Catharsis

Chapter Eight - Music of the Heart

Draco was beginning to wonder if he should simply ask to move his bed to the piano room, since he seemed to be spending most of his time there, when he wasn't in the library. He was there again this night, after lights-out, seeking through an act of sheer will to purge himself of the strange and disturbing memory of kissing Harry Potter. What had he been thinking? Oh, that's right, he thought bitterly, pounding the keys. He hadn't been thinking at all. He had let his instincts take him willy-nilly into the most... he paused a moment, his breath catching in his chest. Yes it really was the most incredible kiss he'd ever experienced. He didn't think there were enough superlatives in the world to describe it. He'd kissed people before - girls and boys - and none of them had been anything like this. None of them had been Harry Potter.

His first kiss had been Pansy, of course, the first year they'd come to Hogwarts. It was a dry and uncomfortable experience, with neither of them really wanting to and both feeling obligated. He was much happier when, in their third year, she'd announced to him uncertainly that she thought they should be "just friends". He'd wholeheartedly agreed, and their relationship had improved significantly. Since his return from Durmstrang however, she'd been hostile and unapproachable, hiding her misery behind a cold exterior. He made a mental note to have a little chat with Pansy, and sooner rather than later.

It was Durmstrang, really, that had opened the door to a world of pleasant physical experiences that he'd been missing. He supposed that it was partly the distance from his parents that encouraged him to explore that world, and he couldn't deny that his three months with Stefan had been enjoyable, if a bit shallow. But all that paled when compared to last night.

And damn if he didn't want more. Might as well want the moon, he thought bitterly. You're just as likely to get it. The universe quite clearly had it in for him. Why else did it have to be Harry Potter?

Violently, he expelled the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He really didn't feel like confronting his feelings right now. Draco flipped through the music in front of him looking for something sufficiently challenging to take his mind off his incomprehensible actions of the previous night, and his body's disturbing reaction to the experience.

Draco barely heard the click of the door behind him. His hands froze in mid-air. "Potter," he said, the name catching in his throat.

"Yeah," came Harry's soft reply. "I was hoping you'd be here."

Draco stared at the piano. "What do you want?" he asked tensely.

"Oh, well..." Harry paused and shifted uncertainly, removing the invisibility cloak and dropping it on the chair in front of the fireplace. "I, um, I came to apologise."

Draco's laugh was a bark. "Don't you think it's me who owes you an apology?"

"No," said Harry. "Well - maybe. I don't know. I just thought you might be... upset, you know. That I ran out on you like that."

"Hah." Draco reached for a sheet of music, hoping his hand wasn't trembling visibly. "Don't worry about it, Potter. I'm sure my ego will recover. Besides," he added, "last night... whatever it was... it didn't mean anything."

"Oh, well," said Harry, sounding irritated. "Thanks a bunch."

"Nothing personal," Draco said flippantly. "You're simply not my type."

"Then why did you..." Harry couldn't finish the sentence.

"I have no idea what that was about, Potter," Draco snapped. "Stress, probably."

"Look, it's just... I don't want for things to be like that between us, Malfoy. It's too... complicated."

Draco would have laughed at the earnest tone of Harry's words, if his chest hadn't suddenly constricted, making breathing difficult and laughter out of the question. Two sheets of music slid from his numb fingers and dropped to the floor. "Fine," he grunted as he dived under the keyboard to retrieve them. "Then we're agreed."

"Right," Harry nodded, still seeming uncertain.

Draco set the manuscript on the piano and then looked over at Harry expectantly. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Isn't this the part where you swear your undying heterosexuality and leave the room in a blaze of glory?"

"Um," Harry looked confused. "Do you want me to leave?"

"I suppose you can stay. If you want to." Draco looked at him closely. "But only if you can behave yourself," he added.

Harry snorted, moving at last to his seat in the window. "I'm not the one who... oh never mind," he added exasperated.

"Indeed," Draco agreed. They were silent as he organized his sheet music.

"So what are you playing tonight?" Harry asked, wanting to steer their conversation to less treacherous waters.

