Refraction

"Romance isn't just about roses or killing dragons..."

--Steve Kluger

* * *

(Draco, 1997)

Seventh year

Nostalgia is a horrid thing. Always creeps up on you when you're least expecting it, and leaves you melancholy and drained.

I'm standing on Platform 9 ¾, awaiting the arrival of Harry Potter and the Hogwarts Express for the last time. It seems that I've done this every year for as long as I can remember...and this is the end. Unless I fail all my subjects, talk Harry into failing all of his, and kill Voldemort while everyone's distracted.

Unlikely.

The Hogwarts Express arrives with much rumbling and screeching and hissing. The early types wander over to it in a loose herd, making vague complaining noises. Ah, the joys of school.

Harry Potter arrives rather later, accompanied by Granger and Weasley, as always. The Golden Trio? Not if you're paying attention. He's being polite and distant with them--and polite and distant is not something Harry Potter has ever been with anyone he paid any mind to at all.

When he sees me, on the other hand, his face lights up. Time was, not so long ago, when receiving that sort of attention over his minions would have made my year. Times are darker now, and everything's become more complicated.

They look miserable, Granger and Weasley. I suppose I pity them...and feel a bit guilty as well, though I'm really not responsible. Uncomfortable emotions. And unlike me.

"You getting on the train, Draco?" Harry asks, eyes sparkling. He's so beautiful. It's no wonder I'm smitten--indeed, I can't help myself. That makes it not my fault.

"No, Harry, I was thinking of clinging to the back. Stupid Gryffindor. Find us a compartment, and I'll be there after I say hello to Pansy." I see that Granger's glaring at me, and I can't even bring myself to despise her for it.

"Looking for insults?" Harry asks brightly. "Because if that's what you want, I can do it as well as Pansy."

"I'm not convinced, Potter. It takes a Slytherin."

"Oh, right." He gives a happy laugh, and Granger looks insanely jealous. "I'll just leave it to the experts, then. See you in a bit."

"Get me chocolate frogs."

"Here, Harry, let me help," Granger cuts in. Harry's face closes off, and we all notice it. Return to the withdrawn state I haven't seen since the beginning of the summer.

"Thank you, Hermione," he says politely. I wonder if he sees that she's about to cry. I wonder if he lets himself see.

They board, and Weasley and I are alone together. Studying each other.

"I'm sorry, Weasley," I say at last, feeling that I ought to say it to someone. I notice my hands are twisting my robes, and force them to stop.

Weasley shakes his head a little, looking tired. "It's not your fault. I can see that much. I guess I should even thank you for keeping him sane this summer."

"Not too much trauma?" I smirk, and he laughs. Despite everything, he laughs.

Gryffindors. Honestly.

"Far too much." He pauses, and his lip quirks in an almost-smile. "I do get why he's doing this, you know. You don't have to worry."

What is it about Gryffindors? My heart can't take these kinds of shocks.

"But Granger..." I mumble pathetically, trying to reorder my view of the universe.

"Yeah, she doesn't know." He raises his eyebrows at my expression. "What? I mean, yeah, she's the smart one. She understands relationships, and maybe I don't, but you know...Hermione's never been all that great at chess. And that's all this is, now. Ever since Mum died...no, before. It's just chess."

"How do you reckon?" Bizarre, bizarre Gryffindors. And I said 'reckon' again. It's the proximity to Weasley--killing my vocabulary in fragments.

"Well, he's lost pieces now, hasn't he? If this were chess, I mean. And that's got him scared, so he's pushing all his favourites to the corners and surrounding them with stray pawns--hoping to distract the other player. Isn't he?"

I nod. Am disturbed by the way Weasley's mind works. "And where do I fit in?"

"Oh, you--um, don't take this the wrong way--you're the Queen."

I choke on air.

"No, I mean it," he stumbles on, ignoring the first warning whistle for the train. I see Pansy strolling by and wave to her, distracted. "You're his best piece--he can't protect you too much, because he needs you. But he keeps you close to him. He watches your back." He pauses, shifts uneasily. "Just don't let him protect you to death, okay?"

"I won't," I say over the second whistle, as we start moving toward the train, but I don't know if he hears me. "Do you think he knows he's doing...what he's doing?"

Weasley looks surprised. "I thought you'd know better than I would. But...nah. Harry's not really very self-aware, is he? I'm sure you've noticed."

"I have. I didn't think you would've."

He gives a little self-deprecating smile. "Hermione pointed it out." I laugh. I laugh with, and not at, a Weasley. This is the end, indeed.

We walk the rest of the way to the compartment in silence, but I stop him just before he opens the door. One last question.

"And what are you, Weasley, in this whole extended chess metaphor?"

He glances back at me, looking oddly wistful. "Me? I'm just a Knight he's particularly fond of."

