It Must've Been the Coffee

It Must’ve Been the Coffee

Harry didn’t know how it happened. He only knew that when he looked up from his coffee mug one beautiful spring morning, he saw Draco Malfoy and promptly thought he was sexy.

Within the short span of a moment, he came to a few conclusions.

So he was drugged. Dobby or some other idiotic house-elf had slipped some hallucinogens into his coffee. Whether it had been accidentally or on purpose, he didn’t know; but if it was the latter, someone had certainly ordered the elves to do it, considering their obvious inability to think for themselves. Had it been Voldemort, who surely might’ve added other things, say bottled Imperio or instant killing poison? Of course it could have been the Queen, or Tony Blair, or even -- he cringed -- George Bush. What they had to do with him was yet to be discovered.

Eventually the short span of a moment passed, and after those thoughts racing through his mind, Harry suddenly felt helpless. He glanced at the Slytherin table just to check if Malfoy was still there, which of course he was. Harry began to reflect on the beauty of silver-blond hair under the light of a bewitched ceiling sky.

He pinched his arm -- hard -- under the table, and wished he could do worse.

Harry was doomed.

~*~

He was confident, as he sat down to breakfast the next day, that all effects of yesterday’s coffee (or whatever it was) had gone. He was feeling healthy, happy, and himself again. He smiled cheerily at Hermione when she flopped down beside him. He smiled as Ron yawned into his glass. He smiled when Seamus came along, rubbing his eyes, a scowl on his face.

He smiled when Draco Malfoy entered the room.

Whereupon he banged his head loudly on the tabletop, ignoring the inquisitive stares of his fellow Gryffindors.

And he hadn’t even had coffee yet.

~*~

He skipped lunch.

And he was really hungry, too -- but he decided it would be better for him to starve than fall further into George Bush’s scheme. He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on in the Muggle world. Last he heard, Bush was going out with small and terrible Philippine president Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, and they were honeymooning all over Asia whilst Bush’s wife Laura was out reconnoitering in Iraq. But then he might have gotten these facts wrong, as this was the wizarding world.

Right, then. So he was suffering from some form of hormonal imbalance. So he was beginning to notice Malfoy. So there was a big political Muggle conspiracy against him. What was he to do?

He stayed in the common room and sulked, trying not to think of anything stormy gray. Especially Malfoy’s eyes.

No, really.

~*~

Hermione perceived, the moment she entered the room, that he had a problem. At least that was what he thought initially, but he discovered when she started speaking that it was not his current gloomy stance that had given him away. It was simply the fact that he’d missed--

“Chicken teriyaki! Harry, how could you? What’s wrong?”

She sat on a chair beside him, switching to psychiatrist mode. She did that sometimes. Her parents had shrink frends, he knew.

“Absolutely nothing,” he replied as calmly and insouciantly as possible. He didn’t care much for chicken teriyaki right now, to tell the truth. Not when the world’s economic and military superpower was out to get him.

“Harry,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward, “You obviously have a problem. Just tell me about it - it’ll make you feel better. Either that, or wait for me to get Ron to bug you about it.”

Now we wouldn’t want that, would we?

“Um. That’ll be unnecessary. I just don’t have the appetite right now. That’s all.”

“Right.” She stood jovially, that therapist smile still on her lips. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”

Before she left (and as quickly as she’d arrived, one might suspiciously add), she wiggled her eyebrows twice in a way that was very, very reminiscent of when Malfoy used to catch his eye before making extraordinary trouble.

To clear his thoughts, he shook his head. Shook it until it hurt.

When he desisted, two Hermiones, oddly blurred together, stared down at him with a mixture of awe and worry.

“I’m fine, Hermiones. I mean, er, yes, I’m okay.”

“Uh-huh.”

He had a fleeting desire to tell her all about it, so he stood and ran up to his dorm to stop himself. He lay down on his bed and planned to spend the time left before class coming up with ideas on how to get himself out of this.

Spent said time thinking about Malfoy in tight bright Gryffindor-colored boxers.

Doomed, doomed, doomed.

~*~

Potions that day was a disaster.

Malfoy had feminine hands: his fingers were pale and delicate. Harry forgot to chop his shrivelfig root when he saw Malfoy chopping his own. Snape, noticing Harry’s seemingly empty stare, punished him with a hefty point deduction for daydreaming, and humiliation before the entire class. Worse yet, Malfoy smirked at him with his teeth -- his teeth! -- showing, at which point Harry swallowed and hastily turned away.

That was when he realized that Malfoy never smirked with his teeth showing.

He glimpsed Malfoy from the corner of his eye, and panicked when he panicked just because Malfoy was talking to Crabbe with their faces not very far apart.

He desultorily minced his root into a thousand bits as he tried to convince himself that three-point-five inches was far enough. Unfortunately, Snape walked by once again and scolded him for his disappointing work.

Later, when he looked up and Malfoy was smirking at him again, his teeth a tantalizing glint under the weak light, he spilled murtlap essence all over his robes.

“WHAT is wrong with you today, Potter?!” Snape yelled from across the room. Harry’s last thought before Snape’s boring, repetitive, disparaging soliloquy?

Malfoy’s teeth were. very. very. nice.

