True Faith

~*~*~*~
True Faith 04
~*~*~*~
"You can't change the world,
But you can change the facts,
And when you change the facts,
You change points of view,
And if you change points of view
You may change a vote
And when you change a vote,
You may change the world."

"New Dress", Depeche Mode
~*~*~*~

Bleary emerald eyes drifted open slowly, the ceiling of the tower remaining steadfastly blurred in the absence of his spectacles. Shafts of brilliant mid-morning light filtered in through the tiny gaps in his bed hangings, glittering motes of dust swirling lazily about the heavy red velvet drapes. The muscles of his legs were pleasantly sore as they always were in the aftermath of a good party.

The party. Oh god. Memory of yesterday's happenings flooded back to him in a rush of heat that made his feather comforter suddenly stiflingly hot. Harry kicked it away with unneeded ferocity, and settled flat on his back, limbs splayed widely.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of it. He'd always thought he'd had the other boy figured out. Even in light of the events of the previous week, he'd still thought that proud, sneering, sardonic veneer was what Draco was really like. He'd never, never expected Draco to show up last night after he'd said he wasn't interested. But show up he had, and it had been strangely thrilling for him to be found in Seamus's arms.

Draco's face had remained infuriatingly inscrutable. The only emotion Harry had been able to detect from across the room had been bored curiosity. Harry remembered the frustration that had risen in him like a tidal wave- he'd kissed Seamus again, before pushing him away. After all, he came to these parties to dance, not to be seen. He'd been pleasantly surprised when he'd realized Draco was walking purposefully towards him; his heart had leaped rather forcefully. Just the way that boy walked! The crowd seemed to part for him; either like Harry, just to watch him walk, or perhaps just because he simply exuded an aura of command.

Dancing with him… well, that had been heaven. The feel of that lithe, toned Seeker's body paired with a natural grace that Harry knew he'd never possessed… It had been perfection in the purest sense of the word. Then, Harry had quite gracelessly opened his mouth and inserted his foot. Ah, well. He'd apologized and been forgiven. A sudden longing to see Draco again clenched in his chest.

Draco himself was the embodiment of the Forbidden Fruit for Harry; though he may have given up his name and his family, Harry doubted that anyone who hadn't seen how deep the cuts in his wrists had been would believe it. He would just have to explain to his housemates…

On second thought, he couldn't explain to them. It wasn't his place to explain. Then again, if he didn't say anything, the whole school would know about it by dinner time; but then, the whole school would probably know about it by dinner time no matter what he said or did. They would probably assume that it had something to do with Draco's suicide attempt, and that Harry was just feeling obligated to continue his role as hero.

He WAS obligated to continue to play hero- but it wasn't for Draco's sake. The illusion of having a hero made them feel safer; the game of playing hero made him feel worthwhile. Because when it really came down to it, it was sort of a game, one he'd committed to playing before anyone had even told him the rules, or before he'd known what the consequences of losing would be. And they, the people who looked to him as their hero, would look at his time with Draco as… fraternizing with the enemy.

Well, the lot of them could think whatever they bloody wanted to. It wasn't any of their sodding business anyway. He had long since come to hate having to continue the hero game, but it made them all happy, and when they were happy they left him alone. And when they left him alone, HE was happy. They didn't ask him questions. He hated the questions perhaps even more then he hated the expectations. They were all full of "How are you holding up Harry?", "Are you getting enough to eat, Harry?", "Have you been sleeping alright, Harry?" or the worst, "Your scar hasn't been bothering you lately, has it, Harry?" If he heard that last one again anytime soon, he was going to kick the inquisitor in the bloody teeth. If it weren't for the fact that they left him alone when he did what they wanted, he would have given up the whole façade last year. And that's what they were now, all of them- a huge mass of nameless, faceless people all described by the bland but accurate words 'they' and 'them'. Every single one of them expected him to save their world from complete and utter destruction. He often wondered if anyone ever stopped to think of the sheer absurdity of the idea of the Wizarding World being saved by a mere seventeen-year-old boy? A boy who though had finally reached the respectable height of five feet ten inches, hardly weighed one hundred sixty pounds soaking wet? What that huge faceless 'They' didn't realize was that there was an eighty-five percent chance that they were sending him to his death. The fifteen percent chance of success was based heavily on ten percent luck, and the remaining five percent rested solely upon the single ace he had up his sleeve. His scar might as well have been an expiration date.

