Refraction

"Just because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn't mean we all have, Ron."

--J.K. Rowling

* * *

(Draco, 1996)

Sixth year

Yes, every day I am dazzled by the many ways in which Harry Potter makes my life a misery. He seems to have a limitless supply. The endless fount of despair; that's my Harry.

"Yeh oughter stay well away from that Malfoy boy, Harry. Honestly, I dunno what yer thinkin' of. That one's been nuthin' but bad news from the start!"

You ought to come meet Hagrid, Draco, he'd said. Come meet him properly...he's a lovely person really...don't be difficult, Draco...

Of course. A lovely person. If I hadn't insisted on wearing the invisibility cloak, the rabid half-breed would have eaten me already. First his useless little Gryffindor friends, then Granger (and the nightmares about that little chat will linger for years), and now this. How do I get into these situations? Oh, yes. I make the mistake of listening to a Gryffindor.

"Now Hagrid," Harry was saying in his favourite placating tone. "He's really not as bad as he seems. He's just a bit...insecure, and it makes him prickly. Once you get past that--"

Insecure? INSECURE? I am not insecure! I am aloof, I am controlled, I hate you, Harry Potter, I--

"Look, Harry." Ah, the insane half-breed interrupts his own friends! Rude as well as unattractive! "I'm not sayin' yer heart's not in the right place, but Harry, yeh got to consider his family. He's not like to be a decent sort if he was raised by bleedin' Lucius Malfoy, is he?" Insane half-breed sat back, as though he'd made some decisive point. I glared at him. Most unfortunately, I was invisible. I like to think that the glare is able to cut through such paltry defenses, however; I'm certain he was shifting uncomfortably.

Harry was quiet for so long, I gave up my glare to check on him. His face was ice. He was wearing his I-will-kill-you-all face. Blessedly, it was not directed at me...but I didn't like the fact that it was directed at one of his oldest friends, either. Not so soon after it had been directed at some of his other oldest friends.

"Of course," Harry said quietly, in that voice I've learned to fear. "You're right. Children are influenced by their environments. They couldn't not be. Bad family; bad child. That's how it usually works, isn't it? You can predict where the problem children will come from, after all. Think of the sort of worthless creature that would be raised by, say, Vernon Dursley."

There was a painful pause, then the giant leaned forward, saying, "Now, Harry, I didn' mean--"

"Do you remember when you told me Draco was evil, and that it all came down to--what did you say?--bad blood?"

"I might've said tha'..." the giant responded reluctantly. Perhaps he can be taught.

"And do you remember fourth year, just before the second task, when you said you wanted me to prove to everyone that family didn't matter; that anyone had the potential to be great?"

"Yes, but Harry, I meant the purebloods! Prove ter the purebloods that they're not the only ones--"

"I know what you meant." This is the voice I imagine he will use on Voldemort, just before one of them dies. He stood.

"Goodbye, Hagrid. It's been instructive," he said quietly, then whisked out the door so quickly I hardly had time to scurry out after him.

Perversely, I now feel some strange need to go apologise to The Great Oaf. Maybe I want to think that Harry wouldn't just cast off his oldest friend over such a small matter. Maybe I want to prove to myself that Harry isn't as cold as he just seemed.

Whatever the reason, I do think a visit to Hagrid is in order. Alone.

* * *

(Harry, 1996)

Sixth year

"I can't play Quidditch this year."

I watch, and I can see his face fall. You'd think he was more upset about it than I am--and maybe he is. He likes to play against me. He says that you're not a proper Slytherin unless you have a masochistic streak a mile wide--and that it's only more proof that I really should have been one.

"Draco, you know I haven't got time. All this research! And then I have to tail around after you and play your minion, which is bloody time-consuming--"

"It was your idea, Potter!"

It was. That's true. And Draco doesn't like it, either. I ask a terrible lot of Draco.

"I know. Draco, I know it was my idea. And so I can't play Quidditch. At least, I can't play Quidditch at normal times." I smile, or try to. "If we practiced at midnight, maybe I could do it. If we practiced at midnight, and had no matches."

"Oh. Fine."

Fine? "What's fine?"

"We can just play Quidditch at night. I assume you were using 'midnight' hyperbolically?"

"Is 'hyperbolically' a word? Because if it is, I don't think it means what you want it to mean."

"Shut up, Potter. Sometimes what I'm saying is bigger than my vocabulary. If you want me doing something to get you out of Quidditch, we have nighttime Quidditch. End of story. You owe me."

Yes, I owe him. I owe him more, even, than I owe Ron and Hermione, and I couldn't begin to repay them.

Besides, I like to play against Draco too.

"Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays?"

"After dinner?"

"Yes. And then we can do research after."

"Potter?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you planning to sleep at all?"

"Sleep is for the weak."