~*~

“Er,” Harry announced to Hermione before bed. Ron was out with Pansy Parkinson doing Merlin knew what, and he identified this as the appropriate time to bring it up.

“Yes?”

Oh God, therapist mode.

“Er,” he repeated.

“Yes?!”

“I think -- I may be -- well, I don’t know if -- it’s probably just a phase -- but I think you should know...”

“Know what, exactly?” she pressed gently.

“I... fine. I think I like Malfoy.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“Well?”

“...”

“You can say something now.”

“...”

“Please?”

“...”

“DON’T YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY?!”

“Harry, calm down!” She waited for the curious glances to go away before resuming, “In dealing with all kinds of problems, it is imperative for you to avoid tension so as to focus on eliminating the source.”

“Eliminate the--? You want me to kill Malfoy?”

The condescending smile-snort she then released was meant, obviously, to make him feel stupid. “It’s not Malfoy -- I mean, there must have been some catalyst, something that triggered this reaction.”

“Well there was yesterday’s coffee--”

“No.”

“It started when I--”

“Love potions are illegal--”

“I drank the coffee and when I looked up--”

“--and they don’t work--”

“Yes they do!”

“No!”

“Yes--”

“No--”

“EXPLAIN THIS, THEN!”

She was silent.

“It couldn’t have been the coffee,” she repeated, though she looked much more doubtful now. “Have you asked Dobby?”

“Er, not yet, but I will.”

“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She stood and exited the common room. He was quite sure she was off to the library to research on love potions.

Harry sighed; then, to keep his mind off things, he did his homework.

~*~

They had Quidditch practice that afternoon, and the moment he arrived at the pitch, Ron tackled him to the ground. They rolled, a flurry of brooms and robes, until Ron was on top and Harry, his legs caught between his Firebolt and Ron’s thighs, couldn’t move.

“What’re you doing?” Harry was nonplussed.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean? You were the one who--”

“What are you doing, falling in love with Malfoy?”

“Falling in love?! I am not in love! It’s just infatuation--”

“Ha, so you’re admitting you like him...!”

“I don’t! Infatuation is clearly different from like. Now, get off me, please?”

“But! Why him, of all people? There’re better ones out there, for Merlin’s sake -- like Justin Finch-Fletchley, for instance.” And here Ron eyes glazed over, recalling some memory that Harry could only imagine. He waited until it was clear that Ron had nothing else to say.

“Not everyone likes Justin Finch-Fletchley, you know.”

“Uh?”

“I said--”

“Yeah, I heard.” Ron sounded somewhat distracted.

“Ron.”

“Yes?”

“My legs are asleep.”

“Oh.”

Ron stood, brushing the dust from his robes. As Harry did the same, he checked to see if his broomstick (not that broomstick) was still intact which, thankfully, it was.

Wincing from the pins and needles now assailing his legs, he asked, “How’d you find out, anyway? About Malfoy?”

“Hermione told me,” Ron confessed. “She said she couldn’t help you because you were, well, agitated was the way she put it. So she told me to calm you down and get you to talk.”

Some calm you were, Harry muttered under his breath as they walked to where the team was gathered. Ginny raised an eyebrow at their state of rumple. Before she opened her mouth, Harry realized she might be thinking they’d snogged.

“It’s not what you think,” he said hastily.

Ginny’s Look was curious and accusing. “I wasn’t thinking anything, actually, but now that you mention it...” She smiled very slowly before returning to the team discussion.

Ron stared at her, horrified.

~*~

After dinner, in the common room, Harry was devising a plan to murder Hermione in three easy steps once she came back from the library, when Neville arrived out of nowhere and plopped down on the seat beside him. Annoyed by the interruption, Harry faced him and greeted sharply, “What.”

To his great surprise, Neville smiled. “Hi, Harry.”

He had to blink twice before he could reply. “Er, Nev. Did you happen to drink any coffee this morning?”

“I only drink milk -- but anyway, no need to keep secrets, Harry. I know.”

“Know? About what?” Harry had a feeling that he understood exactly what, but he gave wishful thinking a chance.

“About Malfoy, of course.”

He wanted to give either Neville or himself a strong bop on the head, but perhaps by a subconscious instinct Hermione had introduced to him through hypnosis, he remained calm.

As calm as he could be, anyway.

“THERE’S NOTHING BETWEEN ME AND MALFOY!!”

“Of course not; haven’t you ever heard of unrequited love?”

The ides of Neville Longbottom teaching him the concepts and principles of schoolboy crushes should have been the most hilarious thing Hogwarts had ever seen. The problem was that Neville was dead serious -- and so was this infatuation.

...

Did Harry just admit he had a serious infatuation with Malfoy?

...

Nah, couldn’t have.

“The thing is, Harry, this could get dangerous. Falling in unrequited love with the enemy will forever ostracize you from Gryffindor’s honorable ranks.”

“And?”

“And so you have to get him to like you back. It’s that simple.” Neville grinned.

Harry wanted to punch his oversized front teeth.

“Neville. I respect you and all,” Harry was restraining himself as much as he could, “but I have to solve my own, er, problems.”

Neville was thoughtful for one long moment: poor boy must’ve been squeezing what brain power he had to understand exactly what Harry wanted to say. Then he looked back at Harry and replied, “All right, then. But if you need anything, I’ll be right here, right?”