"Scriabin," said Draco. "Know him?"

"No."

"It's quite challenging," Draco flipped to the first page of the manuscript. "Say, Potter? I wonder if you would do me a favor."

"What?" The tension was back in Harry's voice.

"This piece is difficult enough, it would be really helpful if I had a page-turner."

Harry stared at Malfoy, scandalized. "I thought we agreed..."

Draco laughed, a little of the tension draining away as he did. "Oh do get your mind out of the gutter, Potter! All you need to do is turn the page when we get to the end."

"How will I know?" Harry asked, still flustered.

"You don't read music?"

"No. Sorry."

"Just watch me then, and I'll nod when it's time." Draco slid over to make room beside him on the bench.

Harry approached hesitantly and then, seeming to reach some decision, he sat next to Draco and peered at the music. "Okay."

Draco launched into an incredibly fast piece of music and was delighted to note, out of the corner of his eye, Harry's open-mouthed reaction to the piece. His fingers danced over the keys with blinding speed and heart-wrenching accuracy. Damn, I am good, he thought proudly. Harry managed to turn the page just in time, belatedly recognizing Draco's nod as a signal.

"Wow," Harry breathed as the piece reached its tumultuous ending.

Draco looked up at him with a smirk, his hair falling into his eyes. "Short, but ultimately satisfying," he agreed. He flipped through the music on the stand until he found another piece. "Here," he said. "Let's do this one."

An hour slipped by, and then another. Harry glanced out the window. The moon was gone. "I need to get back," he said quietly, as Draco finished a rather subdued piece. "It's getting late."

"Well, that's about enough Scriabin for one evening," Draco agreed, standing up and stretching. He looked down at Harry. "Right then. Bedtime."

"Right." Harry squirmed, uncomfortable under Draco's evaluating gaze.

"Oh, come on," Draco grabbed Harry by the elbow and pulled him to his feet. He looked at his hand a moment, then back to Harry's face. Reluctantly dropping Harry's arm, he turned and gathered up his music. "All good things must come to an end, Potter."

"You know, that was quite the piano lesson." Harry walked to the armchair and picked up his invisibility cloak, fingering it uncertainly. "Yesterday, I mean." He glanced at Draco.

"Oh that was nothing," Malfoy observed nonchalantly, stepping around the bench with his arms full of music. "You should try Mozart." His eyes slid sideways to Harry, and he smiled slyly.

"Oh," Harry replied, blushing slightly. "Um, yeah. We should try that next time."

*********************************

In the week that followed, Harry couldn't decide if he was dreading or happily anticipating another dream like the one he'd had on Halloween night. In either case, he was not given the opportunity to choose, as a week later he found himself dreaming and aware.

He was standing on a hill overlooking the sea. The air was heavy with the pungent scent of ocean life and death. In the distance he heard, faintly, gulls crying. The night was poorly illuminated by a few scattered stars and a failing moon.

He turned suddenly, sensing movement, and peered through the darkness across the grassy hillock. The outline of someone walking toward him gradually resolved itself into the figure of a short, round man, walking with his hands in his pockets as if he was having a good long think. As he got closer, Harry recoiled in shock. While he appeared much younger than the last time Harry had seen him, this was unmistakably Peter Pettigrew walking through the darkness.

Harry's fists clenched at his sides as rage flooded through him. Unable to stop himself he shouted "Hey!" before remembering that here, as in all his dreams, he was just an observer.

Peter hesitated as he approached Harry, almost as if he had heard him yell. He glanced over Harry's shoulder, and Harry, reacting instinctively, turned to see what he was looking at. There was a dark figure approaching from the seaward side of the ridge. Its cloak billowed in the breeze, its hood was raised so he couldn't see the identity of the figure. Harry felt his scar tingle, but faintly, like the memory of an old wound. He reached up unconsciously and touched it, suddenly certain of the identity of figure. He turned back to look at Peter, who had his arms wrapped around his chubby form. He was shivering uncontrollably, and Harry knew it wasn't from cold.

