Catharsis

Tuesday evening after dinner, Draco retired to his room to read the letter that had been delivered that morning. He'd put it off long enough, and finally couldn't delay any longer.

Draco winced at the thought of his father's displeasure. It did not bode well for his return home for the holidays, that was certain.

You will need to make certain that you are current in your schoolwork prior to the Christmas holiday. I do not expect that you will have time for that sort of thing once you are home. Your family obligations will be somewhat more demanding this year.

"'Family obligations'. Is that the current euphemism?" Draco muttered bitterly. He threw the crumpled letter down on his bed. Then he flopped on his back and let out a sigh of frustration, staring at the dark green velvet hangings above. His pleasant mood from the previous night was destroyed. Disgusted, he decided to take a shower before embarking on what had become a regular quest for information.

The privacy of the bathroom was one of the very few places Draco allowed his face to relax and express what he was actually feeling. The public face, as his mother reminded him, was an important bit of self-protection. It required discipline to maintain it day after day.

A soft smile crept to his features as he recalled his meeting with Harry on the grounds the previous Sunday. He'd been truly alarmed when a hand had grabbed him out of nowhere. His panic dissolved into irritation followed by relief when he realized it was Harry. He closed his eyes, letting the water wash over his face, remembering the incredible sweetness of Harry's kiss, and his surprisingly open response to the bit of arse-grabbing he was treated to. Draco wasn't really sure what to expect, but after the fiasco with Bruno at Durmstrang (who obviously enjoyed the physical nature of their relationship but good god don't even think about kissing me because I'm not... you know....) Draco paused, scowling at the memory, fingers combing through wet hair. He didn't know how far Harry's sensibilities would allow him to go, but Draco fully intended to impress the other boy with the joys of a physical relationship. Ah. Is that where we are now? Relationship? Draco, you really can't afford to go all hearts and flowers with this. He sighed and reluctantly shut off the water. Time to visit the library. Again.

Draco had spent the last few weeks methodically combing the library from one end to the other. Unfortunately there was quite a lot of library to comb, especially with his access to the restricted section, courtesy of Professor Snape. He began logically enough, in the History section. There he ploughed through impressive tomes like Famous Death Eaters and Their Victims and A Short History of He Who Must Not Be Named, Volume Five: the Reign of Terror. He wondered if Harry knew just how many books he was mentioned in. Draco certainly had been blissfully unaware of the number of citations that Harry had earned in his short time as 'The Boy Who Lived'. "Definitely more than his fifteen minutes of fame," he muttered to himself with just a trace of his old resentment.

At any rate, it had become outstandingly clear to him that the Death Eaters were a gruesome bunch. He shivered at the story of Griselda Plantain, who single-handedly cursed an entire town to death by asphyxiation in 1976. Voldemort's followers were certainly a force to be reckoned with back then.

Draco gave a little squeak, nearly jumping out of his skin as a hand spread itself across his back. He jumped to his feet and spun around, knocking the book off the table. Harry bent to retrieve it for him, while Draco swore quietly, fists clenched at his sides. Madame Pince was nowhere to be seen. In fact, their corner of the library was entirely empty. He was suddenly glad for that when Harry dropped the book on the table and wrapped his arms around Draco, nuzzling his neck fondly. His hair was wet, as though he'd just showered. He must have been at Quidditch practice, Draco realised. His clothes retained the scent of exertion - a sweet mixture of sweat and the faint odour of grass, like the broom-shed on a rainy day.

"Hi," Harry whispered, stirring the hair behind his ear. "Do you mind?"

"I'm holding you responsible if I go prematurely grey," Draco hissed at him, though he was sure the effect was somewhat lessened by his fingers trailing up the Gryffindor's spine to nestle in the hair at the base of his neck.

"And here I would have thought with your great Slytherin instincts you would know when there was someone behind you." Harry ruffled Draco's hair, annoying him greatly, before pulling him into a long kiss. Draco would have thought the dreamy smile on Harry's face looked absurd if he hadn't been too breathless to care.

"And what was that for?"

"Because I can."

Draco nearly laughed at the silly expression on the Gryffindor's face, but contented himself with a derisive snort. "Harry," he grumbled, pulling away from the other boy (albeit reluctantly). "You're too distracting. Can't you see I'm working here?"

"Oh yes? What are you working on?" Harry picked up the nearest book. The smile fell from his face as he read the title. "Morsmordre: the Voldemort Years? Draco, what's this?"

"Special project," Draco replied shortly. There was no way he was going to drag Harry into his little 'Death Eater Problem' as he was beginning to think of it. "I'm writing a paper for Snape."