He opens the door, and I follow him in.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1997)

Seventh year

Harry Potter is teaching DADA this year. Strikes me as quite the bad idea. Um, did anyone remember the seventh year Slytherins? Because they're not all on Draco's side. And then there are the sixth year Slytherins--no Draco.

Bloodshed. That's what. Don't soldiers have a duty to disobey a criminal order? Ha, try telling Harry that.

Harry's looking blank about it all. Bad sign. Last time he looked blank, he ended up killing a random Slytherin. I remember it vividly. I hope to God no one irritates him in class. Then we'd have to flee the country. Or do some serious mind wiping.

Wah.

I'll write him a note. Yes, I will. "Dear Harry, please don't kill anyone. Lurve, Luna." Yes.

. . .

Harry laughed when he got my note. Draco looked relieved. This is very good. He laughs. Whew. Good job, Draco. You are a miracle worker. The boy should be a shrink. Or maybe it's just the sexual favours doing wonders--but I doubt it. Maybe Draco did some selective Obliviating. Why would that not surprise me?

* * *

(Draco, 1997)

Seventh year

I am lying in the Room of Requirement in perfect blackness, Harry Potter in my arms. Life is unutterably strange.

I'm always surprised by how dark it is in rooms with no windows. I've been living in a dungeon for the better part of seven years, and still, it surprises me. Black, nothing to see at all, no gap where light comes in. I wouldn't believe that I exist, save that I can feel Harry's body pressed against mine, feel his breath on my neck.

The advantage to the blackness, of course, is that when people come in with any sort of light, I can see them far better than they can see me. As now, when Hermione Granger enters the room. She doesn't carry a light, but the light in the hall is enough to illuminate her. I let my eyes fall almost closed, so she won't see them gleaming.

This should be amusing.

What does she see? Her Harry and The Evil Draco Malfoy, in what I gleefully confess is a very compromising position. Yes, she knew we were close, but this close? I think not. (Until relatively recently, I didn't know we were this close). The sheets have slipped down enough to show that we aren't wearing shirts, and I believe they're far enough for her to see that we aren't wearing anything else, either.

Yes, I think so. Her eyes widen in disbelief, and she drops her wand and gasps. So dramatic, Granger? Surely you've fantasized about seeing us this way?

All right, maybe that was just me.

Oh, Harry's awake. I love the feel of him waking up against me. He freezes in panic at first (why is someone in his bed what's going on omigod omigod), but then he remembers, remembers who he's curled next to. And he snuggles closer.

He does this now, and Granger must see it, because she gasps again. Harry shifts enough to smile sleepily at me, then he realizes my eyes are (mostly) closed, and I'm not the one gasping. He looks toward the door.

I think I will treasure this moment forever. Granger looks like a voyeuristic house elf caught in a lumos.

"Hermione?" Harry asks, voice slurred with sleep. Leave my Harry alone, woman. Can't you see he's exhausted?

"Ah, Harry. Er. I'm sorry, I...you weren't in, um, Ron said that you were missing, I...I thought..." Stammer stammer stammer, Granger. Honestly. Where's that vaunted intelligence of yours?

"Hermione. I'm usually missing. This is usually where I sleep. I can't believe it took you this long to notice." Neither can I. Also, ha ha ha, he's mine, all mine.

"Oh. Well. Um. Ron didn't, ah, tell me to go looking for you. Yes. Probably he knew. But, well...honestly, Harry, it's not like I ask where you're sleeping normally. And are you sure this is a good idea? And how long--"

"Shh! You're going to wake him. Go to bed, Hermione. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

"But Harry--"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh...all right. I suppose." You suppose? Who are you? "Um, tomorrow then. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

He waits until she's picked up her wand and closed the door, then nestles into my shoulder again, rubbing his cheek gently against it. He murmurs into my ear, "At least she didn't come in an hour ago."

I start to laugh.

* * *

(Ron, 1997)

Seventh year

The thing about Hermione is that she doesn't know when to give up. Harry's never going to tell her anything important again. I know it, Harry knows it, Malfoy knows it...but Hermione won't know it, and she's meant to be the clever one.

"Ronald Weasley, you never told me about Harry and Malfoy!"

Yeah, I didn't. Because I figured it was EVEN MORE obvious than the time they were pretending Harry was Malfoy's slave. Which she also missed. "I thought you knew."

"Oh, you always think I know, don't you?"

I don't believe this. It's too obvious, and she's too clever. She's just taking what she wants to be true, then pretending it is true so hard that she believes it. I should have seen this coming with the whole house elf thing.

"You knew about the portraits."

"I didn't know it had progressed!"

"It's none of our business."

"Harry's our friend! Of course it's our business."