"Pettigrew." The high cold voice confirmed Harry's suspicions. "You have come."

"Y-yes," Peter stuttered, his shivering continuing unabated. "I - I've agreed to hear you out."

"You have chosen the path of wisdom," the sibilant voice agreed. "There is much to be gained by making the correct choice."

"I haven't made any choices yet," said Peter. Harry was surprised by the tone of resolve he heard there. He looked more closely at Pettigrew. The man appeared frightened, but resolute. What is he doing here? Harry wondered. Is this where it all started?

"Come," the cloaked figure gestured with a bony hand. "Let us discuss this in more comfortable surroundings." He pulled a portkey from his robes and extended it to Peter, who took it hesitantly.

Harry automatically reached out to touch Peter, some impetus making him feel it was absolutely urgent that he accompany them to see the results of their meeting. He understood this was the past and there was no way he could alter it, but if he understood the past better then perhaps it would help him in the present. His vision faded with the disorientation of the portkey as it took them swirling to a darkened room.

Harry watched as Voldemort took out his wand and pointed it at the fireplace. "Incendio," he hissed, and the fire leapt up in the grate.

Voldemort pointed to the two armchairs that were drawn up to the fire. A small table sat between the chairs, a decanter and two glasses on it. The liquid inside glinted redly in the light of the fire. Peter cautiously lowered himself into one of the armchairs. Harry was reminded suddenly of the dream he'd had years ago, in which Voldemort had killed Frank Black, the Muggle. He clenched his jaw, determined to watch this scene play out however it would.

He was shocked when Voldemort removed his cloak and hung it in the hallway, then came to sit, with a rustle of robes, in the empty armchair. This was not the Voldemort he'd seen after the resurrection ritual in the graveyard. This was not the Voldemort that Professor Quirrell had carried, after he'd been disembodied. This was Voldemort in the full height of his power, and the image was more terrifying than Harry could have imagined. He glanced at Peter and felt an unexpected pang of sympathy at the horrified expression on the man's face.

"Peter," Voldemort said in a high cold voice, "do not make the mistake of taking me for a fool. I know you have heard reports from the field."

"I'm here to listen," Pettigrew said, with surprising firmness. "I'm not making any promises."

"Not just yet, I suppose." Voldemort steepled his fingers and sat back in his chair. Harry was horrified as he realized the gesture reminded sharply of Professor Dumbledore. "No, I suppose you will have to be... convinced. Of the rightness of my position."

Peter began to sweat. "You're not threatening me, are you Voldemort?"

"Threaten? Of course not. I understand your position. You have friends you believe will protect you. Of course," Voldemort tapped idly on one knee, "Harry Chapin had friends as well."

Peter stared uncomprehendingly at Voldemort for a long minute. "Had?" he finally worked his mouth around the word.

Voldemort sighed. "Had," he confirmed. "Most unfortunate. I would have preferred to continue working with him, but..." He trailed off, one hand waving vaguely to some unseen future. "I would hate to see you arrive at the same end, Peter." Cold eyes glittered menacingly.

"No," Peter said, numbly, his face gone pasty-white even in the red glow of the firelight. "I don't believe you."

Voldemort chuckled, a sound that came out as something between a cackle and a hiss. "I expected as much." He picked up a small silver bell that sat on the mantle-piece, and rang it once, sharply. As the sound faded, a hooded figure stepped into the room and walked to stand beside Voldemort's chair. Voldemort leaned over and whispered something to him, at which point he turned and left the room.

When he returned, it was in the company of another Death Eater. Between them they were supporting a third man who clearly couldn't have walked in on his own.

His sandy hair hung nearly obscuring his face, which would have been a mercy. As it was, Harry had no trouble determining that he'd been beaten very badly. If his body had suffered as badly as his face, Harry had no difficulty understanding why he wasn't moving under his own power. The blood on his robes was mostly dried, though a smattering of fresh redness that dripped from his nose onto his chest indicated he was still capable of bleeding.