Well, he was going to do something HE wanted to do for a change, and fuck them ALL backwards and sideways if they didn't like it. More then likely, most of them would just smile and nod and let him do as he pleased, thinking they were humoring him, when it was really he that humoring THEM. Back once again to the massive nameless THEM. He didn't want to think about Them- by limiting them to only being 'Them'; they became less real to Harry, and therefore less to worry about.

Draco was so vividly REAL he was blinding in intensity. He was real in the same way that Harry felt he himself was real. It had become obvious to him that people were made, defined, and broken by the pain they had to live with, and how they dealt with that pain. Those who did not know pain existed in a blank void that had no definition, and conclusively were not real. Those who had known true pain could appreciate that void for what it really was. Those who had known real pain envied the others their blissful ignorance.

It was sometime last year that Harry had started to divide his world into things and people that were or were not real. Ron and Hermione were real- they had, to a much lesser extent, suffered along with him in Fifth Year. They had more of an idea of what it was that They expected of him. Neville was real too, more real by far then Hermione and Ron put together. Nobody ever gave Neville the credit he deserved; he had to be one of the most wonderful people Harry had ever met. He tried so HARD, and even when his failure seemed imminent, he STILL kept trying. He had suffered and lost so much, but was still willing to give everything he had left. When Harry had finally noticed these things, he'd made a point to become a better friend to him, and to include him when he, Hermione, and Ron did things together.

Neville, Harry knew, wouldn't ask him any questions about the party once he heard about it. Ron would give him the third degree; he had no idea what Hermione would do. That was something else he'd decided after Fifth Year based on his experience at the Yule Ball with Parvati Patil, and his one horrific date with Cho Chang, was that women were nice to look at, but far too emotionally unstable. Their brains had to be wired differently or something; he just couldn't understand the logic that made them act as they did.

Harry scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist. It was too early in the day to be having deep thoughts. He tried to reserve this kind of thinking for when he was properly awake; at least there was less chance that his mind would wander off and start thinking about things not relevant to his problem. The Great Faceless They was not his problem right now. His problem was what the people he actually cared about thought.

As a whole, he'd avoided romantic relationships; things of that nature he'd limited to flings, and he liked it that way. He avoided creating any more strong ties to anyone then he already had. He simply couldn't bear to lose someone else. That, more then anything that Voldemort could ever do to him personally, would break him beyond recognition. The loss of Sirius had nearly done it as it was: that was a fraying, ragged gap in his soul that could never be closed or filled. He wasn't sure he wanted a relationship with Draco even now; though he was more inclined to allow such a thing to develop with Draco then he would have anyone else. It all came back to how 'real' a person was, and right now Draco was the most real person Harry knew.

He had not explained to his three best friends that that was how he viewed the world now; he could see the looks of horror that greet him should he ever choose to enlighten them. Well, the looks of horror that Ron and Hermione would give him; Neville would look sad, and would try to understand. Perhaps that was another reason he was considering allowing a relationship to grow between himself and Draco. He sensed acutely that were he to tell Draco how he viewed the world that he would understand. Draco had also had unreasonable expectations placed upon him from the moment he took his first step; whatever Draco may have thought of himself, Harry thought that he was incredibly brave to break out of the mold that had been cast for him. This all brought him around to another very important question: Did Draco want any kind of relationship, or had he just been caught up in the mood of the party? He'd promised they would talk more today, but what did he mean?

There had always been something fascinating about Draco, though until a week ago, Harry would have cut out his own tongue rather then admit it. It was an indefinable Something; it was the Something that made people listen when he talked, and do the things he asked without questioning why. It was also what announced instantly when he'd entered a room; Draco had, for lack of a better phrase, stage presence.

There was more to it then that. Part of his instant dislike of Draco had been spurred by the fact that he was gorgeous, and he KNEW it. There was also, when they'd first met anyway, the fact that Draco had everything Harry had always wanted. That these things had been given to someone who had so obviously done nothing to deserve them… that had made Harry positively ill with jealousy.

The intense dislike had mutated somewhat when he'd run into Draco's father in Flourish and Blotts before the beginning of Second Year. Knowing that his enemy didn't have the loving family he'd imagined had been strangely satisfying. As the years had passed though, he'd often forgotten about Draco for months at a time- Harry had had about five hundred million other, more important, things to worry about. Unless it was Quidditch: mentioning school matches would always inevitably come back to the rivalry between their two houses, made so much more intense by the rivalry between the team's two Seekers.