And I shrug, and pretend to read Potions. There's no arguing with her when she's like this, and I'm too tired for it anyway. It's not our business because Harry won't let it be our business. I even think I get why, but I'm not going to try to explain it to Hermione. Maybe Professor Potter doesn't have time for his little former friends...but I know Harry. Harry would do anything to protect us. He probably thinks he's protecting us right now, the stupid bastard. The only one he lets back him up anymore is Malfoy, which is pretty ridiculous when you think what an idiot Malfoy is.

Hey, what do I know? Maybe Malfoy's a really great guy. But I doubt it.

* * *

(Draco, 1997)

Seventh year

I hide from him.

Despite everything, I still have my secrets. Even from him. Especially from him.

I'll never tell him about my ninth birthday, when Aunt Andromeda sent me a pet mouse, and I killed it with Avada Kedavra, just to see if I could. I won't tell him Father was proud. I'll never admit that I didn't feel sick after it was done, buoyed on Father's approval--that, if anything, I was proud too. I buried the mouse in the garden, under Mother's favorite white roses. I didn't tell Mother, either.

He'll never know that I used to dream of using the Imperius on him; forcing him to forget his friends and follow me everywhere, adoring. I dreamt of leading him along for weeks, brutally dropping him in the end. I won't mention that, in part because it's so embarrassingly pathetic...and revealing.

He'll never hear about the night I--what?--molested Pansy--the night after the Yule Ball, fourth year. I was thinking that I would always be alone, and that nothing in my life was ever going to go well, and a dozen other stupid, panicked things. I don't know what she was thinking. I never will, either, because the Memory Charm that hides the evening from her is the surest thing I've ever cast. Apparently feeling dirty does a great deal to focus your attention and will.

I'll never tell him that I saw Sirius Black's death as a skewed blessing. The man's reckless idiocy was the last thing Harry needed--a potentially lethal example for a boy who already saw his own existence as valueless.

He doesn't need to know that I was waiting for something like the incident with Will to happen. It would hurt him to hear that I had been watching him as carefully as I would a wounded hippogriff. He would be angry that I hadn't tried to stop him. He wouldn't see that stopping him would only have delayed the inevitable.

Love, contrary to popular opinion, does not mean full disclosure. These are things it would pain him to hear...even though, somewhere in his subconscious, I believe he's nearly worked most of them out.

My sad half-secrets--my weak attempt to shield him from harm. No, I'll never tell him.

Sometimes I wonder what he keeps from me, for my own protection. I don't ask.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1997)

Seventh year

I'm heaving sighs of relief. Internally, you know. Apparently there was nothing to worry about. Haven't had Harry's class yet--have it with Ravenclaw fifth years and Hufflepuff fifth and sixth years on Thursday. They're combined all to hell so Harry can make his other classes. It's wild.

But the relief! Fifth-sixth year Gryffindor-Slytherins (and what idiot came up with that combination?): some sixth year Slytherin was mocking Harry. Harry ignored him until he was actually endangering his partner, then Petrified him. Cast a personal locking spell on the charm, too--not even Dumbledore could get it off. No idea where he learned that little trick. And then, Draco tells me, he hijacked Draco's drawl, and said, "Mr Baddock, could you take notes for Mr Kelly, please?" Love Harry. Love love love. Also carefully not asking what Draco was doing in that class when he should have been in Herbology. None of my business, really. Right?

* * *

(Hermione, 1997)

Seventh year

I had come down the stairs to the Gryffindor common room to see Harry and Malfoy sitting on the couch together. Luna must be in class.

Malfoy just saunters in all the time now, like he owns the place. I suppose he has for years. I can't decide whether knowing about it makes it more or less disturbing. Really, it's a miracle no one's hexed him yet. Could be they're all too afraid of Harry. Of Professor Potter. Lord, that's strange.

In any case, the two of them were having one of their conferences. Harry was scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. He finished, and passed the paper to Malfoy. Malfoy looked at it, drawled, "Potter, you imbecile," tossed it onto the table, and scribbled on it himself. Harry rested his head on Malfoy's shoulder, frowning at whatever was being written.

"They're disgustingly sweet together, aren't they?" Ginny's voice said quietly just behind me. I managed not to pitch down the stairs in shock. "You'd think," she continued, "that knowing they're plotting how to kill hordes of people would make them seem less sweet. But it doesn't. It doesn't seem to make any difference at all."

I turned to face her, and saw that she was scowling at them.

"I refuse to call Draco Malfoy anything like sweet," I responded calmly. I felt I should get some sort of praise for the calmness. "But you're right. You're right."

Harry picked up the parchment, then looked at Malfoy. Malfoy smirked at him. Harry pointed his wand at the parchment and said, "Incendio." As the ashes floated to the floor, Malfoy jumped up, saying, "Oi! That was some of my finest work, I'll have you know!" Harry smirked at him in turn, then stood and walked to the door. Once there, he turned back, and in doing so saw me and Ginny for the first time. His smile slipped, but he nodded politely enough, then looked for Malfoy.