“Right.”

When Neville stood and turned toward the portrait hole, Harry saw a sneaky grin. He thus prayed to whatever divinity there was for Neville not to matchmake him with Malfoy.

But then, he thought, that wouldn’t be too bad.

He smacked himself.

~*~

“Harry,” Ginny whispered over his goblet of orange juice -- not coffee -- the following morning. “Don’t look now, but Malfoy’s looking at you. And I mean, looking.”

Harry’s head shot up, focusing immediately at Malfoy’s usual place at the Slytherin table. Indeed, Malfoy was looking, but a nanosecond later, he had averted his eyes.

“Oh my god,” Harry groaned, the painful realization washing over him like a Petrificus Totalus. “He knows...”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Harry. No one knows--”

“Except you, and Hermione, and Ron, and Nev, and--”

“That’s it.”

“Are you sure?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m sure.”

A half-asleep Seamus Finnigan came along and interrupted: “Hey, Malfoy was looking at you just that moment ago -- and I mean, looking. Did you notice?”

Harry glared at him so hard that Seamus flinched and went off to his seat.

Boy, Harry thought, if this is a parody, it’s very badly written.

~*~

Dinner came and went.

Dean Thomas had just approached Harry, who knew what he was going to bring up because they just about never approached each other, when Draco Malfoy sauntered down the corridor and greeted, “Potter, can I speak with you a moment?”

Harry’s eyes widened -- visibly -- and he gulped. “Er. Eh, Uh. Okay.” Malfoy’s lips twitched a bit, and Harry was expecting a smirk, but that was as far as it went. Dean looked at Malfoy, Malfoy frowned at Dean, Dean walked slowly away as if expecting a Muggle explosion. Harry had heard of Iraqi bombings, and they were quite fearsome.

Not wanting to look at Malfoy, he watched Dean go until he was out of sight. There were bass drums booming in Harry’s chest. Great great great. Malfoy knew. He was uncertain, though, whether Malfoy had been part of the original plot, because Malfoy associating with Muggles -- even those with top spots in the hierarchy -- was too strange a thought. He kept his eyes on his shoes as he started speaking.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Just something... possibly important.” Malfoy, he could see from the corner of his eye, was playing with his hands. And he was using ellipses in his sentences.

Harry hoped that by some miraculous miracle (had it been a Muggle religion, or the CIA’s attempt at memory modification?), Malfoy didn’t know and wasn’t just thinking of an especially evil way to break it to him.

“I’ve been noticing you lately...”

NOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooo.................

“Malfoy, whatever you’ve noticed, it’s not real, all right? It’s just... a figment of your overactive imagination. There is completely nothing going on between us, you understand? Yes? Good.”

He walked away, brisk steps echoing down the hall, and he felt very proud of himself -- until he realized that denial probably wasn’t the best way out.

Damn.

~*~

Malfoy didn’t seem to know whether to scowl or smirk at breakfast, so he met Harry’s eyes and did what was apparently something in between. Then he turned to Pansy, deliberately ignoring Harry for the rest of the meal.

Not that he noticed, of course.

And not that he cared.

He stood up angrily (with himself, with Malfoy, or with the Muggles -- he wasn’t sure), causing his chair to topple over. “Screw denial,” he muttered, oblivious of the Gryffindors’ gawking. “This isn’t funny anymore. Time to do something about it.”

And with that, he grabbed Hermione’s arm and lugged her away.

No one -- especially the Slytherin table -- could possibly have known that they were headed for the library. So, after a few Ravenclaws gave him and Malfoy their best wishes (at which Hermione had to restrain him from committing any violent actions), Harry saw Malfoy and was genuinely surprised. It was almost as if Malfoy had followed them, just to annoy him.

“Hermione!” he hissed. “Quick, before he sees--”

“Potter,” Malfoy interrupted, no smile nor smirk on those pretty pink lips. In fact, he looked kind of pale...

Harry slapped his forehead. Malfoy always looked pale.

“You all right?” the blonde asked immediately, staring at Harry’s temple. It was throbbing, but Harry wasn’t really concerned.

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to say for a fact that I--”

“I don’t like you, Malfoy. So forget it.”

“Right.” Malfoy sneered, his eyes revealing that he didn’t want to believe it. Hmph, Harry thought. Let him, then. With one last smug toss of his chin, Malfoy disappeared.

“Well, that went well,” Hermione said accusingly.

“Wha--? You mean you expected me to really kill him?”

She rolled her eyes. “Neville told you to get him to return your love, didn’t he? Obviously, you weren’t paying attention.”

“But--! Neville is Neville, you can’t expect me to--”

“I see. How do you feel about that?”

“How do I--? Hermione. I’m. Not. Planning. To. Do. Anything. About. It.”

She frowned, took on a very sympathetic expression, and sighed. “Oh, Harry. Don’t tell me you’re going to allow Malfoy to get the best of you without you getting anything in return. You’re better than that. And you deserve so much more than for your love to never be requited. It’s better to love and lose than never to love at all.”

“And how about never getting him so I can ‘love’ but have nothing to lose in the first place?”

“Uh... what?”

“Never mind. C’mon, let’s go upstairs.” Harry had forgotten what he’d initially gone to the library for. Hermione, with one last lingering look at the Ancient Runes section, followed.