He knew that he'd never really HATED Draco- he'd disliked him, sure, but hate was an emotion that had to have very solid foundation. You had to know a great deal about a person in order to be able to truly hate them. When it came right down to it, he knew very little about Draco; in fact he knew more about Lucius then he did about his son. The things he'd learned about Draco recently all pointed to him being nothing at all like the insufferable lout who'd sired him.

Harry's stomach chose that moment to issue a growl so loud that it derailed his train of thought, reminding him that even if his brain wasn't completely awake, his body was. And it needed food. Thank god it was Sunday.

He threw himself forward into a sitting position, hands fisting in the air as he stretched and then yawned so widely he thought his jaw would unhinge. Fumbling on the surface of his bedside table, he located his spectacles, and jammed them onto his nose, blinking owlishly as the world came back into focus.

Hopping stiffly from bed, he stripped out of his pajamas down to his boxers, and proceeded to dig through the clothing in his trunk in search of his last remaining clean shirt. It was another beautiful old relic he'd found at the second hand store. Instead of having sleeves that were cut straight around the shoulders like normal shirts, this one's brilliant red sleeves were cut diagonally up to the matching collar. The body of the shirt was white, and had the number thirteen silk-screened, also in red, on the front and back. People had always tried to convince him the number thirteen was unlucky. He figured that since he wasn't most people, what was normally an unlucky number should be lucky for him. He had a feeling he was going to need some luck today.

He finished dressing quickly; the rest of his dorm-mates were long gone by this time. After making his way down the long stone staircase to the common room, he ducked into the bathroom briefly and wet his hair in a weak attempt to make it lie down. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Today, his hair stubbornly refused to lay down- it stuck out from his head at relentlessly obstinate angles. Sighing deeply, he dragged his fingers through the wet locks, aggravating them further. At least when it was wet, it looked like it had been arranged that way on purpose.

Once he was through the portrait hole, he took the quickest route to the Great Hall; five years with the Marauder's Map in his possession had been fruitful indeed. He knew nearly every secret passage in the castle, and every shortcut. He'd even found a few that the Map didn't have.

The lunch hour was nearly past by the time he strolled into the Great Hall. Almost against his will, he found his eyes traveling to the Slytherin table in search of that head of silky platinum hair. The subject of his perusal was in fact lounging at the table's far end, a mammoth book open in front of him, half-heartedly stabbing at his abused lunch with a fork. Draco seemed to know immediately that he was being watched: he looked up abruptly as though fearing an attack. Silvery-gray eyes lined in dark ash-blonde lashes met his from across the room, and the whole of his pale face transformed. Even, white teeth flashed as they bit a little nervously into his bottom lip then releasing the pinked flesh, the corners of his mouth turning up into a secretive grin, before giving him coy wink. Harry felt an answering grin light his own features, and he nodded his acknowledgments.

There didn't seem to be any need to speak. That whole completely silent yet totally honest exchange had told Harry everything he'd needed to know. The absolute need to speak was gone, though he very much still wanted to. There were mysteries to be unraveled. However, he still had something to take care of before he could allow himself that luxury.

The Gryffindor table loomed almost menacing before him. It seemed almost that they had been waiting for him, because they were all still there: Ron, Hermione, Neville, Seamus, Lavender, Dean, Parvati and Ginny. It was time to bite the proverbial bullet. Deciding that he'd say nothing unless asked, he strode purposefully towards his house table.

He plopped down unceremoniously on the bench next to Ron, with a brief "Hullo!" before helping himself to the lamb stew. He dug in with gusto, but didn't fail to notice the silence that surrounded him, nor did he miss Seamus's slightly guilty expression. Ah. So that was how they'd found out.

Next to him, Ron cleared his throat loudly. "So," he began, "How was it last night?" They might as well have been conversing about the weather.

Harry careful chewed his mouthful of stewed potato before replying. "Fabulous. Music was better then usual. I think they found a different DJ last night; he was really good." Small talk. Let them bring it up. He slurped another spoonful of stew before gesturing down the table to Lavender. "You did a brilliant job on the lights this time, Lav." That was better; at least Lavender's stony expression had melted away, to be replaced by a flush of pleasure at the compliment.

Ron, however, plowed ahead. His tone was cold as he initiated the battle: "And snogging Malfoy? How was that?" A flush of anger was slowly creeping up over the flesh of his freckled neck from the collar of his shirt.