Malfoy turned to us, swept into a bow, said, "Evening, ladies," then pushed his way out the portrait hole past Harry. Harry rolled his eyes, regaining a bit of his cheerful look, and followed.

"Do you ever miss him?" Ginny asked, looking at me sidelong.

"Every day," I said.

* * *

(Luna, 1998)

Seventh year

I'm watching my boys practice Quidditch.

Okay, that's actually inaccurate on a number of points. They're not really mine. And they're sort of thinking about becoming men sometime soon. Also, it's pretty dark out here, so I'm not watching them so much as listening to them. I can only see the occasional flash of cloak caught in the light from the school. They're not really practicing, either, although they call it that--they couldn't see the Snitch, for one thing. They're playing; swooping and twirling and diving and almost hitting the ground because they can't see properly, and laughing like maniacs.

They've been at it for about an hour when Draco comes and lands next to me. He grins at me, but turns to squint after Harry. I suspect his night vision is rather better than mine.

"So you're done?" I ask, and Draco turns reluctantly to face me.

"No, Harry's going to fly for a bit yet. I'm done, though. Two practices a day--he's going to be the death of me. Selfish, evil Gryffindors." His gaze drifts back to the sky.

Harry's practicing with Gryffindor most of the time, but every once in a while he has to skip because of professors' meetings or whatnot, and he forces Draco to practice--play--with him at night. He doesn't need the practice so desperately that he can't skip any, but...I think he misses flying with Draco. And I know Draco misses flying with him.

"You really like watching him, don't you?" I ask, just as I see a flash of cloak and Harry swooping into a dive.

He nods absently, watching Harry fall, and turn, and head upwards again. "Look at him," he says quietly--reverently, almost. "He climbs like a homesick angel."

It's true. Harry doesn't just fly to fly--he flies to shake off the world, and everything to do with it. He once told me that the best feeling he's ever felt is soaring through the air with the sun on your face and the wind in your hair. It was really poetic, for Harry. They practice at night now, though, and I guess everything is different. Still, Harry does look like an angel; the farther from the earth he flies, the easier he is. When Harry flies, he is truly free, even now.

This doesn't mean I'm going to let Draco get away with being nauseatingly fond, of course.

"Angel? Do you even know what angels are, pureblood boy?"

"I know what angels are!" He looks highly affronted, and I smile at him. "Just because muggles are a repulsive sub-species doesn't mean I can't study them as well as the next wizard! You can't insult people properly unless you know everything about them." He considers for a moment, then whispers confidentially to me, "Pansy taught me that. Tell no one; it's a trade secret."

I start giggling, and Harry lands in front of us. He's grinning and windswept and red-cheeked and generally just adorable. Draco reaches out and pulls him into a kiss. I giggle more and allow Draco the sappiness, because, well--who could blame him?

It's not so bad being the...other woman? only woman? Sometimes it's not so bad, especially when they're in a good mood. I think I'm getting used to it.

* * *

(Harry, 1998)

Seventh year

Draco was late. Draco was never late.

I'd been sitting in the Room of Requirement (R&R, Draco calls it) for over an hour. Waiting. I should have been marking exams. I should have been doing my homework. I should have been doing something productive, but instead I was sitting on the floor panicking.

He would have let me know if he'd been called home suddenly. He couldn't have gotten confused as to location--we almost never meet anywhere else anymore. He couldn't have been held up--he wouldn't have let anyone hold him up this long, not even Snape.

By the time he staggered through the door, a hundred injured-or-killed scenarios were dancing in my head. The reality didn't seem all that much better.

He slammed the door shut behind him, and slumped against the handle. After a moment, he tipped himself forward, made it to me, and collapsed to the floor next to me. He leaned into me. He never leans on me. An entirely new set of worries took root and began flourishing, but I didn't say anything. I knew better.

Two achingly long minutes of silence.

"Father just flooed," he announced at long last. "Apparently he's heard."

I let out a worried breath. At least he was talking.

"What did your father hear?"

"He heard that we're lovers, Potter," he snarled. He lifted his head from my shoulder to stare at me, eyes distressingly unfocussed. "Patil's been telling everyone. I realize we were all exhausted--but couldn't we have been exhausted in front of someone else?"

"But anything Patil says is probably crap--"

"Yes, well, that's what he wanted to confirm. That it was all crap. But see, Potter--I didn't want to confirm it. I didn't want...." He dropped his head back onto my shoulder and sighed into my neck. "I'm just tired, Harry. I'm so tired."

"You told him." I felt numb.

He twitched in what might have been a shrug. "I told him."

Silence stretched over us again. Draco had told his father. Draco had put himself in danger--more danger--for my sake. I had always assumed that there was nothing more important to Draco than his family. I had always assumed that one day, after the war, he would leave me for them. I had accepted that.