“Look. We only want what’s best for you, Harry. And we know you’ll be happy if you and Malfoy -- well, not that we like him, mind you, but everyone should be given a chance, and... oh, I should tell you the truth.”

“What is it?”

“It’s that -- fine. It’s that you’ve been acting very strange lately and we just want to do what we can to make you Harry again. And if that’s going to take you getting with Malfoy...”

“But you’re too smart, and Neville isn’t the right person to follow, and Ginny just likes setting people up for no reason, and Seamus and Dean are probably making fun of me, and the Ravenclaws don’t know a thing, and Ron’s mad at me--”

“He’s not mad anymore. We, er, had a discussion.”

“With the whole House?” asked Harry, half-joking.

“Just the sixth years. And Ginny. And Colin. And Dennis too, I think. And a few more fourth years. And--”

“I see. I mean, right.” By now they had reached the Fat Lady. Harry spat out the password, wanting to yell and maybe cry, but when the enrance opened, he opted for the former.

“WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU BASTARDS!!”

“Harry!”

“I can use whatever the hell words I want! No one understands! I am a lonely, ignored, miserable teenager who’s just suffering from the effects of a hormonal imbalance! It’s just an effing crush! I don’t have to do anything about it!”

Everyone was staring at him, silence thickening the air.

And then someone said, “Yes you do.”

Everyone stood still with baited breaths.

Harry turned, slowly, slowly, to Lavender, who was smiling sheepishly.

“And why so?” he demanded.

“Because, Harry,” Parvati answered for her, “We’ve already prepared it.”

He was seriously befuddled. “Prepared what?”

“The Dinner...!” Lavender squealed.

“The... dinner?”

“The Dinner!”

“Dinner later? Wha--?”

“Dinner tomorrow night.” Ron stood, going over to him with a pleading half-smile. “You’re going to invite Malfoy for a late, after-hours dinner in the Great Hall. Just the two of you. It’s going to be great, if you only -- Harry? ... Harry?!”

The Gryffindors went into a collective panic attack.

Harry had fainted.

~*~

“It’s the communal anxiety syndrome,” Madam Pomfrey explained two hours later, when she had finally allowed them to enter the Hospital Wing and visit Harry. The entirety of the sixth form Gryffindors, as well as some others, was gathered round Harry’s bed. Pomfrey looked at them and frowned. “It’s when a wizard gets too stressed by all the people around him that his system can no longer take it. He’ll be awake in a few minutes, but he’ll have to go to sleep again. He needs his rest. But tell me -- what caused this, precisely?”

“Uh. He just. We were matchmaking him with Ma--”

“Mandy Brocklehurst,” Hermione interrupted Ron with a surreptitious pinch on his arm. “He doesn’t like Mandy very much, is all.”

“All right. I suppose you’ve learned your lesson, then, all of you?” The head nurse sternly lifted her chin and turned to go back to her office. “Call me when he wakes. And don’t agitate him,” she called as she went.

“Well, you heard her,” Ron said somberly. He looked down at Harry and remembered all the times they had shared, from when he and Harry were but young lads waiting to go out and see the world, about to embark on a journey together. He thought of the moments he’d seen Harry happy and brilliant and alive, his eyes sparkling like the emeralds they were, his youth emanating from within him like a glow that would never be extinguished. He recalled every instance that Harry said his name like it meant the world to him, like he was the best best friend he could ever--

“Rooonnn,” Harry groaned.

Ron’s eyes widened, and he hid behind Hermione.

“Roooonnn. Come. Here.”

Hermione nodded, though she looked a bit worried, and stepped aside. Ron reluctantly went forward.

Once he was in arm’s reach, Harry grabbed the front of his shirt.

“Explain the dinner in three sentences or less,” he growled. Apparently, he was no longer sick. In fact, Ron thought, trying to pull himself away, he was strong for someone who’d fainted. Too strong.

“It was their idea, Harry, I swear. Everything is set. The only thing you have to do is ask Malfoy.”

Harry glowered before declaring, “I have an announcement to make.”

He let go of Ron’s shirt. All who were gathered stepped back in what appeared to be a sign of respect as Harry sat up on the bed. He looked from one to another as if to survey the prudence of what he was about to do. No one knew that he was only trying to establish a dramatic effect.

He sighed. “I will now tell you what I’ve been needing to tell you for the past days.”

There was a formidable silence, and then he explained everything, from current Muggle events to the house-elves’ stupidity, and what they had to do with him. They listened with utmost gravity as he enumerated his assumptions in detail, and he was glad that they had finally mustered enough sense to stop thinking about he and Malfoy’s ‘budding’ ‘relationship’ for once.

After his lengthy talk, Ginny, who took Muggle Studies, suggested, “How about Saddam Hussein? Maybe he thought he could use you to hide himself, or something...?”

“Hussein was captured yesterday near a Muggle farmhouse, and before that, he’d been too busy hiding to come up with and plans anyway. So he’s out of the question,” Ron said.

They all stared at him.

He shrugged, face visibly heating up. “Justin told me.”

And that was how all ideas of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy disappeared; everyone now focused on how Ron and Justin had begun speaking and maybe even got together, while having fooled everyone that all along Ron was with...

“It wasn’t really Pansy,” he admitted. “Ehehe... it hasn’t been her since weeks ago.”