Harry froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. He sighed deeply and set his spoon down careful in his bowl, before looking up to meet the gazes of his friends. Seamus still looked guilty, while Dean was merely shaking his head in pity. Ginny's eyes seemed to be fixed on something only she could see while Lavender and Parvati had suddenly struck up a rather loud conversation about some bit of homework they needed to complete before tomorrow. Hermione apparently found the dregs of her stew fascinating- she was examining them as though they were the key to finding the Missing Link. Neville had looked up abruptly, startled; Ron was glaring at him so hard that Harry wouldn't have been surprised if he'd fainted from the intensity.

Heaving another sigh, he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on. "He's different now," was all he said before picking up his spoon again and resuming his meal.

"'He's different now'?" Ron blustered in rage, parroting his own words back at him. "You KNOW what he's like-!"

Harry looked up sharply, matching Ron's glare with one of his own. "No, actually, I DON'T know what he's like at all. And neither do you. None of us know ANYTHING about what he's really like. You don't have the foggiest fucking clue what he's been through, and I suggest you belt up and stow it until you find out. "

Eight jaws simultaneously dropped open, only to snap shut again with the audible clack of teeth hitting teeth. Ron's immediately fell open again, only to close once more. He opened his mouth yet again, this time apparently in an attempt to speak, only to discover that he was at a loss for words and closed his mouth again. He resembled nothing so much as a flounder that had somehow misplaced its watery home.

Several moments of silence passed, uninterrupted. It was Hermione that finally broke it. "Why don't you tell us what makes him different now? Help us understand," she asked gently.

"It's not my pl-" Harry began irately, before a soft, even tenor came from behind him.

"Lucius disowned me because I refused the Dark Mark." Draco had appeared almost from nowhere, and his pale, elegant hand had come to rest comfortably on Harry's shoulder. Reaching up, Harry laid his hand over Draco's and gave it a squeeze of thanks and support. The gesture was not lost on the assembled crowd, and eight jaws tumbled open yet again. Draco faced them all calmly, his face betraying nothing. The only outward sign of nervousness was the slight trembling of his hand where it still lay familiarly on Harry's shoulder.

Hermione was the first to recover from the shock, though she still looked as though someone had smacked her upside the head with something heavy. Her face screwed up momentarily in confusion before she began haltingly, "But… doesn't that mean…that you…" She trailed off, apparently unable to find the words she needed to complete her train of thought.

"That means I am no longer a member of the Malfoy family." Draco obligingly finished her half-vocalized idea. Everyone seemed to be chewing on this thought because no one spoke for the next few minutes.

"I don't believe it for a second," Ron finally announced, apparently bristling with what could only be defined as righteous indignation.

Harry could almost feel the familiar smirk slide into place on Draco's face behind him. "I'll show you the legal documents, if you like," he offered helpfully, his voice full of ironic amusement that spoke loudly of the lop-sided grin that was most assuredly on his face.

"But… why?" Ginny's confused voice came from a little ways down the table. Harry could tell that she was trying to put two and two together and was still somehow only getting three.

"Oh, please," Draco scoffed. "You've met Lucius. You know what's he's like. "

Ginny shook her head. "No, I meant why'd you refuse the Mark?"

Draco gave her the most confounded expression he had in his vast repertoire of expressions. "Do you have ANY idea of what the initiation is like? Imagine for a moment what might go on; then imagine that description being preceded by your own father saying. "Oh, I have great news; you're to be initiated, and I'm sure it will be fun. I remember my own like it was yesterday: 'Insert horribly revolting ordeal here'." Draco finished this rambling explanation by making a great flourish in the air with his left hand as he spoke the word 'here'.

"He's still your father," Neville cut in quietly. "Don't you want to make up with him?"

"Make up with a father who beat me senseless whenever I made the slightest mistake? I think not!" Draco huffed indignantly before continuing. "I'd just as soon slit my wrists again."

"So you really did try to kill yourself? It wasn't just a rumor?" Parvati inquired with quiet disbelief. Draco wordlessly removed his right hand from Harry's shoulder, unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt, and pushed up his sleeve before offering up his wrist for Parvati and Lavender to inspect. The two quiet gasps echoed loudly in the nearly deserted Great Hall as the two girls noticed the length of the cut, and how deep it must have been to leave such a noticeable scar. Hermione stood up to get a look at it as well, then immediately sat back down, shaking her head silently.

"Didn't yer mum e'er try an' stop 'em?" Seamus's thick Irish brogue drifted up, somehow making the question seem harsher then it really was.