"Ah. I see. And if I were to tell you that I am weak, would you let me off the research?"

"No. I have great confidence in your strength. You don't give yourself enough credit, Draco, that's your problem." It is his problem. He'd never believe me if he thought I was serious, though, so I tease him about it as much as possible, in the hope that it will filter in sideways.

Now I just need to stop taking advantage of it.

"So, Master Potter, what is it you want me to do, then?"

"Just forbid me to play Quidditch in public somewhere. And I'll look meek."

"You're good at looking meek, for a pushy, manipulative little Slytherin wanna-be."

"...thanks for that, Draco."

"Anytime."

Draco. He's brilliant. I almost never have to take care of things for myself, anymore, because a mother hen in the form of the most evil Slytherin of Slytherin House is always taking care of them for me. It makes no sense.

* * *

(Rubeus Hagrid, 1996)

Sixth year

Looked up from my tea yesterday ter find Draco Malfoy himself coming over ter my house. Now, I wasn' inclined ter be friendly, seeing as 'Arry'd basically told me ter sod off on account o' the little ferrety bastard. On the other 'and, he'd never come ter see me before. Maybe I should've believed Harry, but...part o' me was wonderin' if he wasn't just comin' ter brainwash me like he done Harry.

Well. When he knocked, I opened the door. Reckon that's all that counts.

"Malfoy," I said. "What do you want?"

He just looked up at me, all blank-faced, and asked fer a word inside. Well, I couldn't just say no. I mean, it wouldn't've been polite. So next thing I know, I got Draco bleedin' Malfoy in my kitchen, at my table, starin' at me. Strangest thing.

"Yeh gonna tell me why yeh're here, Malfoy?" I asked. Figgered there was limits to how polite I had to be. It was a Malfoy.

He eyed me all suspicious fer a bit, then says, "I'm here about Harry."

I banged my hands down on the table then, an' he jumped and turned red like the little coward he is, and I yelled at 'im, "What have yeh done ter Harry?"

He hissed at me like a little nasty snake, and I 'ad ter admit that maybe he hadn' turned red on accounta fear. "What have I done to Harry? What have you done to Harry, you great disgusting imbecile? Of the two of us, you are the one making him miserable just now. Not me. He and I are on very good terms." He leaned toward me across the table, an' somethin' about 'is face made me lean back. "Whatever the problem is," he said, soundin' fierce, "fix it. After all the work I put in, I won't see a great idiot like you hurt him. I won't have it. Do you understand that, half-breed?"

He was still Draco Malfoy. He was the same little shite I'd always known, but he was also bein' much braver an' more serious than I'd ever seen 'im. Like he really was worried about 'Arry. Made me wonder. So I answered 'im, an' I didn' kick 'im out.

"Oh, I understan' yeh, pureblood. What I don' understand is why yeh'd care, jumped-up little rich boy that y'are. Harry's still yer pet--so why would it fuss yeh if 'e was upset over somethin' that's basically yer fault anyway?"

Malfoy's knuckles were white, he was holdin' the table so 'ard, but he took a minute afore he answered. That didn' seem like 'im.

"Look, monsterspawn," he said, very quiet now, "if anything, I am Harry's pet. If you weren't blind as well as tainted, you would see that. This fight has nothing to do with me. I was willing to lose the history, call you Professor, pretend to like your lessons--whatever it took to make Harry happy, because, to be honest, there's very little that makes him happy these days. You screwed that up yourself, half-breed. But see, I'm giving you another chance. Harry can't afford to lose friends over something this stupid. I can't stop him from pushing away Granger and Weasley--that has nothing to do with me. This, though. I didn't start it, but it's within my power to fix. So I will fix it."

He looked completely barmy, like he'd kill me if I didn' agree...but he looked worried, too. Worried, an' scared, an' like he was tryin' to hide it. From 'imself too, maybe. Could be it was stupid, but I started to trust him then, just a bit.

"Harry hasn' been right since Sirius died," I said, but Malfoy shook 'is head.

"Since before that. He's been a train looking for a place to crash since Diggory died. Maybe since the first time the Dursleys locked him in a cupboard. Of course, he's much closer to crashing, now. More obstacles, I suppose." He looked up an' pointed 'is finger at me. He might like 'Arry an' all, but he was still a wanker.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I will bring Harry here. You and I will be on great terms. You will call me Draco. I will call you Hagrid. Harry will leave here happy in the knowledge that this little chat worked out our differences." He dropped 'is 'and. "Agreed?"

He was tryin' to look in control, but it seemed like all it would take to break 'im would be fer me to say no. I knew he was a coward, an' a nasty, stuck-up, possessive coward at that. But he was bein' brave fer Harry, an' I could see that. More than that, he was right. It was a bad time ter let 'Arry be upset.

So, I shook 'ands wi' the bastard.

"Agreed."