Where Peter had looked sickly and terrified before, he was now nearly beyond speech. "Chapin?" he whimpered pitifully in a tone reminiscent of his later speech. The man hung between his captors, unresponsive.

"Let's see if we can get his attention, shall we?" Voldemort said with deceptive casualness. He raised his wand and pointed it at Chapin. "Crucio!"

The man suddenly screamed, his whole body stiffening between the two guards. It was like watching someone being electrocuted, Harry thought, feeling strangely disconnected. There was no thrashing about, just this rigid body that screamed, and screamed. Peter covered his eyes and whimpered.

"Finate incantatem." The effect of the softly spoken words was immediate: the screaming stopped and Chapin slumped unconscious in the hands of his guards once more .

Voldemort appeared satisfied with Peter's reaction. "There is little I enjoy more than the corruption of a true and honest Gryffindor," he said in an obscenely confessional tone. Harry's hands fisted helplessly at his sides.

"No," Peter moaned, unable to watch as the guards removed Chapin from the room. "You can't touch me." His hands gripped the arms of the chair convulsively and his eyes darted around the room, seeking escape.

Voldemort rose to his feet, pointing his wand at Peter, his lips drawn back from his teeth in an expression that might have passed for a smile, had it been less feral. "Let's see, shall we?"

With a start, Harry woke trembling in his bed. Sudden nausea propelled him to his feet, and he barely made it to the bathroom in time.

Five minutes later, he'd washed his face and was sitting cross-legged on his bed, wide awake. One finger traced across the cover of his dream journal and he was seized by a sudden irrational anger at the thing. It was only the record, of course, but somehow it felt as though he wouldn't be having these dreams if he didn't have the means to record them. Logically he knew that wasn't true, but it seemed these days that logic was getting harder to swallow. He barely restrained himself from throwing the journal across the room.

Instead Harry lay down and closed his eyes, wishing he was back in the piano room with Draco. He nearly laughed at the irony of it - that his first thought for comfort would be the company of a boy who had tormented him for years. It's funny, he mused, turning restlessly on the bed, how much things can change. He'd been both relieved and faintly disappointed that their moment of intimacy from a few nights before had not been repeated. Was that what he wanted? he thought, biting his lip. Didn't this dream prove that he didn't have time for that kind of complication in his life right now? "What the hell do you want anyway, Harry?" he whispered to the sleeping room.

The room offered no answers.

*********************************

Several nights later, he still hadn't resolved anything. Harry had met with Dumbledore and dutifully reported the entirety of his dream. Dumbledore had appeared grave but unsurprised. He'd agreed with Harry that it was likely that he'd seen something out of the past - even confirmed that Peter had first met with Voldemort some time in 1980, though no one had known the exact location, nor the motive for Peter's betrayal.

"It all makes perfect sense now," Dumbledore had said, patting Harry's arm consolingly. "Thanks to you, Harry, we now have another piece of the puzzle."

The next few days Harry found catching up on his schoolwork, the end result of which was a free Friday night. Ron had tried to entice Harry into a game of chess after dinner, but Harry had excused himself and gone to bed early, only to wake around midnight with a head full of questions. Completely unable to sleep, he'd finally dressed and gone out walking with his invisibility cloak.

The truth of it was that Harry was still confused.

This was nothing new, but of all the things he had been confused about in his life, he decided that his relationship with Draco Malfoy must be the most bizarre. He couldn't remember anyone with whom he'd moved so fast from being enemies, to being friends (or at least friendly, he thought) to being... what, exactly? Really good friends? Snogging buddies? (Was there such a thing?) This was unexplored territory, and Harry was frankly terrified.

He had gone to one of his old "thinking spots" - the bleachers in the Quidditch stadium. He had plenty to think about, but the true source of his confusion was Draco. Malfoy. Whatever he chose to call him, the boy was trouble. In all the years he'd been at Hogwarts, no one could get under his skin like Draco. Trouble was, now it was for entirely different reasons.