"Do you know what my earliest memory is?" he whispered, sounding lost.

"What?" I asked in an equally hushed and timid voice.

"It's of my cousin Clytemnestra dragging me out of a shop and telling me that real Malfoys didn't argue with each other in public--only commoners and mudbloods did that. Disloyalty--weakness in front of enemies. She said that unless I wanted to be broken to a Squib right there, I'd keep my arguments with the family private. I don't even remember what I was arguing over. Some toy I wanted, probably." He laughed a bit, bitterly. I wrapped an arm around him.

"Father never threatened me," he continued. "He just made it obvious that he couldn't love a son who would argue with him in public. Well. Loving Harry Potter is pretty blatantly a public disagreement with the family. Isn't it? Father informs me that I'm not welcome in his house. The money'll probably go to a third cousin or something." He laughed again, sounding deranged. "I can't believe I'm thinking about the money. Father would be proud. Or, no. I suppose he wouldn't."

He shifted so that he was curled into fetal position on the floor with his head in my lap. I stroked his hair. It was all I could do. What can you do for someone when you've lost him his entire family? Send chocolates? He had nothing, now. Had I been so jealous? So jealous that I had to reduce him to what I was? I was his Voldemort--took his parents, and they might as well be dead. It would've been better if they'd been dead.

"Y'know what's odd?" he said, speaking to my knee. Of course he wouldn't want to look at me. "I don't even think he cared that it was you. Or, that I was in love with you. He just cared that I had admitted it. I could have had a secret affair with you for years, and he probably wouldn't have minded a bit, but...oh, Harry, the public humiliation. A queer son shagging your master's nemesis. He just won't be invited anywhere." His fist clenched spasmodically, and his voice turned harsh again. "He can take his reputation and shove it."

I could tell him to go back--to tell them it was all a lie--to tell them he'd changed his mind. I wasn't worth this, this agony; not this, not his whole family--he was in so much pain...but he'd already chosen. I knew the Malfoys well enough to know that taking it back wasn't an option.

He still wasn't looking at me.

"Have you really lost them all? Even the cousins you said argue with your father?"

He twisted around and pushed at me until I was leaning back on the floor, propped on my elbows, and he buried his face in my stomach and sighed. "I can't believe you remember my rebel cousins. But yes, I've lost them above all. I told you they only argue in private. As far as they're concerned, I've betrayed the family--they'll have less sympathy than Bellatrix, because they've sacrificed so much to stay with the family. And Bellatrix will happily kill me on sight. Traitor that I am."

I lay back fully, so that my hands were free to stroke his hair again. "You haven't betrayed them, Draco," I told him quietly, firmly, willing him to believe. "They've betrayed you. Families should only punish their children when they're afraid their children are about to hurt themselves. This shunning your family does...it's not right, Draco. It's horrible. Loyalty can't go only one way."

He tipped his head to face me at last, his chin still resting on my stomach. He was smiling, a little. Not really happily, but smiling. Something tight in my chest loosened.

"And how the hell would you know how a proper family behaves, Harry Potter?" His voice was only a little choked.

"You always pay more attention to good things when you haven't got them," I said.

His smile slipped a little. "I suppose you do, at that."

He crawled up my body until he was sprawled all over me, forearms braced on my chest, face centimeters from mine.

"Do you love me, Harry Potter?"

"I do love you, Draco Malfoy," I admitted, not without guilt. "Is it enough?"

"No," he said quietly, looking away. "No, it isn't." Of course not. It couldn't be. His head turned, eyes locked back onto mine. "But it wouldn't have been enough if I'd had the family and not you. If I can't have everything...if I must choose...then I choose you. Without question."

I breathed in slowly, trying to convince myself that I wasn't about to start crying like a girl. Again. He wouldn't have said something like that unless he meant it. I can hardly believe that he would have said it even if he did mean it--but he did. He did. How can he love me? Didn't I take his family from him? Wasn't this choice my fault?

"Why?" I choked out miserably.

He leaned forward until his nose touched mine, and I couldn't focus on his face. "Because, Harry Potter, you would never have asked me to choose. You hate them as much as they hate you, but you would never have asked--let alone ordered--me to give them up. I suppose, in the end, it's because I believe you love me more than they do."

"Maybe that's true," I whispered. Then I realized what I was saying. "But, Draco--I'm not, I mean, you're safer with them--you know everyone I love winds up dead--maybe, maybe it would be better if you--"

"Who do you think I am? Granger? You're not getting rid of me, Harry Potter. If I get killed around you, well, it's my own damn fault. You did try to warn me, after all."

Relief and self-hatred fought for dominance in me, and relief, I am ashamed to admit, won. I grinned so widely it hurt.

"You're not getting rid of me, Harry Potter. Sounds like you're proposing marriage or something."