“They didn’t know that, Weasley? Why, even I knew.” Malfoy strolled self-righteously toward them, and despite the unwelcoming faces of some, the crowd parted like the Red Sea to let Malfoy near Harry’s bed. In a split second, Ron and Justin were forgotten.

Harry wasn’t worried, oh no. He had a throng of his friends right here and Malfoy had no one, not even those minions of his, with him. Strange, Harry thought: they weren’t with him either when he advanced Harry to make fun of him that time he was with Dean, and when he and Hermione were at the library. Perhaps Crabbe and Goyle were now too stupid to know how to follow Malfoy. Hmm.

“What are you doing here?” said Harry lightly. He couldn’t risk getting unconscious again.

“May I have a word?” Malfoy replied with equivalent calmness.

Harry squinted his eyes ever so slightly in suspicion. Then he remembered that Malfoy was outnumbered if ever a fight arose, and nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Alone?”

Now that he thought about it, the Hospital Wing was one of the safest places in the school, what with Madam Pomfrey never leaving it. Still, that didn’t mean he was willing to speak with Malfoy alone. After all, fainting hadn’t knocked that problem out; in fact, he was feeling a bit queasy on a hospital bed with Malfoy eyeing him like that, like he was about to eat him or something. At least he wasn’t in one of those ugly white gowns Pomfrey sometimes made the students wear.

He was just about to ask Malfoy what was important enough to merit a private conversation, when he noticed that everyone had gone.

He was all alone.

With Malfoy.

He swallowed so abruptly that he nearly choked.

“What are you doing here?” Harry repeated, voice almost breaking. Malfoy was moving closer, closer, his face unreadable. Harry knew there was no harm he could do -- everyone, after all, knew about this thing with Malfoy, which made Harry free from possible further humiliation -- but he was scared anyway. Scared as hell and nervous, of all things, as if he were about to seduce Malfoy or something like that, which he wasn’t. No way.

Malfoy pulled over a chair and stretched himself out on it. “Just wanted to pay you a visit,” he replied. His pointed chin was turned up, making him look like some form of veela or another. Harry sat up straighter.

“Well, you can go now. I need my rest.”

“Really?”

“Really, what?”

“Do you really want me to go?”

Harry’s lips parted in confusion; he tried to gauge Malfoy’s expression to see what he meant, but he found no answers. What was Malfoy expecting him to say? What did Malfoy want him to say? He didn’t know how not to say it when he didn’t even know what it was. Honestly, blondes were so difficult sometimes.

So he glared at Malfoy’s lips and wished the boy would come close enough to kiss him. Or for him to kiss -- either way would be fine.

“Damn it.” Harry slammed his fist against his pillow and looked away.

“Going insane, Potter?”

“No. Actually, Malfoy, I’m just really confused right now. So if you’ll be kind enough to humor me..................”

“What is it?”

“Hadinrwimeetmorow.”

“Eh?” The veela, it seemed, was too bemused to be mean. No insult against Harry’s hasty incoherence. Ha! Harry’d have to make fun of him for that someday. After disgracing himself now, that is, which was to happen in approximately five point thirty-two seconds. He didn’t know what he was doing. Muggle dictators were speaking through his mouth.

He took a deep breath. “Havedinnerwithmetomorrow.”

“I have dinner with you every day, Pothead.” The veela’s silvery hair glinted in the dim light of the room; his lips were caught in between a leer and a sneer. Amusement and ridicule.

Harry mustered enough gall for a rejoinder: “I meant after the general dinner, you dimwitted dunce of a Slytherin!”

“You mean, with you and you only?”

“What do you think?!”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Silence.

Harry stared at Malfoy’s cream-colored shoulder. Not that he could see it, but he certainly knew it couldn’t be any way besides smooth and pure and silky and yes, cream-colored -- and frowned, not quite knowing what to feel. Whether Malfoy or he himself was really serious, he didn’t know.

“What time do I have to be there?”

“I’ll have to... uh... ask the house-elves. When they’ll have the food ready, and all.”

“Ask for chicken teriyaki,” Malfoy suggested, eyes lighting up.

“You like chicken teriyaki too?!” Harry was incredulous and amazed. Slytherins couldn’t like chicken teriyaki...

“Er... yes... but made only from high class chicken.” The veela lifted his chin defensively.

“I’ll tell them, then.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

Harry hated that it was getting increasingly difficult to remain angry with Malfoy. It used to be so easy, but now that Malfoy was being semi-civil, so was he, and the urge to be distant and defiant had crumbled like a weak roof. Why, if he didn’t know better, Harry’d say they were starting to... well...

“You can go now,” he said, deliberately chasing the thoughts from his mind. “I’ll owl you the time you have to be at the Great Hall.”

“Right. See you, then.” He stood, and off he went, posterior wiggling slightly. As if he were trying to turn Harry on. Ha! Harry Potter turned on by his worstest enemy? Ha! No, no way was that going to happen, and definitely not with one lousy wiggle, even if he knew Malfoy’s arse would be as baby-smooth as his shoulder, but fuller, plumper, with flesh to press and to pinch and to sink into--

“Oh shite,” he muttered the moment he looked down at himself.

The same moment the Gryffindors decided to return.

All asking the same question.