"Oh? About Death Eaters?" Was he imagining it, or had Harry's voice suddenly dropped several degrees?

Draco responded with his usual solution to a problem: he applied an appropriate diversionary tactic. In this case, physical intervention seemed to be required. He hooked his finger under Harry's chin and pulled his face up to stare into his eyes. He really did have drop-dead gorgeous eyes, Draco thought muzzily. "Will I see you later tonight?" he asked, the huskiness in his voice entirely unfeigned.

Draco was certain that Harry's mouth would have dropped open, had he not been supporting the boy's chin with one hand. He blinked several times before replying faintly, "Um, yeah. Okay. Sure." He closed his eyes as Draco's lips sought and found his. Draco told himself it was helpful to the subterfuge he was attempting, but the truth was that he simply wanted to kiss Harry again. Since his needs coincided with his desires at that moment, he didn't think it would be too awful to indulge himself just a bit. He felt a flash of heat as his hands wandered under Harry's jumper, to find warm skin underneath. Harry shivered and moaned quietly, arching into Draco's touch. Well, this is encouraging.

The sharp squeal of a door hinge alerted them to the fact that the library was not entirely deserted. Draco jumped back from where he'd pinned Harry against the table, adrenaline making him move faster than he would have thought possible.

"Piano room," Draco muttered as Harry straightened his jumper and stepped away from the table. "Tonight. Now get lost, Potter." The accompanying smile was calculated to soothe any sting the words might inflict.

"Okay," Harry mumbled, apparently soothed. "See you then."

Draco took a deep breath as he watched the sufficiently distracted Harry walk away. This could get complicated. He sat and tried to get back to his reading, but the words danced on the page and refused to make sense. Finally he slammed the book shut and closed his eyes. Laying his head on the book he wished, not for the first time, that there was a spell that would allow him to absorb the information directly from the book.

**********

The parchment was dropped in his lap by a school owl at breakfast Wednesday morning.

Harry looked up from the note. "Sorry Ron."

Ron shrugged. "That's okay."

"You can get caught up on your homework," Hermione interjected.

They both looked at Hermione. "What?" she asked, defensively. "It's not like he doesn't need to study."

"Hermione, NEWTs aren't until next year," Ron reminded her, rolling his eyes.

"It's never too early to start revising," she responded severely, but her expression was mischievous.

Harry couldn't help but grin. Things were back to normal, and it was a wonderful feeling.

It hadn't been a wonderful feeling when he'd walked into the common room two nights before. Hermione had scolded him, sounding exactly like the mother he didn't have.

And he'd lied to them. Well, not exactly lied, he argued to himself. If anything, it was a lie of omission. He'd explained that he couldn't sleep and went walking, like he frequently did. They fussed over his increasing distance with them, his distraction and lack of openness. He promised he'd talk to them more, and apologised for being distant, and generally agreed to open up more. Hermione had stared at him suspiciously and then hugged him fiercely. "We don't want you feeling like you can't rely on us to help you, Harry."

Ron had been less physical in his expression, but surprisingly just as vehement. "We're here for you, mate. Don't shut us out."

The truth was Harry felt guilty for not telling his friends about Draco. But how could he? There was no way they'd understand - hell, he didn't understand it himself.

Ron? Ron would be furious. "You kissed him? Him?"

And Hermione? Puzzled and disappointed. "Malfoy? Isn't that a bit, well, dysfunctional, Harry?"

Even if they accepted that he was gay (an idea that he was still mulling over in the privacy of his own mind) would they accept Draco, of all people? Unlikely seemed too weak a word for that situation.

So in the end, he'd said nothing about Draco to Ron and Hermione.

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

Saturday came, and after breakfast Harry made his way to the Whomping Willow, and from there through the secret passage to the Shrieking Shack.

When he emerged from the passage into the ruined house, a black dog ran up to greet him. Harry felt his throat tighten. "Sirius," he croaked.

"Harry," a gruff voice responded as the dog became a man; tall and thin with wild hair. A hand reached out to clasp Harry's shoulder, as though wanting to verify his actual physical existence. "It's been too long."

Harry could only nod. It had been well over a year since he'd seen Sirius, the man who was his godfather and the only family Harry was happy owning up to.

It had started at the summer before the previous year, when Sirius had left on a mission for Dumbledore. "Gathering the old crowd," was all he could say. Whatever was involved, Harry didn't see his Godfather at all that summer. When it came time for Harry to return to Hogwarts in September, he still hadn't heard from Sirius. Then late in October, on a particularly wet and miserable night, he had received an owl from Sirius, instructing Harry to meet him at the Shrieking Shack. Harry had made the journey past the Whomping Willow, down the tunnel and into the ramshackle house in Hogsmeade that everyone assumed was haunted. He was one of the few people who knew the origin of those rumours: the Shrieking Shack had really been used as a kind of isolation chamber for the werewolf Remus Lupin, during those times when he was forced into his wolf form. He and Ron and Hermione had learned the secret in their third year, when Harry had first learned of his Godfather, and of Peter Pettigrew, the man really responsible for betraying his parents to Voldemort.