He smiled and pulled back, so I could see his face clearly again, then slid down and rested his cheek on my shoulder.

"Well," he said calmly, "no one would marry us, so I'm not proposing marriage. On the other hand, I am proposing never to let you out of my sight again, so I might as well be."

Painful joy and joyful pain. Perfect, fragmented images of a life with Draco, and the horrible lightness of relief. Nothing is simple. Nothing has been for a long time. I threw my arms around him, as he held on just as tightly to me.

"Thank you," I managed, after a giddy moment spent trying to settle my mind and heart rate.

"Yes. And thank you." He chuckled a little--genuine amusement this time--and turned his head to look at me, not releasing his hold. "It's like a love fest, only with gratitude."

"Mmm. Maybe love too."

"Yes." His smile widened. "Maybe that too."

He was staying with me. Staying for me. Leaving his family for me. The most selfish part of me was triumphant, the most selfless guilty, and the vast majority pathetically, grovelingly grateful. I didn't tell him that, though. He might have come to his senses.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1998)

Seventh year

As it develops, Harry's class is basically like the DA. I should have mentioned this a really long time ago, like when I first started taking it, but I was sidetracked. I'll have no abuse from inanimate paper objects, thank you.

Harry's class. We tend to take a few notes on theory, but not so much. More with the practice and critiquing. I say again, Harry is strangely and unexpectedly patient when teaching. Know I've mentioned it before, but...constant shock.

Also, That Girl needs to stop talking in class. Her voice pains me, her face devastates me--her name might finish me off altogether. Best not tell Harry. He'd kill her for me. Ha ha. Only, no, it's really not funny.

I should do a love triangle update, shouldn't I? Well. I don't think anyone has any idea what to make of us anymore--which was the point, after all. What has it been, a year? Nearly. That means it's worked for about 10 months longer than I, for one, thought it would.

It's becoming deeply weird. And by that I mean, even weirder than it started out being, and that means really freakin weird. I cuddle with Draco. I cuddle with Harry. They send each other lustful looks, and are weirdly co-dependent. They walk down the hall with me between them, just a bit too close. I think Padma's poor brain has given up and died. Now she just stares at us with her eyes glazed over. Everyone else has given up outright.

Dean Thomas has no girlfriend. He and Ginny broke up, and the more fool she. There he is, just waiting to be snatched up, and I CAN'T HAVE HIM. *weeps more*

Life is bad. But confusion to the enemy! Luna sends Dean longing looks while being cuddled by Harry and Draco!

Yes, there is something wrong with me. There is. Something dire, something serious; inform St. Mungo's at once. Then, I'm not sure it's so much Dean I'm obsessed with as it is the idea of how normal my life used to be. Of course, that would mean I'm using imaginary Dean for impure purposes. By impure I mean, not pure and true love, or even lust, but just escape. And that's what the Quibbler is for. Bad Luna--no using a person when a magazine will do. That sounded really obscene, didn't it.

This is all my fault. I should have stuck to watching. Am a fool.

An unwarrantedly angsty fool. Stop with the angst! Happy happy joy. And remember: if it were someone else's life, it would all seem hysterically funny. Think if this had happened to Padma, or--evil cackling--Cho. Ha!

* * *

(Peeves, 1998)

Seventh year

You listen to the boys, don't you? (stay very very quiet). You listen to the boys, because their stories and their eyes and their laughter and their tears (shouldn't, shouldn't, the past is close it hurts and I shouldn't)--you listen.

"Dear God, Potter, what have you done?"

Can you see? Lean, lean out...you can't see. Could scare? (no no, not these--these don't scare) No. You would not see them then. You must only listen. Shh...

"I enchanted her quill. I don't like not knowing what's in that journal of hers."

"Potter...that's really frightening. Wait, you're not stalking me, are you?"

"Draco, I spend every spare moment with you. I don't have time to stalk you."

"Well, that's a great comfort--"

"Look, I notice you're reading it anyway."

"What's your point?"

"Oh, I don't have one."

"Hmm."

They are listening, reading? Hearing the misty girl. You know. Listen to the misty girl, you do, they do, and no one understands. Strange, she is. Once you blew up a toilet when she walked in the door. She did not jump. (but you laughed, laughed at the squib-cat; it was an angry squib-cat, but it is always angry).

"You do realize we're spying on my girlfriend?"

"I thought she was my girlfriend this week."

"Really, Potter, try to keep up."

"Hey, I'm up--"

"Harry! Don't be crude."

"...she isn't very happy, is she?"

"No. No, she isn't. Did you really expect her to be?"

The misty girl does not seem happy or sad. She only is. She is not angry, but not pleased with you like the red twins. She is different. Separate. Apart.

"She knows everything. Everything. How does she know?"

"I don't know."

"Can we go back? See earlier entries?"

"No--I enchanted the quill, not the book. This quill is a twin--it only writes what the other one is writing."