"I'll still hate you secretly," he promised.

"Thank God fer that," I said, and he actually laughed, and then 'e slipped out the door.

So now it's teatime, an' I'm sittin' here waitin' fer them t'come. I admit it; I'm terrified.

* * *

(Ernie Macmillan's Annual Evaluation of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1996)

Sixth year

Slytherin House

Sixth Year Students

Mr. Draco Malfoy (son: Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, neé Black)

I begin to believe that Malfoy is pure and undiluted evil, and that he is beginning to have an adverse effect on Mr. Harry Potter (aforementioned) besides.

Malfoy and Mr. Potter have enjoyed a rivalry of long standing. Everyone was comfortable with this arrangement--Mr. Potter, if not divine, was at least on the side of the angels, and Malfoy, if not demonic, was at least a convincing imitation.

I am most disturbed, most disturbed by a new twist in events--indeed, my quill does not wish to write of it. In place of their long-standing hatred, Malfoy has obtained seeming-absolute control of Mr. Potter's actions. It seems as if Malfoy is employing some form of Dark Curse--though it is difficult to imagine the curse Mr. Potter could not win though. Perhaps Malfoy is using some more mundane form of encouragement--blackmail? I cannot imagine what he could be blackmailing Mr. Potter with. Do you know, our Mr. Potter might simply be luring Malfoy into a false sense of security, so that Malfoy may report to You-Know-Who that Mr. Potter is weak, and then Mr. Potter may devastate them all by surprise attack. Yes, this must be what he's doing! More on this in Mr. Potter's section.

Zacharias Smith (aforementioned) believes Mr. Potter to have succumbed willingly. Even if my theory above is incorrect (and I do not believe that it is) I am unable to believe Mr. Smith's theory, for it would be a most shocking betrayal, and quite unlike anything Mr. Potter has done before (see previous records). History never lies, as I am fond of noting.

This ruining of Mr. Potter, whether true or fabricated, is the final straw as far as Malfoy's character goes--even more devastatingly negative than the unjust reduction of House Points last year (aforementioned in Malfoy's section). Malfoy's case, to my mind, is now closed. There can be no redemption for one who would destroy the lives of others for sport. He is truly the son of a Death Eater, as Gryffindors have suggested for years. I wash my hands of him.

Ernie Macmillan.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1996)

Sixth year

Ernie Macmillan made an arse of himself in public yesterday. This is code for: nothing remotely unusual happened yesterday. Keep hoping Harry will hex him. No luck as yet.

But no worries, because DM got introduced to the DA last week. It was very exciting. Also, it clearly took a lot of restraint on his part not to hex dear old Ernie...and I feel that that restraint will wear thin with time and exposure.

So, hurrah. Death to the stupid Hufflepuff!

And, wow, the introduction of a Slytherin and a Malfoy. I have no words. Everyone still thinks DM has Harry under his Evil Sway, though this is obviously and blatantly not the case. Ron and Hermione would never stand for it. Hell, Harry would never stand for it--he being far too independent and insane. But everyone will say, oh, Malfoy forced Harry to quit Quidditch. And I say...Harry-doesn't-have-time-for-Quidditch-why-is-everyone-stupid? The boy has the DA, and school, and mystery lessons with Dumbledore, and this crazy research he's started doing at all hours--he's busy, okay?

Be that as it may...

Cho resigned in fury at the sight of DM's lovely blond hair. Suspect she might know of their deep-and-true love, after all. In any event, alas, woe, and devastation! I shall weep myself to sleep every night at the loss of Cho, and Padma will give me Funny Looks. More Funny Looks.

Neville Longbottom is small but fierce. I am becoming rather impressed with him. Also, he seems entirely behind DM--works for me.

I chatter relentlessly to DM about Quibbler material. His eyes glaze over and he nods a lot. Poor boy. He isn't nearly as much fun to torture as Professor Snape. Still, people are starting to pity him, which was the point. Hopefully they'll get really sympathetic some time before he snaps and kills me. Feel that might damage his budding 'good guy' reputation--already damaged enough by the whole 'Evil Sway' story.

Harry smiles at me when I talk to DM. I wonder if he knows what I'm doing? I hope not. No attention from Harry Potter, thanks. He be one scary bastard, much though I may like him.

* * *

(Harry, 1996)

Sixth year

I'm following Draco. I do this often. Plod, plod. It's pretty fun. Draco and Hermione and Ron and Neville know it's an act, but everyone else...they don't expect me to think for myself, to be in charge, to save them...and I like it. The others, they're mine. I don't mind them. Anyway, they don't think I'm so great--even Neville's seen me screw up pretty badly. I can just relax.

See, here we go past big groups of people who do not call out to me. They stare--see how the Great Harry Potter has fallen? Draco Malfoy's toy. Ha. You have no idea.