He lay on his side (to hide how much he liked Malfoy -- urgh) and yawned (for them to take the hint and leave). He told them Malfoy would come, and there’d better be chicken teriyaki. He refused to say anything else, but everyone was loudly rejoicing anyway, so it wasn’t as if he had a chance.

And then Hermione yelled, “Wait a second. We have a problem.”

All turned to look at her, worry entering their faces. Harry felt a surge of triumph: so they hadn’t thought of everything after all, haha, this was his dinner, and his achievement, and his Malfoy...

“The thing is,” Hermione said slowly, “what’s Harry going to wear...?”

They went berserk.

~*~

Later, when Madam Pomfrey had shooed them all away because of the noise, Harry wondered what he had gotten himself into.

He slept. In his dream, Malfoy was stripping off his Quidditch robes and then he was taking a shower. And then he was beckoning Harry closer, with a smile-smirk on his face, a hand sliding down his crotch.

In his dream, Harry guessed it wasn’t so bad after all.

~*~

Which he did not feel when he awoke.

It was just before dinner. Pomfrey told him he was free to go, and he did, but he went straight up to the dorm and didn’t go down the rest of the night. Ron told him after dinner that Malfoy’s eyes had kept straying to the Gryffindor table just to see him, at which Harry remembered that he was waiting for an owl of the time. Ron said seven-thirty, which Harry wrote down on a square of parchment. He owled it before he could add anything like ‘You’d better not be late, you git, or I’ll be asking the elves to spit in your chicken!’ or ‘Looking forward to it. Bring lube.’

His head ached and his heart drummed like there was no tomorrow (which, regrettably, there was) as he tried to sleep again that night. He cursed all the Muggle government leaders in the world and what they’d caused. He would be humiliated; Malfoy would laugh and laugh at his expense; everyone at school would know. It was wondrous what Muggles could do.

He hoped for the best.

~*~

It was a half hour before The Dinner and Harry was in the middle of a heated argument with Ron about a silky sleeveless black shirt. Justin Finch-Fletchley’s silky sleeveless black shirt, to be specific, and Harry did not want to wear it for more reasons than one. His skinny arms, however, were his primary argument -- and something along the lines of ‘I don’t know where that’s been.’

Pressed for time, Ron was compelled to gather all the logical points he could and deliver them one by one: from the shirt being one of Justin’s favorites and coming from a superior Muggle store -- to Malfoy, who also had skinny arms, looking great in black. Harry resolutely refused.

Hermione entered, threatening Harry that if he didn’t wear it, she’d Omniocular him and Malfoy later, make tons of copies, and sell them to the entire school.

Harry scowled before abruptly grabbing the shirt and stomping off to change.

When he went down to the common room, the Gryffindors -- all of them, mind you, not just the sixth years -- were waiting to wish him good luck, praise his appearance, shake his hand. Which he found unnerving, because they had never shaken anybody’s hand before past romantic endeavors, not even Ron with Justin, or Fred back when he asked out whatshisname from Ravenclaw.

He managed to allow no one but Ron and Hermione to escort him down to the great Hall, where warm food (and maybe hot Draco) was awaiting him.

“I wonder,” he wondered, “if he was serious about coming, or if he agreed just so he could make fun of me. It’s not like I expect any better from him. It’s just... well... I’ve dressed up a bit and you’ve arranged the meal and all...”

“Don’t worry, I’m certain he’ll be there,” said Hermione.

“Not that I’m desperate to have dinner with him or anything,” Harry informed them hastily. “I’m not like the Muggles, after all.”

“Why Harry,” Ron remarked, “you’re beginning to talk just like him.”

“I meant Saddam Hussein and company, Weas--”

Ron raised an eyebrow.

“Never mind.” At that, Harry led them down the stairs. Bringing himself to his terrifying, inevitable fate.

At the bottom of the steps, Ron and Hermione advised him, in utmost seriousness, to be himself.

“So my plan to act like a total Muggle-hater to get him to like me is spoilt.” He stared at the Great Hall’s doors, just fifty yards away, and his heart began its loud and fast beating. The fear had arisen in his chest. He turned around suddenly. “What if I don’t want to go? What if I refuse to waste my time? Nothing would happen anyway. Malfoy and I are far too different.” He studied the two to see if they were any bit angry. They weren’t. Harry took it as a good sign.

“Come to think of it,” he continued, “Why did I even consider it in the first place? It’s never going to work. Why put my pride at stake, when I know it’s all fated to -- hey, what are you -- ?!?!”

The next thing he knew, Ron had flopped him carelessly over the shoulder, leaving him to kick at the air and pound with his fists on Ron’s back.

“!$@^$#*&@%!?! Let me go!”

“No.”

“$%*%^(@%#$^*%^?!” He struggled, but the blood had quickly rushed down to his head and he felt nauseated. He ceased when he realized it was futile.

“No.”

“But.”

“You have to learn to face your fears, Harry,” the Great Therapist said, normal and lighthearted as ever. “Your fear of humiliation, especially, will hinder you from triumph if you never deal with it. We’re only trying to help you.”

“But!” Yesterday in the Hospital Wing was so distant that he couldn’t even imagine meeting Malfoy again, speaking with him while seeing him face to face, eye to eye. No, no, no.