And yes, Harry admitted, Draco had changed. He couldn't imagine them having a pleasant conversation before this year, much less... Harry shied away from the memory of the kiss. So intense it was painful. So perfectly... impossible. It was just impossible. There was no way - every time he ran the equation he came up with the same inevitable answer. Malfoy was on one side of the line, and Harry and everyone he cared about was on the other.

Harry realised with some surprise that it didn't really bother him much that he felt this way about a boy. He'd had a crush on Cho Chang not because she was a girl, but because she was herself. He felt, well, whatever it was that he felt about Draco not because he was a boy, but because he was... Draco. Irritating and fascinating, surprisingly funny and deadly serious, and yes, attractive. Harry let that thought rest in his mind as he lay on his back, wrapped in his cloak, contemplating the night sky. Finally, when he felt brave enough, he faced the question that still hung unspoken: exactly how did he feel about Draco? The answer from his internal monologue was a jumble of emotions ranging from irritation to curiosity to... desire. Feeling hopelessly muddled, Harry decided he should probably just give up for the night and go to bed.

As he reached the castle entrance, Harry noticed a solitary cloaked figure walking towards him, matching his own progress. Immediately alert, he stopped by the door, waiting for the figure to catch up with him, relying on his invisibility cloak for concealment. As the figure reached the door, Harry realized it was Draco. Without thinking, he reached out to touch the other boy's arm.

Draco stumbled back, panicked, as he felt the unseen touch on his arm. "Who's there?" he hissed, backing up against the door and fumbling for his wand.

"Sorry," Harry replied, letting the cloak slip from his head. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"Harry! You shouldn't go sneaking up on people like that," Draco scolded, catching his breath. "I could have hexed you, not knowing who it was."

"Oh yeah?" Harry snorted. "I'd like to see you try." Two steps brought him close enough to see the other boy clearly in the waning moonlight.

"No, you wouldn't," said Draco flatly. "I've had more practice with Dark Arts than you have, don't forget." He pulled his hand out of his pocket. It was empty.

"I haven't forgotten," Harry replied, tilting his head, staring into Draco's eyes.

Draco stared at him, one strand of hair hanging over his eyes. He looked pale, Harry thought, but then, Draco always looked pale. Did he ever blush? Or was he always like this - white marble? Impulsively, Harry reached out and brushed away the stray locks, at the same moment Draco slipped his arms beneath the invisibility cloak and pulled him close. Then Draco's lips found his, and he was lost, and it was the best feeling in the world.

Harry struggled to free his left arm from where Draco had it pinned between them. Draco, misunderstanding his actions, started to pull away, which allowed Harry to slide the arm around Draco and draw him back. His right hand cupped Draco's cheek before sliding into his hair, coming to rest at the back of his head. Harry drew a pattern of kisses across Draco's mouth, delighting when Draco moaned softly and settled against him in a tender embrace.

After a long moment, they both pulled away, trembling. "Harry," Draco whispered, his words puffing fog between them. "I thought we weren't going to do this again."

"I thought I wasn't your type," Harry grinned triumphantly.

"You're not," Draco smirked. "But that doesn't mean I can't make an exception."

Their eyes met, and Harry marveled that this beautiful, volatile creature had ever been his enemy. Deliberately, he leaned toward Draco and kissed him again, parting his lips just enough to let the tip of his tongue slide out and caress Draco's upper lip.

Draco's breathing quickened and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Harry felt an intense craving, something like hunger. It seemed like devouring the Slytherin boy might be sufficiently satisfying, and he wasn't going to stop until he figured that out.

Harry moaned softly as the other boy's tongue slid into his mouth, caressing his tongue and lips. His left arm tightened convulsively around Draco's back where his fingers started a circular stroking motion.

When they parted again, several long moments later, both boys were short of breath and trembling. Harry leaned his chin on Draco's shoulder, holding him tightly while the Slytherin's hands stroked Harry's back. Suddenly Harry pulled away and stared at Draco in shock.

"No," said Draco, seeing the pain in Harry's eyes.

"No, what?" Harry replied, startled.

"Whatever you were thinking, the answer is no," Draco said.