Sirius had looked worn and tired then as he explained he was only in town for a month. He was commissioned by Dumbledore to go on yet another secret mission. This time he would be out of the country, though he couldn't tell Harry any more details than that. He did say it would likely keep him away for many months, possibly for the remainder of the school year.

As it turned out, Harry didn't even hear from his godfather until the following spring, when the arrival of one brief letter eased some of the worry he'd been feeling for months. He'd asked Dumbledore about Sirius, but the Headmaster had no more information for him except to say that he was, assuredly, alive and free. That was the last letter he'd seen from Sirius, until Wednesday morning.

"So..." Sirius was gesturing for Harry to sit by the fire. "How are you? You've gotten taller. And here I thought you were done growing."

"Yeah," Harry said self-consciously. "You look good." Actually, Harry thought Sirius wasn't getting enough to eat. A chronic condition for a man on the run, he supposed, though the idea was not at all cheering.

"I'm keeping all right," Sirius said gruffly. "Could use with a bit more sleep, though they've been feeding me well the last few days. Dumbledore sends the house elves over every day. I tried to tell him not to, but the man can be so blasted persistent." He didn't look entirely unhappy about it. The remnants of breakfast sat on a table by the fire. A book folded over the arm of the chair told Harry how Sirius had been spending his time this morning. He nearly felt guilty for interrupting a much-deserved rest.

"So," Sirius said again. "What's been going on? Tell me everything."

"Only if you tell me about Bulgaria." The words were out of Harry's mouth before he had a chance to think, and he immediately regretted letting them go.

"How..." Sirius just stared at him. "How could you know?" he finally asked in a whisper.

"I saw it," Harry said, his voice hitching somewhere in his chest. "Sirius, I've been... dreaming. I don't know what else to call it, but they're real. My dreams, well some of them, are real. Dumbledore gave me a book to record them all. I dreamt about... what happened to the Branimirov family." Sirius started at the name. He looked for a moment like he wanted to say something but then he clamped his lips in a thin line. Harry took this as a sign to continue. "I saw what the Death Eaters did to them. It was like I was there, only no one could see me." He swallowed against the tightness in his throat.

Sirius sat frozen, a strange expression on his face. When Harry finally raised his eyes to his godfather's, he saw there a deep sadness. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Harry," Sirius said in a soft voice that resonated deep in his chest. "It was an ugly business." They sat silent for several minutes, staring at the fire.

"I can tell you only a little about my time in Bulgaria," he finally said. "But I think I should, given what you've seen. The house you saw in your dream? I had left there only two days before. Ana and Philip were staying there, waiting to meet with their Death Eater contacts. I met with them briefly, we discussed some new intelligence and I left the same night. It wasn't really safe for me to stay, you know? As it turned out, it wasn't safe for me to go there at all. I think... I might have drawn... unwanted attention." Sirius leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands.

"You don't have to..."

"No, Harry." Sirius looked up at him. "You deserve to hear the rest." He took several deep breaths before continuing. "From what we discovered later, it seems that Voldemort had a cell sequestered nearby. We'd thought so, but we never could find them. When we got word the Branimirovs had been killed, we searched the area thoroughly. Finally, we found evidence that one of the nearby castle ruins had been used as a Death Eater hideout. It had been abandoned soon after the killings."

They sat silently for several minutes, staring at the crackling fire. The scent of apple wood filled the room, and Harry inhaled it, grateful for any reminder of spring. The chill was dissipating slowly.

"Sirius," Harry began, hesitantly. "There's more. A few days ago I dreamed about Peter Pettigrew. I think I saw his first contact with Voldemort. It was..." Harry faltered, watching Sirius' pale face become expressionless. Sirius noticed and waved at him to finish. "It was horrible. Voldemort had captured some friend of his and tortured him. He threatened to do the same to Peter; said his friends couldn't protect him."

Sirius' hands were clenched tightly; his mouth was a nearly invisible line. Harry looked into his eyes, nearly pleading. "I don't know what to say, Sirius. Voldemort was, well he was nothing like he is now. I don't know that I could have faced him then. After seeing him like that, I... well I almost understand why Peter gave in like he did. I suppose I feel a bit sorry for him. He didn't ask for what happened to him. He just... wasn't strong enough." He hung his head and stared at the floor, unable to believe he had just said words defending the man who'd betrayed his parents, to the man who'd served time in Azkaban prison, unjustly accused of the betrayer's crime as well as his murder.