“Calm down, mate. You can do this.” Finally, Ron put him down, pushing him against one of the large doors and holding him there. The wood was cold against his silk-shirted back -- freezing -- and he promised himself he’d let Ron know what this felt like. Someday.

“You don’t understand,” he told them, breath coming in pants as his blood flowed back into his veins. “I like him, I know, but I really don’t. He’s a git and always will be. And since everyone -- including the friends I thought would understand -- is forcing me on him, there’s only one thing left to do.”

Because of Malfoy being a git, or his guilt of lying to himself that Malfoy would always be a git, or of him being just as much of a git as Malfoy was, or of his throbbing brain, or maybe because of his worthless, unaccomplished life, his eyes prickled with tears.

He reared his head forward and knocked it against the hard, hard door.

Everything went black.

~*~

“Ohmygod,” he muttered when Malfoy’s face blurred in and out of his vision amidst incomprehensible darkness. “I’m in hell.”

“No, you’re in purgatory,” Malfoy corrected, which made Harry realize that it wasn’t Malfoy after all, but an angel sent to help save him from his sins. Which made him realize that he’d better start praying. Which made him realize that he wasn’t even a Catholic.

Which made him realize that Malfoy had been kidding.

“No, really, I’m alive?” He attempted to sit up, because ostensibly he was supine on some flat solid surface, but as he couldn’t see his surroundings and it drove him mad, he laid his head back down.

“Of course you’re alive, Potter,” the Catholic angel said.

“But -- why doesn’t my head hurt?”

“Didn’t your mother ever teach -- I mean, I used a wand, you crass and uneducated Muggle-lover.”

“I hate George Bush,” Harry managed before the blackness came again.

~*~

“I don’t feel so good,” Harry moaned when he awoke in what was apparently less than ten minutes later, because Malfoy was in the same place and ten minutes was the longest time one could stay motionless in semi-darkness and not go crazy. Harry sat up, neck stiff and back aching, and discovered that he was on the Gryffindor table and Malfoy was seated on a chair before him. Three candles were burning far down the table, where dinner waited.

“What time is it?” he asked, looking hard at Malfoy. Despite his poor back (he was never going to sleep on a table again), his chest began to stir when it remembered that this was a date. Not to mention he was embarrassed and was on his back with Malfoy looking down at him for the second time in two days. Things were beginning to repeat themselves: the coffee must’ve lost its charm.

So his heart was beating fast all of a sudden, watching Malfoy glance at his watch and answer, “Two-thirty.”

“Two-thirty? In the morning?”

“No, Potter, in the afternoon,” came the reply, along with a sarcastic roll of eyes. Yet Harry noticed that Malfoy wouldn’t look at him directly; he kept his eyes fixed on the other side of the table. On the uneaten chicken and whatever else the house-elves had cooked.

“You didn’t eat?” Harry asked, befuddled.

“Wasn’t hungry,” Malfoy muttered.

“Oh.” As he jumped from the table onto the floor, he thought it was probably better that Malfoy didn’t want eye contact, because come to think, neither did he. Nevertheless, it also occurred to him that Malfoy should be brought to St. Mungo’s quick. The poor boy was insane, Harry was afraid: waiting for him and all, not touching the chicken teriyaki (?!), staying in that awful seat all those -- how many? -- seven hours.

Seven hours! Harry could’ve done a month’s worth of Potions essays with that time! He could’ve gotten seven Malfoys to fall in love with him and -- and --

It hit him.

Like a rock.

No, make that a boulder.

No, make that a meteor. Or an asteroid... hmm... what was the difference between them, anyway? And a comet? Could comets even hit people?

Whatever. It hit him hard.

Draco Malfoy had watched him sleep.

Time to panic.

“You pervert,” he said softly. It would be safe to say that he wasn’t in his right mind, what with all that might’ve happened during his slumber flashing in his mind like a crammed PowerPoint presentation. If he knew what PowerPoint was.

“What did you do to me? And why are you still here?”

Malfoy’s confused glare turned Harry’s insides in a bad -- and good -- way. Suddenly Malfoy pissed with him didn’t sound like a very good idea: something that would have been impossible a week ago, when Harry wouldn’t have cared.

“Why, I cure your headache and stay here to watch over you, and that’s the way you... not like you’re capable of anything more, but trust me when I say I didn’t do anything wrong. Honestly, heroes are so difficult sometimes.”

“Trust you? What reason have you ever given me to trust you?”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“Hmp. Where are Ron and Herm?”

“Gone to sleep. See, they had acumen enough to trust me and leave you here.”

“They did it on purpose! I’m going to throttle them first thing in the morning. If you’re not lying.”

“Why would I lie? You idiot.”

There was an awkward silence. Harry took advantage of it by stretching his arms and his back. Ah, much better.

“You want a massage?”

Harry stared in disbelief.

“I was kidding, Potter. You know, a joke?” Malfoy said, although he seemed a bit hurt. Not that Harry cared or anything. Malfoy looked away again, and Harry couldn’t help thinking, if only we didn’t have this wall of enmity between us; if only we could start over; if only Malfoy weren’t such a git. He thought he and Malfoy would be a good pair, if only.