"Of course not. She enjoyed watching too much to ask him to stop." Hermione's face attained a pallor that even some of the castle's resident ghosts would have been jealous of, and Lavender looked positively ill. Even Ron had the grace to grimace in disgust at that moment.

"Alright then." Dean, who had remained silent during the entire exchange, finally spoke up. "You can't be all bad, if it's like that." He stood, and offered his hand to Draco, who took it and shook it firmly twice. After releasing it, Dean held out his hand to Ginny. She stood up quickly, clasping the proffered hand. She gave Draco an appraising look, and Draco matched her gaze.

"Just don't make us regret this later, okay?" Her fiery-red head bobbed in a firm nod, and she and Dean turned and left the Hall. Seamus squawked loudly, and rushed after them, nearly tripping over the bench in his haste to stand up.

"Harry!" Ron sputtered. "Have you forgotten that he threatened to kill you at the end of Fifth Year?"

"I didn't have much choice, you know," Draco hissed quietly, not giving Harry a chance to answer for himself. "It's what everyone expected me to do, and I had to keep up the act. In reality, I was really thankful for not having to deal with Lucius for the whole summer."

Harry couldn't help but snerk into his pumpkin juice. He grinned widely, and turned to where Hermione and Neville were sitting opposite him. "Did that help you understand?"

Hermione glanced at Neville, who only shrugged. She seemed to think carefully about her answer for a moment; the longer she took the more apprehensive Harry began to feel about her reply. "I'm willing to give him a second chance," she finally said, her voice quiet, dark chocolate-colored eyes full of luminous seriousness. "I wouldn't wish on anyone the havoc you're going to cause when the rest of your house finds out." She finished, meeting Draco's silvery eyes, and offering him a tiny half-smile.

Draco gestured vaguely in the direction of the Slytherin table before whispering harshly, "Why do you think I haven't said anything to them? Although I think that now's a good a time as any to come out."

Without warning, Draco leaned forward and with gentle fingers brushing his jaw, tilted Harry's head back and kissed him. Harry thrilled instantly to the gesture; he knew with a certainty he couldn't quite describe that in this bold public display that Draco was severing his remaining ties to the world he had inhabited up until now. The commitment behind the gesture was immensely staggering.

Harry felt the beginnings of something swell inside his chest. His respect for Draco was being multiplied every second his mouth lingered on Harry's own. He returned the gesture with enthusiasm he hadn't felt in a very long time, his lips parting to allow Draco's tongue into the warm recesses of his mouth. His back and neck arched like a bow, he reached up to thread his fingers through the silky platinum strands at the nape of Draco's neck. The girlish-soft tips of Draco's long delicate fingers traced the arched line of his neck, just above Adam's apple, in the hollow under his jaw. Harry tried to stifle his gasp, but in the silent Hall it seemed appallingly loud. He hoped that his response made plain to the other boy, and to his friends for that matter, that he knew and understood the gravity of his decision. The moment passed in silence, and too soon, Draco pulled away to see what response this would garner.

Neville was blushing to the roots of his hair. Ron, Harry was gratified to see, what staring in open, unabashed shock, the anger having drained from his face. He had a feeling that this had convinced him of how different Draco truly was from what they'd always thought in a way that nothing else could have. Hermione seemed to be transfixed, and was staring in unashamed fascination at Draco. Her dark eyes were curiously feverish, as though she was only seeing him for the first time.

Harry dared at that moment to glance across the hall at the Slytherin table. Only a few bodies still occupied it, but one of them happened to be Pansy Parkinson, who had until that very moment been conversing with Blaise Zabini on only God knew what. Both Zabini and Parkinson were staring in their direction in open, undisguised horror and mind-boggling shock. Though he didn't turn to check, he had a feeling that anyone else still present in the Hall who hadn't attended the party the previous night were staring in a like manner. In morbid curiosity, he forced himself to look up to the teacher's table. Only Professors Sprout, Vector, and McGonagall were present, but had not failed to notice the event that had just taken place. McGonagall caught Harry's eye; she smiled softly, a faint blush coloring her cheekbones. Nevertheless, she nodded in what Harry hoped was approval, her eyes twinkling.

"I still don't like him," Ron muttered darkly, glaring into the remains of his bowl of stew. Hermione chose that moment of inattention to whap him soundly upside the head.

~*~*~*~

Chapter 5 Preview: Draco has a startling revelation, and Pansy does the only thing she can think of- run straight to Snape's office.