"I was wondering if you'd been replaced with your good twin while I wasn't looking," Harry joked weakly. His expression relaxed somewhat, and he gave Draco a genuine smile.

"Oh," Draco said, somewhat taken aback. "You worried me for a moment there. It occurred to me that you might have thought I was having you on."

"That is something you would have done, at one time," Harry observed, leaning into Draco's shoulder again. Draco felt, rather than saw, his smile.

"But not anymore?" Draco asked lightly, rubbing his cheek against the top of Harry's head.

Harry straightened and gave him an appraising look. "No, I don't think so."

Draco nodded seriously. "What, then?"

"I don't know," Harry bit his upper lip and Draco felt an overwhelming urge to kiss him again. Instead, he disentangled his arms from Harry's, wanting to let the boy speak. "This is just so weird. Sudden, I mean," he added in a rush, looking at his companion, who gazed back at him waiting for him to finish. "I don't know what it all means." Draco simply nodded.

"I mean, you've changed a lot since we first met," Harry continued. "And I've changed too, if this is any indication." He grinned at Draco, who felt a tension he hadn't known he'd been carrying uncurl in his stomach.

"I like you, you know," Harry offered simply. Draco closed his eyes, gripping his own elbows tightly. "I've often hated your behaviour, but I always wanted for things to be good between us. I wanted that from the beginning. I never enjoyed fighting with you, though to be honest I always got a thrill when I'd beat you at something. I never understood why you hated me. And I hated that you treated me and my friends like dirt."

"I hated you for turning away from me that first day. For choosing those Gryffindors instead of me," Draco said roughly. "I hated the way everyone bent over backwards for you, respected you just for who you were, not for anything you actually did. I guess... that hit a little too close to home. I understood that, being a Malfoy and all. And yet you had the gall to reject my friendship. It was the first time in my life someone actually hurt me, and I didn't like it at all. I felt so..."

Harry interrupted him. "Stop," he said firmly. "I understand it now. I was... stupid. I never even tried to rise above it, I just wanted to get a bit of my own back. It never occurred to me to try to see things from your point of view." Harry's hands turned Draco's face and held it gently. "For what it's worth now, I'm sorry. I should have been the one to try to patch things up. I should have tried." He leaned in and kissed the boy, his calloused fingers gently caressing Draco's face. This was better than flying, he thought, wonderingly. Oh yes, much better.

"Umph!" Harry's mind registered shock when he suddenly felt Draco's hands slide down his back and across his arse, pulling him in closer. "Oh. Um..." Harry gasped against Draco's neck. "Draco. Um... I think... we'd better stop this right about here." He squirmed involuntarily against Draco's hands, a motion that made them both shiver.

Draco released him reluctantly and they pulled away from each other, breathless and trembling.

Harry reached up to touch Draco's hair. "We should go in," he sighed.

"Yes, I suppose so," Draco murmured with just a hint of disappointment.

Harry gently squeezed Draco's arm. "We can see each other again tomorrow. I mean, if you want."

"What do you think?" Draco asked, running one hand teasingly across Harry's backside, goosing him so that Harry jumped. "Of course I want. Now will you walk me home?"

"Of course," Harry said, flushing as he picked up the invisibility cloak, which had slid forgotten to the ground. "I can be that much of a gentleman." Draco snorted, dubious. Harry drew the cloak around the two of them, enjoying the feel of Draco's arms wrapped tightly around him.

When they got to the Slytherin dungeons, Draco unwillingly slid out of Harry's embrace, planting a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. "See you soon," he whispered as he slid through the entrance to his dorm.

Harry sighed happily, hugging the cloak around himself as his feet carried him back to his own dorm.

Back at Gryffindor Tower, Harry stepped through the portrait hole, only to freeze like a deer caught in the headlights. Ron and Hermione stared at him stonily. Ron had his arms crossed, and a deep frown etched his face. Hermione was wearing her disappointed face. "Where have you been?" she asked, annoyed. "And no lying allowed," she continued as he opened his mouth to speak. "So don't even start."