March straight into the Forbidden Forest. I see the ground change under my feet. Grassy to leaf mouldy. Draco turns to me and asks about Peter Pettigrew.

"Pettigrew?" I whisper, still looking at my feet. It drives him mad when I do this.

"Yes. Pettigrew. Wormtail."

"Oh." Still whispering.

"Harry. Stop that."

"Of course, Draco," I say, cringing slightly.

Silence. I'm just thinking about looking up when something hits me in the stomach. Next thing I know, I'm on my back in the leaf mould with the wind knocked out of me and Draco Malfoy sitting on my lower ribcage in a way that is...really quite uncomfortable. Then too, it feels like he's pulling my hair out. That hurts as well.

He's so easy.

"Potter! Stop acting like a house elf or I'll kill you myself! Why do you do this? Stop it!"

I try to work up the energy and breath to say something along the lines of, 'Yes, Master Draco,' but it's no use, I'm laughing too hard. He sits back and nods. "That's better."

Of course this makes me laugh harder--no easy thing, given he's now sitting on my diaphragm. Poor, suffering Draco! The slave act makes him really nervous. This is the boy who grew up surrounded by minions? Please. I wonder if he used to panic every time a house elf asked him if he wanted anything.

"How do you deal with Crabbe and Goyle?" I gasp between laughing fits. "They're like really docile cows--I don't get how you don't just, I don't know, have a fit or something, whenever they ask you for directions on how to breathe."

"Exactly. You don't get it, Potter," he snarls, standing up. I stop laughing. "They're not like you. That's really the way they are. Every time you do your act, I have to wonder if that's what you really are. You're so good at it. I wonder...what if I just imagined the brilliant, tough Potter I liked? What if that was the act?" He pauses, looking at the ground, then shrugs angrily. "I always think I've lost you." He turns away.

Oh. Oh, my.

I should apologize. I should just start talking about Wormtail. I could knock him down and kiss him for liking me, but I doubt that would help anything, really.

"You think I'm brilliant? And also tough?" So, of course, I mock him.

It works, though. It always does, with him. See, he's turning back to me now. Well, turning back and glaring, but it's not a...an angry glare. "Shut up, Potter."

"I'm serious! I had no idea. Would you be happier if I were more manly and rugged?"

"Shut up, Potter."

"I could bulk up, get tattoos, run around shirtless?"

"I hate you, Potter." I think he's trying not to laugh.

"I'm just trying to make you happy. Am I more a cigar type of manly man, or pipe? Should I menace some Hufflepuffs?"

"Weren't we talking about Pettigrew?" He starts walking away, into the Forest.

"No, I don't think so. Anyway, your peace of mind is pretty critical. Pettigrew can wait." I follow him, of course.

"Did I say I didn't like the meekness? I misspoke. I'm a devoted fan of the meekness. Submissive Harry is my guy."

"Oh. Okay. I could trail around after you wearing a spiked dog collar and a loincloth. Best of both worlds."

"My ears are bleeding now, Potter. To say nothing of my inner eye."

"Like blood, do we? Kinky."

"Gah! Potter, you're unbalanced..."

I had no idea I'd upset him so much. I had no idea, had never considered that he might actually like me. I thought he tolerated me. I thought I was a vaguely amusing diversion, and a way to get back at his father. Hermione always has said I'm hopeless.

I won't tease him with the meekness again.

Well. Not often, anyway...

* * *

(Draco, 1996)

Sixth year

I can't imagine life without Harry Potter.

Time was, not so long ago, that I knew I would be devastated if Harry died. Now I can't even think of it. It's like a great, gaping hole in my concept of the universe. It wouldn't be sad, it would be...wrong. Horrible and wrong. I would go mad if he died. I'm certain of it. This is unfortunate, because, logically speaking, it's fairly unlikely that he'll make it through this.

He laughs at me, he plots with me, he smirks at me and says, "Yes, Master Draco." How could all of that be gone? Nothing--less than nothing. The memory of a madman. It doesn't make any sense. I watch his eyes narrow and his face go hard when he tells me we're going after Pettigrew. "We're going to get them, this time," he says, in his cold, emotionless, I-stomp-on-baby-chicks voice. "I'm not sitting here waiting for an attack. Not this time." It always amazes me when he flips from silly to insane-homicidal in under thirty seconds. Of course, he amazes me in general. The Golden Boy who breaks rules, trusts Slytherins, defies Dark Lords, and somehow manages not to get killed. Year after year. He's a logical contradiction.

If I had sat down in a quiet room and carefully considered what, of all the things I could possibly do, would be the most stupid, I imagine I would have decided it would be falling in...in lust with Harry Potter. And here I've gone and done it. It's almost funny. And, y'know, it bothers me less that he's a boy than that he's Harry Potter. Despite that I'd figured myself as pretty much a fancier of girls up to now. I mean, it would be him, wouldn't it? The little bastard lives to break the rules and also ruin my life.