"Thank you, Professor."

"Bite me, Malfoy. Ow, that hurt, you rabid ferret!"

They are apart as well, the boys you watch. Separate and apart. They are afraid, and they are almost violent with fear. You remember fear/violence (do you, do you remember? lost, you lost it all you did it deliberately didn't you? didn't you?)

I do. I remember being afraid as they are afraid. I remember. But it hurts.

But you watch them anyway.

"She likes Dean Thomas. Dean Thomas?"

"I thought she liked girls."

"I thought she liked Hermione."

"This complicates things. Granger would have been much simpler."

"Yes."

"What are we going to do?"

"I don't know. Get to know Dean, I suppose."

"You cannot be serious."

So afraid. Breathe the fear, but you are not afraid. You have no one to be afraid for, not now, and you are safe. You are safe. Once you were, maybe, once you were (I was so) afraid. Not now. Now you find fear--you feed on it. The little fears, the small angers, you make them, then feed on them. Not as good as this. Delicious. You have become a terrible thing, but you are not afraid anymore.

You think that they would understand, the boys. They would, and there would be more fear, and it would be sweet.

You don't, I don't tell them. About...me. About what they could become. I never will.

"Draco, don't you think we owe her something? She's kept all these secrets for us--for years--"

"And we repay her by getting all three--four!--of us killed? No."

"If people catch on to her and Dean, we'll get--killed, honestly, don't be so dramatic--we'll get into trouble, yes. Don't you think it's bound to happen eventually, anyway, Draco? Hasn't it already started? And we owe her."

"Of course. She covered up a murder for you. Didn't she?"

I feed on the angry pain, but it hurts to be so close to it (I almost remember) it hurts my mind. You can almost see, almost smell the fear-worry-anger-lust (call it love) as it sparks like lightning between. You can almost feel it (I can almost feel).

"Draco, I--"

"No, stop. You're right. Padma Patil knows--my father knows. It's over. You're right. It'll even be easier in some ways."

"But you won't--the Slytherins won't--"

"Don't back down now that you've won, Potter. Anyway. I'll be fine in Slytherin as long as the rest of the school hates me--and no worries there. It's fine, Potter. I'll be fine."

"You'll be fine? Slytherin shagging the Golden Boy, and you'll be fine?"

"You're not the Golden Boy any more, Harry."

You listen to the silent pain.

"You're right. Of course you're right. I'm sorry."

"Sorry because you won. Stupid Gryffindor--we'll be fine. Everything will be fine. Dean Thomas it is."

"I love you, Draco."

"I know. You needn't be a sap about it."

(I love you, Sarah)

(So my sources report)

I hurts too much, and you, I, I leave. Can't stay, not when, when (once there was a boy who was very much in love) when the echoes start in my, your, my head. Echoes. (Don't worry, Sam--I'll be perfectly safe). Horrible echoes. (Oh, I won't be gone long, Sam--you needn't come with me). And the pain...

None of the little pains cause the echoes. Only these boys. Separate. Apart.

You run away. You always do.

You always watch again.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1998)

Seventh year

Harry and Draco are spending a lot of time with Dean. A lot. Why is this? I thought my longing looks were stealth. I thought they thought I liked girls. I don't like this being out of the loop--I mean to say, things are frightening enough when I know what's going on.

Maybe it isn't for my benefit. After all, why would it be? Why would they do anything for me? It would risk everything. For me. The stalker. Not bloody likely. So why?

Am worried. Also bothered.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1998)

Seventh year

Okay, I don't know WHAT THE HELL is going on, but it is NOT FUNNY anymore.

Well, all right, it is. But only objectively speaking.

Dean had lunch with us today. Indeed he did. I, of course, went all drifty and made complete arse of self. Mentioned blueferned nargongs. Couldn't help self. When panicking, babble on about Quibbler and frighten away scary things. But I don't want him to go away! Argh!

I like to think I'm fairly mature and balanced, but there are times when I am forcibly reminded that I am only sixteen. I fucking hate being sixteen.

Idiocy.

Dean smiled vaguely at me. Give him major points for tolerance; he didn't run. Lord, I would've. Mostly he talked to Harry. Mostly Draco stared at me. The gods are just messing with me, aren't they?

I hate everything.

* * *

(Dean Thomas, letter [unsent], 1998)

Seventh year

Dear Dad,

It's been an odd month. It's been a Harry Potter month, actually--I've told you about those, haven't I? They're very strange, and this was surely one of them. In contrast to most Harry Potter months, though, no one has died. Well done, Harry. Perhaps it's the part-time professorship that's settled him down.

