you don't want to," Draco said blandly.

Potter glared. "Of course I want to, Malfoy. You're on."

The wine, incidentally, was better than Draco remembered it being--he'd only had a few sips, several years ago, at a party of his mother's, but he remembered grimacing and spitting it out (to the great amusement of Mother's friends).

It was stronger than he remembered, too. That was the only explanation for the way Potter's eyes seemed to glitter, and that his hair looked good, even if it was falling all over the place, or that Draco wanted to make him smile just so he could see it, Merlin help him.

"This stuff is really doog. Good," Potter slurred happily a few minutes later. "I really--I like this stuff, and Hermione was wrong."

"And was I right?"

"Course...course you were," Potter said, smiling happily.

No wonder underage drinking was prohibited. Potter smiling like that could get anyone into a lot of trouble.

Mrs. Zabini frowned at them as she escorted their salmon to the table. "Are you sure you haven't had quite enough, Draco?"

Yes, he was sure.

They ate their salmon in relative silence. Well, Draco ate. Potter, at most, took two bites before dropping his fork and gazing around the room.

"Well, look at this place," he marveled. "Will you look at this place!"

Draco looked, and stared, and after a while he found it quite hard to keep eating, too. And why would he want to--there was so much else to occupy his senses, after all.

Maybe the wine had been a bad idea.

Potter had a bit of wine staining his upper lip, and Draco stared at it intensely. It was bothering him. Someone should wipe it off. Potter should--his lips were wet, and he wasn't doing anything about it!

"What's wrong?" Potter sounded very worried in the way that only an underage and intoxicated wizard could manage. "Your eyes are twitching."

"Indeed they are," said Draco. "Funny thing, eyes."

Potter studied him carefully. "I like them," he said. "Your eyes, I mean."

He would have blushed if anyone had said it. Yes. It wasn't just Potter.

Draco turned his attention back to his meal. It was much safer, after all.

The rest of the meal passed with out incident. Only after they had finished their food did Potter remember to be concerned about paying for it.

"I don't want to go to Azkaban," he whimpered pitifully, tears glistening in his eyes. "Iss--ist--it's really there bad."

Draco patted his hand sympathetically, and the world spun around him. "Don' worry, Potto. Potter. We--okay."

Hmm. Maybe the elf-wine was a bad idea. Draco, for the first time, wished he had a conscience.

"Mrs. Bazini!" he yelled. "Mrs. Nabizi!"

She rushed in, and looked quite startled at the sight of them. "Would you like an escort back to the castle?" she asked.

Draco waved his hand wildly, and knocked Potter's empty wineglass to the floor, where it cracked. "No, ma'am," he said.

"Very well," she said. "Here is your bill."

Draco put it up to his nose and examined it with wide eyes. "Only the thing is, Mrs. Zabini," he said, in the most diplomatic voice he could manage. "The thing is, I don't have my bag money. My boney mag."

Her eyes narrowed in exasperation. "Well, how are you planning to pay, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, her demeanor growing colder by the second.

"Well," Draco said. "I actually wasn't. Actually."

She stared at the pair of them, expressionless, and pulled the bill from his hands, tearing it down the center. "Very well," she said icily, grabbing the backs of both of their collars and escorting them through the restaurant. "Then I suppose it's time for you to leave."

Draco waved happily at the purple-robed witch. "G'bye!"

"Next time you come," Mrs. Zabini said, as she shut the door behind them. "Please bring your parents."

It was colder outside than it had been when they'd come in. It was darker, too; Draco saw the moon over the horizon, and Hogwarts castle in the distance was only a distant, looming shape. Potter shivered beside him as they set off down the long path back to the school.

"Wish we could apparate," Draco grumbled.

"Can't," Potter insisted. "Her-hermown says. Not in the castle."

Draco shrugged. "Still."

Potter stopped stock-still. "Wanna thank you," he said clumsily. "Nice meal."

Draco shrugged. "Was nuthin', Potter." He turned and began walking even faster--it was cold just standing there in this weather.

Potter grabbed his shoulder to stop him from going. "No!" he said. "I mean I want to thank you," he said insistently. He touched Draco's cheek a little, which certainly couldn't be right. But cold and confused as he was, Draco found he didn't mind so much. "I mean," Potter said, clearly grasping at straws, and then he stumbled forward and his lips landed on Draco's.

Which, normally, Draco would have hated. And he did hate it; that was the thing. And still his eyes were closing and his hands were somehow on Potter's shoulders and--

Potter pulled away, a look of pure horror on his face (which seemed to have cleared up quite a bit). "Oh, my god," he whimpered, and staggered off into the night; leaving Draco quite cold and alone in the middle of the street.