Oh, I can just hear the conversation with Father. Dear Dad, I like boys. "Very well. I hope you realize you're still expected to produce an heir." Dear Dad, I like Harry Potter?

Actually, I don't want to think about it.

I stare at Harry for that reason too, now, in addition to every other reason. I stare at the corner of his mouth, his hands, his eyebrows, the nape of his neck. Wish I could touch them. Try to tell myself I'm a perfectly normal adolescent, and not a pathetic excuse for a Malfoy. Fail to convince myself. Pity that the Boy Who Lived doesn't like boys. Pity that he thought our letters this summer were just a joke. Pity that I thought the letters were just a joke.

Pity.

He smiles up at me, he mocks my perfect posture, he plots the destruction of half the wizarding world, he trusts me. Surely he can't die. He's too vicious, too insane to die--the gods wouldn't want him. I want him though. So they'll leave him with me. Especially since he'll probably ruin my life--I mean, the gods would find that funny. So they'll leave him. Won't they?

They must.

* * *

(Draco, 1996)

Sixth year

"Weepy Gryffindor alert, Potter," I said, pointing to Dennis Creevy, who was sitting and crying in the corner of a stairwell.

Harry sighed and grumbled, tossed me his invisibility cloak, and headed over to comfort the Creevy boy. Halfway between me and Creevy, he morphed into a Gryffindor--he didn't look sweet and consoling, of course (I rather doubt he knows how), but he did manage confident and competent, as opposed to enraged and unbalanced and terrified, which is what he really is.

The Creevy boy probably thinks his whole family is about to get killed. Fair enough, I suppose. They probably are. I can't imagine what Harry told him to get him to stop crying. Told him something, though, and returned to me triumphant. Hail the conquering hero, indeed.

"Still here, Malfoy?"

"Yes," I said, but refused to take off the cloak. I do so love being invisible. Of course everyone ignores me: they can't see me. It's not my fault.

I finally had to pull it off when we got to the Room of Requirement. Harry would have mocked me otherwise. My thoughts were spinning...such strange things. He was back to looking worried sick and furious. He's so good at being what people want him to be, my Harry.

"You would never have come to me, now," I said suddenly. I was appalled. I couldn't believe I had only just seen this.

"What?" He turned to me, frowning, puzzled.

"Second year. You came to thank me for almost knowing who you were. You thought you owed me for--what--paying attention?"

He nodded slowly, still looking confused.

"You wouldn't do that now." There's no question of it. "You would never trust an enemy enough to give that much away. Not anymore."

His face had turned blank. Wearing his mask again. "Why do you bring it up?" he asked. Expressionlessly.

I shook my head. "It just occurred to me. I can't decide whether or not it's a good thing. You can't afford to trust anyone until Whatsisname is dead, but you'll never be able to really trust anyone after that, either. It's not something you can get back, once it's gone. Of course, trust is a dangerous thing from the start..." I trailed off, frustrated. I never have words enough.

As usual, though, Harry didn't need them. "You would know about that," he said, looking a bit friendly around the edges of the mask.

I sneered at him, and he smiled outright. Perverse creature. His smile faded a bit, though, as he looked over my face. "I would never have known you," he remarked.

"No," I answered softly.

He nodded carefully, and looked down to his feet. "Well, then, I'm glad I used to be a trusting idiot. Things would be...difficult, without you." He glanced up to me, then back to his feet.

Almost I felt like applauding. He knows just how to pull everyone's strings to make them dance to his tunes, when he cares to. Even mine. Expert manipulator, my Harry.

Except that he isn't mine. I never really forget it. I just wish I could.

Oh, yes, I am pathetic.

* * *

(Harry, 1997)

Sixth year

"So why does this work?" I asked.

"It works because Voldemort is so much a part of your mind that you can follow him right back to where he is."

"Wow, Draco. That almost made no sense at all."

He looked up at me, disapproving. Whoops. "It made perfect sense, git." No one says git quite the way he does. He caresses the word. I don't mean that he drags it out. He just pays careful attention to all three letters. G-I-T. Git. It's funny. He was still talking, but I had missed some of it. Oops. "...spell tracks the mystical, magical, greenish line connecting your scar to Voldemort."

What an image. "Eurgh."

"You asked for the graphic description. Drink this." He handed me a blue, glowing potion. It was pretty. I downed it, and immediately started choking. It burned. Who expects burning from a blue potion? And he smiled evilly at me, and asked if it was good stuff.

"Fuck. . .you. . ." I somehow gasped out, though it felt like my throat was swollen and possibly on fire. He was grinning at me. He's such a sadist. "Touch the map, oh polite one," he said.