Have I ever mentioned Draco Malfoy? He used to be Harry's...victimizer? He never quite earned the arch nemesis title--Voldemort, you know. Lucius Malfoy was tried on suspicion of being a Death Eater the last time around, but the honorable tradition of cash over justice was nobly upheld by the courts. Amazing how similar the wizarding and muggle worlds are, isn't it? You can tell Mum they're about the same--of course, I'd prefer that you didn't mention just what revelation persuaded you of the fact.

Anyway, about Draco Malfoy: you wouldn't expect him to be getting along with Harry Potter, but they are getting along. No one seems to know why. They've done one weird thing after another, for bizarre reasons all their own--at first Harry was pretending to be Malfoy's slave, and everyone thought Harry'd been hexed. I suspect Harry was just trying to shift the burden of attention from himself to Draco. Both of them would have liked that, and maybe that's all there is to it. After that, they sort of started acting like friends, but they were both flirting with Luna Lovegood. Have I mentioned Luna Lovegood? I will.

I guess I've pretty much figured out why they flirt with Luna. They're not really flirting types--they're madly possessive, jealous types. When Draco comes into a room, Harry watches him. When Harry is upset, Malfoy fidgets and finds an excuse to drag Luna over for a visit. Luna watches me, and I watch Luna. Harry and Draco haven't noticed.

I would say, who do they think they're kidding? but they're clearly confusing Seamus. And Parvati, and Lavender, and Padma, and the Creevys. The jury's out on Ron and Hermione, but for the most part the Plan, absurd though it may seem, appears to be working. That is to say, I think it's working--it's a bit hard to know when you have only the vaguest idea of what the Plan is meant to be.

Here's where it starts getting particularly strange. Mostly for Mum's peace of mind, I've carefully stayed away from all things related to Harry Potter's affairs--except for the DA, which is pretty much self defence. Then suddenly, a few weeks ago, Harry and Draco took me aside and tried to talk to me about Potions. I don't take Potions. The next week, they started bringing Luna to chat. Luna blushed a lot and babbled about the Quibbler. She does, when she's nervous.

Luna has frizzy hair, bug eyes, and seems to be slightly mad. She's also one of the most independent people I've ever met. I'm surprised she got pulled into this Harry and Draco thing. Her sense of self-preservation always seemed to be functioning, before. She does have a calming effect on the two of them, though--I've noticed it before.

You're wondering why I'm telling you all this. I want advice. I know I've never really asked for advice before, but I've never really felt so much like I was about to pitch myself off a cliff, praying that I'd grow wings before I hit bottom.

Ginny was...bright. In every sense of the word. Clever and active and inquisitive--the sort of fiercely burning person that I couldn't begin to keep up with. Luna is just as bright, but not so rushed, not so tense, not so panicky. She's perfect. She really is.

If Harry Potter told her to tie me to a chair so that he could torture me, she'd probably do it. She'd cry and have nightmares after, but she'd do it. And I'd let her.

What am I supposed to do? I haven't exactly mentioned all the mad stuff that goes on at this school, because I was terrified that you'd pull me out--but when I say that my life is in danger here, I'm not exaggerating. I just can't decide how much danger. Or rather, how much more danger would come from being closely linked with Harry Potter. The people who've died around Harry--an evil professor, a Hufflepuff he didn't really know, his godfather, his friend's mother--were not his nearest and dearest, or at least not his nearest. The ones absolutely closest to him--the ones under his eye--they seem to be pretty safe. God. Don't tell Mum about this, whatever you do. Don't tell anyone about this. What do you think I should do? Be serious with me--this isn't the time to be panicking. I want to know how much of a risk you think Luna Lovegood is, and I want you to tell me based on the...ridiculously limited information I've given you?

I don't know what to do.

Dean

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1998)

Seventh year

STILL don't know what's going on.

Today, informed Dean the ducks were taking over the world. Considered choking self to death with school tie.

And he said...

"Thought as much. 'Web-footed fascists with mad little eyes,' right?"

He gets it. He gets it! Ah!

I'm in love. I am. The boy fears ducks. I'm planning the wedding right now.

Except he's going to find out about me and Harry and Draco. Well, the love triangle thing I'm sure he knows. I think he knows. But girlfriends who are accessories to murder? Who would be again if necessary? I can't see it. Hello, Dean, I would kill for Harry Potter! Give us a kiss.

Oooh, we're so star-crossed. Just what I always wanted. Bah.

Anyway, just because he fears ducks doesn't mean he likes me. He probably thinks my hair is ugly and my eyes bug out. Because, well, it is and they do. Also, I don't know how to flirt. Am a raging incompetent in the whole flirting department.

Am being a nauseating adolescent. Stopping now.

Still haven't figured out my boys' plot concerning Dean. This terrifies me. I asked them, of course. They said, "We just felt like getting to know him." Right. In the middle of their Seventh year. Sure.

God. Have I mentioned that I hate everything? And life is making me tired. And stressed. I want to dig a hole and sleep in it for five years or so. Not a particularly practical plan, unfortunately...