This time, surprisingly, there was no voice in his head suggesting that he was turning insane. Harry didn’t want to owe it to having gone insane long ago; he was just glad he’d begun to accept the fact that he liked Malfoy. He didn’t like liking Malfoy, but at least he could deal with it now.

Enough with this psychobabble. There Malfoy was, and there was the food, and the former gestured to the latter and said, “The food’s cold and we’re obviously not in the mood to eat. And I, frankly, have had enough. I’ve wasted enough time here with you. I’m going to bed.”

Harry’s heart was being pulled by painful strings, but he did his best not to show it. He still had his pride. Step by excruciating step, he walked alongside Malfoy down the table so they could blow the candles out. The elves would have the plates taken away by morning. Harry wondered why Malfoy hadn’t had them removed earlier that night, when the elves had done their usual rounds, while Harry was peacefully asleep. It wasn’t as if Malfoy was willing to wait for him, and willing to settle on cold chicken, right?

Right.

Not that it mattered now. The idea of him and Malfoy had gone worse before it could go bad. It was over, over, over. So this was where everyone’s efforts ended up in. Rejection and failure. It was almost funny, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to laugh.

Each of them was inches from a candle, ready to extinguish it, when Harry saw the light playing on Malfoy’s face and in his eyes. And amidst the gray and flecks of blue he was sure he saw something that wasn’t there before. In the glow from the flames Malfoy looked almost decent, lovable, like someone he could trust with his darkest secrets, someone who wouldn’t laugh if he said that Muggle conspirators were conspiring a conspiracy against him. Harry was falling into a bed of fluff. The wedding bells were ringing.

“Wait,” he said before he could stop himself.

Malfoy waited.

“I’m hungry.”

The weight of Malfoy’s stare had become almost too much to bear when he replied, “The food’s barely edible.”

“It’s still chicken teriyaki,” Harry pointed out. “And...” Don’t say it! his mind was screaming. Don’t! “...we should give it a chance.”

“The chicken?!”

Don’t say it! Don’t! “Us.”

“Oh.” Malfoy shrugged. “Okay.”

They ate.

~*~

They shared a civil conversation.

No, actually, it as better than civil. It was... personal and open and enlightening all at the same time.

But then, you don’t need to know the precise details.

So afterwards, Harry was heading upstairs, Malfoy at his side, and he was in a pleasant stupor. Amazed beyond recognition at having had a civil, personal, open, enlightening talk with his worst rival while having cold chicken and warm pumpkin juice. Even Muggles would’ve found it impossible, and this was strange considering the utter normalcy of the meal.

Malfoy was silent beside him, ostensibly dazed as well, or so Harry hoped. He didn’t want to be made fun of, after all. The night was always young, and tomorrow would always be another day of gossip and humiliation. He wondered what Malfoy was thinking. If he asked, it’d give the impression that he cared. But if he didn’t ask, it’d give the impression that he was too afraid to. Well, he certainly wasn’t a coward, not after coming down and meeting Malfoy with perfect grace and composure... All right, maybe not perfect... never mind.

“We’re here,” Harry said when they reached the snoring Fat Lady. Malfoy was smirking at him again, and with most of his teeth showing now. A clear omen of the ridicule and probably blackmail Harry’d expected from the beginning.

At least he’d had a great night.

He ignored the joy of his hormones. They were shrouded in half-darkness with the rest of the world sleeping. And they were less than a foot apart. Malfoy’s face was always good under rays of moonlight: the sight was like a Renaissance masterpiece or an award-winning photograph. It was as if his face could absorb moonlight or something. Impossible. Impossibly ravishing.

Speaking of ravishing--

Harry cleared his throat and thought of stuffed heads of house-elves.

They spoke at the same time,

“I think--”

“I’m glad you noticed.”

Harry blinked. “Noticed what?”

Malfoy’s smirk faltered and Harry realized for the very first time that it wasn’t a smirk after all. Had never been.

It was the veela’s version of a smile.

“Noticed that I like you, Potter,” said veela said in a way that made Harry feel very stupid. And happy, and loved, and quite a bit horny.

“A -- I -- Oh. Oh.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Sexily.

“Er, yeah, I did notice that... ah, er -- that you were -- ah, what the heck.” Harry stepped forward and kissed him.

Sunshine, daisies, trumpets, popcorn, fluff, silk bedspread, chocolate cake, Frodo/Sam, and bells, bells, bells. Suddenly Harry didn’t feel so bad about being in love with Malfoy anymore. It was great, he found, to kiss someone who wasn’t crying -- and even greater when he was kissing back. Ah, he could do this every day.

And if you consider that Malfoy had cream-colored shoulders and a flattering behind, not to mention that ethereal elven hair and milky skin, Harry had every reason to celebrate.

“That was fun,” Malfoy said, once his lips were free.

“Mmm,” Harry replied.

“I never thought you, of all people, would be good at that.”

“Mmm.”

“Kiss me again.”

And Harry did.

~*~

And the day after the day after the day after the day after the day after the day after the next, after Harry had managed to convince twenty-three Gryffindors that he had rights to privacy and no, they could not come along to his date with Malfoy, and he was curled up in Malfoy’s arms by the lake preparing for what appeared to be a cheesy-romance-novel ending to this protracted narrative, Malfoy asked him how it all started anyway.

“Must’ve been the coffee,” he said, and they lived happily ever after.

© 2003 by mg