I scowled at him for form's sake (damnit all, why is he always funny?), and touched the map. Scotland turned green. As I watched, Scotland got less and less green.

"It makes sense that he'd be near you, I suppose," Draco said, suddenly quite serious. He touched Scotland, and it filled the map, but it kept getting less green.

"So it keeps getting more specific?" I asked.

"Yes, but ... it's being very strange. See how it's moving?" It was jumping about a bit, the green. "It shouldn't ... oh, wait." He sighed and pulled another map out of his bag. He looked upset. Really upset. "Touch this one, feckless Potter."

I looked at it. It was Hogwarts. Why would he want me to touch a map of Hogwarts? Voldemort wasn't at Hogwarts. I would have noticed. Hell, lots of people would have noticed. "That's Hogwarts," I said.

"Well spotted, Harry. Hogwarts. Congratulations, you know where you live. Touch it!" I did, without really thinking about it. I was still wondering what I had done. He hadn't been angry...just a moment ago?

Hogwarts turned green.

I jerked back. "What...?"

"Hogwarts." He was snapping at me. Why was he snapping at me? "Unplottable, hence moving about. Almost certainly not home to Dark Lords, which probably means you're in love with someone."

Oh, hell. "What." Bloody fucking hell.

He was looking at me. His face was blank. I decided that was ominous. Not that I wasn't screwed anyway. "It's why the spell doesn't always work," he said. "Actually, it might have been what it was originally designed for. The spell gives you the location of the person who's taking up most of your thoughts and emotions--it would have been even stronger with the added link of the scar. Apparently lovers eat up your mind even more efficiently than enemies." Did he know? I had always been convinced he would hate me if he knew, and it was starting to look like I was right. I started babbling. Maybe I could delay it, maybe push back the moment when he would walk away from me in disgust but I could already see happening in my mind--

"Not your children?"

"No. And, please God, tell me you don't have children." He said God. He'd been hanging around with muggleborns too much. I guessed he wouldn't be doing that anymore.

"No! Just wondering. Why not children?"

"Sex and death, Potter. Sex and death." I didn't think I liked the way he was looking at me.

"Children come from sex."

"Yes, but, Harry dear, you don't think of children and sex in the same thought. I hope." I choked. He hadn't been that honestly nasty to me in...years? I had almost forgotten.

But now he had paused, and for a split-second he didn't look angry, he looked, well, almost hurt. Then it was gone. "I didn't warn you," he said, "because I thought that you'd tell me if you were in love. I guess I was wrong."

"I'm not in love," I insisted, panic overtaking my common sense for a bit.

It was a mistake. He looked angry and suspicious, after. "Really." He didn't sound happy. "Then you'd better put your hand back on the map so we can find out where in the castle the Dark Lord is."

I startled back, still panicking, and he looked even more suspicious. "Honestly, Harry," he drawled, "a boy might think you had something to hide."

I shook my head, trying, trying to think of some way to explain this. I couldn't look at him. "Malfoy, I--"

"Malfoy," he hissed. It was scary. "'I won't keep secrets from you, Draco. I'll tell you everything, Draco.' You liar. You should have been in Slytherin. Had me doing just what you wanted, eh? Like a puppet. You knew, you knew I..." He trailed off. He thought he always did just what I wanted? Was he insane? What did he think I knew? I had no time, no time to process any of it...and he was walking away. If I let him walk away, things wouldn't be right between us for months, and maybe not ever again. That much was obvious. If I was going to lose him, I decided, then I was going to lose him for something real.

I called him back. The moment he turned, I slammed my hand down on the map. It crinkled. I refused to look anywhere but the grass between my knees. I could see out of the corner of my eye that he had come back and knelt on the other side of the map.

Well, I thought wildly, there went nothing. It had clearly been too much to hope that he would, I don't know, respect my privacy. Too late, now. He was lost.

What was taking so damn long?

I glanced at the map (and no farther) to see that the green had shrunk to exactly where it ought to be--near the Quidditch pitch, under the Ravenclaw stands, just over the place Draco Malfoy was sitting. It was moving with Draco's fidgeting. I was holding perfectly still. I was perfectly calm. It was all, all over, I knew. All over now.

"I guess I'll have to find another spell," Draco whispered at last. I nodded. I figured he was in shock. I waited for the axe to fall.

He stood up, stumbling. Draco never stumbles. I stood up too. I almost expected him to attack me. I couldn't bring myself to look directly at him, couldn't bring myself to face the disgust, the horror. . .

"Harry. . ." He cleared his throat. I didn't know why. "Harry. Was the potion right?"

"I don't know. Are you Voldemort?" I was trying to sound flippant. I failed miserably. Idiot.

"Potter, this isn't the time to be difficult!"

I forced myself to look at Draco's face. It seemed like the hardest thing I'd ever done, and the effort didn't pay off--I couldn't read his expression at all. At least it wasn't obvious disgust, as I'd feared. I gave up.

"Do you want it to be true?" Of course he didn't. Of course he wouldn't. Who would want a stupid, accident prone, messy-haired crazy-boy freak with ugly glasses who always got his loved ones killed? My fists were clenched so tightly that my nails had cut into my palms. My mind fled so willingly to the distraction of pain that I almost missed Draco hissing, "Yes. Yes, I want it to be true."

I forgot my hands. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe, and it was hard to breathe, and I couldn't have understood him, could I? I stepped closer, as if getting within touching distance would somehow let me know whether he was telling me the truth. When our noses were almost touching, I whispered, "Well, good. Because it is." I saw that he looked relieved, even happy. Even thrilled. I saw.

I felt awkward, but at least not afraid anymore. I wasn't going to lose him. He wanted me, and it didn't matter why. Even if I couldn't imagine why. I wanted to touch him, but my hands were all bloody from my nails and I didn't know what I was doing, and then...Draco's hands were gripping my shoulders and Draco's lips were on mine and they were warm and chapped and he obviously needed to shave and it was perfect. It felt as though he'd burned the fear and worry and responsibility out of me with the heat of his body. After a while, I forgot that my hands were bloody. Draco didn't seem to mind.

* * *

(Draco, 1996)

Sixth year

"Potter..."

My fingers were nervously outlining the desk. I glared at them and forced them to stop. "Potter," I started again in a surer voice. "This isn't a potion you should have me making. It has to be made by someone you trust absolutely--preferably the person you trust most in the world. Not some, some lapsed son of a Death Eater. So go find whoever it is you trust, Potter, and have them make it. Right?"

Potter looked over at me with a strange smile. I hate it when he's amused and I don't know why. "I did, Malfoy. And I am."

I stared at him, uncomprehending. He couldn't have meant what I thought he'd meant. Could he...?

Now he was looking at his hands nervously. "Say something," he said softly.

"Something...? Potter, what are you on about?"

He sighed, and pressed his hands flat on the desk. "Malfoy, you are the person I trust most in the world." He glanced at me, then back to his hands. My brain ceased all productive activity.

"That's pathetic, Potter," I said, and hoped he wouldn't hear my voice shaking.

He bit his lip. "I know."

There was a long, tense pause. I couldn't stand it. I always talk too much when it's quiet. "Thank you."

He looked back up at me, and the simple joy in his face made my breath catch. Bloody Potter.

"You're welcome. Strange, isn't it?"

"Beyond bearing. Shut up and let me work on the damn potion."

His smile stayed firmly in place, soft and happy. "Okay, Malfoy. Whatever you say."

* * *

(Draco, 1997)

Sixth year

"So why does this work?"

"It works because Voldemort is so much a part of your mind that you can follow him right back to where he is."

"Wow, Draco. That almost made no sense at all." There was a time when Harry's sarcasm was light and amusing. It feels like years ago, now. Maybe it was.

"It made perfect sense, git." I choose to act as though he still means it lightly. I choose to believe he doesn't hate me as much as his voice says he does. "If it helps your intelligence-starved mind, imagine the spell tracks the mystical, magical, greenish line connecting your scar to Voldemort."

"Eurgh." Oh. I almost got a smile for that. Amazing.

"You asked for the graphic description. Drink this."

He downs the potion. He must trust me--why else would he drink something that glows blue? He starts choking, so I smile at him maliciously. "Good stuff, Potter?"

"Fuck...you..." he manages to gasp out. I grin at him. He really is in an unusually good mood, and it's improving by the second. It's so Potter to be happy when forced to drink mysterious, nasty concoctions--and in the bitter cold outdoors, besides. "Touch the map, oh polite one," I say.

He scowls at me (not a vicious scowl) and touches the map, which immediately develops a green blob over Scotland. The blob shrinks slowly.

Enough play. "It makes sense that he'd be near you, I suppose." I touch Scotland, and it grows to fill the map, the green blob getting ever smaller.

"So it keeps getting more specific?" Harry asks, and he's turned serious too.

"Yes, but...it's being very strange. See how it's moving? It shouldn't...oh, wait." I sigh and pull the Hogwarts map from my bag. To think, I'd almost not brought it. "Touch this one, feckless Potter." I feel bizarrely betrayed.

Harry looks at it. "That's Hogwarts," he says. Idiot.

"Well spotted, Harry. Hogwarts. Congratulations, you know where you live. Touch it!" Harry does, and, not unexpectedly, it turns bright green. He jerks his hand away and looks at me, worried. "What...?"

"Hogwarts," I snap. "Unplottable, hence moving about. Almost certainly not home to Dark Lords, which probably means you're in love with someone." It's a bad sign that I'd actually prefer Voldemort to be in the castle, isn't it?

Harry blinks at me stupidly. "What." It's not even a question. He looks like he's been hit with a brick. Wish he had been, Gryffindor twat. . .

I force myself to look at him. I refuse to seem upset. "It's why the spell doesn't always work. Actually, it might have been what it was originally designed for. The spell gives you the location of the person who's taking up most of your thoughts and emotions--it would have been even stronger with the added link of the scar. Apparently lovers eat up your mind even more efficiently than enemies." He must really love whoever-it-is, to drown out Voldemort. Why is it hard to breathe?

"Not your children?" He's babbling to get out of this. Does he think I can't see?

"No. And, please God, tell me you don't have children."

"No! Just wondering. Why not children?"

"Sex and death, Potter. Sex and death." Said with certain relish.

"Children come from sex."

"Yes, but, Harry dear, you don't think of children and sex in the same thought. I hope." Harry chokes. Good. And I can't take this anymore.

I meet his eyes. Trying not to look angry. Trying not to look hurt. "I didn't warn you," I said, "because I thought you'd have told me if you were in love. I guess I was wrong."

"I'm not in love," he insists. Sounds desperate and panicked. Why? You know, don't you? You've known all along, and now you're worried that I'll kill whoever you love and you don't trust me and maybe you shouldn't.

"Really. Not in love." I'm snarling now. "Then you'd better put your hand back on the map so we can find out where in the castle the Dark Lord is."

He jerks back violently, away from the map, away from me. "Honestly, Harry," and even to my own ears, I sound a little deranged. "A boy might think you had something to hide."

He shakes his head, he won't meet my eyes, he says, "Malfoy, I--"

"Malfoy," I hiss. He flinches. Good. "'I won't keep secrets from you, Draco. I'll tell you everything, Draco.' You liar. You should have been in Slytherin. Had me doing just what you wanted, eh? Like a puppet. You knew, you knew I..." loved you.

I stand up and start walking away. In this moment, I hate him, though not as much as I hate myself. I can't believe it, played like his fucking clumsy flute--

"Draco!" He sounds high-pitched and panicky. I shouldn't turn around, but I do, and the second I do, he slams his hand back down on the map. He's staring fixedly at his knees. I know that the right thing would be to leave, to let him keep his secrets, now he's proven willing to trust me...but I have to know. Who is it? Who took him from me? I kneel on the other side of the map, and hear Harry's breath hitch. I guess he thought I'd let him go. No luck, Harry. No luck for either of us.

The blob shrinks, shrinks, shrinks. Eventually it's sitting in a small spot near the Quidditch pitch, under the Ravenclaw stands. It's just about where I'm sitting. It's even twitching with my twitching; no question of it. Harry is holding perfectly still, head raised just enough to see the map. He doesn't look surprised. He looks defeated. I'm frozen.

"I guess I'll have to find another spell," I whisper. Harry nods. I feel numb and stupid. I stand up, stumbling slightly. I never stumble. Harry does that, but just now as he stands he has all the grace. The grace of someone with nothing left to lose.

"Harry..." I pause, clear my throat. "Harry. Was the potion right?"

"I don't know," he says softly, voice shaking, still looking at the map. "Are you Voldemort?"

"Potter, this isn't the time to be difficult!" I'm getting a little hysterical. It can't mean that he...

He looks up at me. He looks absolutely miserable. "Do you want it to be true?" he asks helplessly. Hopelessly. He really doesn't know--he wasn't playing me, he doesn't know. Oh, Harry. I've forgotten again that you're still a Gryffindor. I look at him, just look. His hands are clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles are white. He's shaking. He's a mess.

Do I want it to be true? Do I want this boy I've obsessed over and fought with and laughed at and plotted with--the only person who makes me genuinely happy--do I want him to love me?

"Yes," I hiss, staring at him defiantly. "Yes, I want it to be true."

His hands relax slowly, and his expression fades from tormented to blank. If it's possible to be even more nervous, I am. He steps over the map and close to me, so close I can feel his breath on my lips, feel his nose nearly touching mine. I can feel as well as hear it when he whispers, "Well, good. Because it is."

For a moment, I'm still. I'm wildly trying to process: he's mine, he wants me, it's me he loves so intensely that the emotion blocked out a Dark Lord. It makes no sense. It makes no sense, but it doesn't matter, because I trust my potions even if I don't trust my hopes, so it must be true--

My hands are on his shoulders and he's tense. I kiss him, and at first he doesn't respond, and I worry because I moved first and maybe too fast and he probably didn't mean like this and I'm pulling back when he throws himself into me, into the kiss. No control. He just gave all the control to me, and that's something he's never done. It's an awful responsibility, but he's melting in my arms, and his hands are on my face leaving streaks of blood from where his nails had cut his palms, and I couldn't give this up, couldn't give him up. I'm not strong enough to let him go. Not anymore.