It was all too complicated. Harry suddenly longed for the time when everything was simple; when he lived in a cupboard and wasn't a wizard. He would have traded it all in that moment: his friends, his school, Quidditch, even Draco, for a quiet life that didn't burden him with responsibilities that he didn't feel equal to.

"Harry," he heard Sirius say. He looked up expecting reproach, and instead was greeted with an expression that was both sad and proud. "You are better than all of us. Of everyone who has been wronged here, you are the one most entitled to hate Peter. And yet you can find sympathy for the man who effectively took your parents from you. I can tell you that if they were alive today, your parents would be so proud of you."

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Well," Sirius finally announced, smacking his hands on his knees. Dust flew from his tattered robes. They both laughed at that.

"So other than a bath, is there anything else you need that I can get for you?" Harry asked with a faint grin.

"I won't be here that long, Harry," Sirius replied gravely. "And Dumbledore has made sure I'm reasonably well provided for." He stretched and stood up. "The only thing I'd like more is to have this whole bloody business done with, and to have my name cleared with the ministry." He looked at Harry. "I know I haven't been much of a replacement for your father, Harry, but it's not for lack of interest."

"I know that, Sirius." Harry stared at the floor, disappointed. "I just wish... well the same things you do, I guess. I was hoping you'd be around for a bit, now that you're back in the country." He looked up at his godfather, standing beside the fireplace warming his hands. "I know they need you. You're doing important work. Dumbledore tells me a little, anyway."

Sirius walked to Harry and crouched down beside him. "You know I care about you Harry. You're the only family that I've got as well. I don't think I ever told you that."

Harry felt his throat go tight again. "Thanks," he finally managed to choke out. "You're my real family, Sirius. You and Ron and Hermione. The Dursleys... they're just relations."

"Yes, well," Sirius said thoughtfully, standing again. His arms hung loose at his sides and he looked a bit lost, Harry thought. "You can't choose your relations. Strictly speaking, of course, you didn't choose me. But I'm glad to be here for you, Harry, in whatever way I can be. And speaking of Ron and Hermione," he interjected in a more cheerful tone, "I hear they are dating."

"Yeah," Harry breathed, happy to be back on more comfortable ground. "Yeah, they're pretty happy, I think." He was startled to realise he hadn't seen them, except in class and for brief periods at dinner, for a couple of weeks.

"So?" Sirius looked at him expectantly. "Are you seeing anyone special?"

"Um," Harry froze, his sense of comfort evaporating. "Not exactly."

"No?" Sirius smiled gently. "Got your eye on someone?"

"Sort of," Harry acceded grudgingly. He wished violently that Sirius would take the hint and drop the subject before he had to speak those telling words: 'I don't want to talk about it.'

"Ah," Sirius rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I see. Well, I don't want to pry. Just... well, it's not that I'm the world's foremost expert on relationships, but... if you want to talk..."

"I get it, Sirius," Harry agreed hastily, standing to make his retreat. "If I ever need to talk to someone, you're always the first person I think of." This wasn't strictly true, but it was true enough that Harry didn't feel completely deceptive. "And I think I should be heading back now."

"Of course." Sirius walked him to the tunnel entrance and paused there. "It was really good seeing you, Harry. I don't know how long I'll be here, but I'll try to see you again before I go."

"That would be great," Harry agreed. "The sooner the better. Oh, and Ron and Hermione want to see you too," he added as an afterthought.

"Good," Sirius agreed. "Bring them next time, will you?" He walked Harry to the tunnel's entrance. "Can you come again next week?"

"Yeah, I will," Harry agreed.

"Oh, and Harry?" Sirius added as Harry turned to go. "Take care of yourself."

**********

Draco's fingers drifted restlessly over the piano keyboard as he picked out the tune and a sparse counterpoint for a Bach cantata. He'd spent a fruitless Saturday afternoon in the library and had finally retreated to the piano room to regroup and clear his mind. He'd played through his current repertoire once and was staring out the window, 'doodling' (as his instructor liked to call that aimless rambling over the keys). Suddenly he sat bolt upright, the heavy bench making a hideous scraping sound on the floor.

He bolted from the room, leaving his music in a jumble of pages scattered over the piano, a few pieces drifting to the floor. When he got to the library he was out of breath and more rumpled than a Malfoy should ever be in public. Madame Pince looked at him dubiously over the rim of her spectacles. "Yes, Mister Malfoy? How can I help you?"

"Is there..." he gasped, "does Hogwarts keep copies of works by teachers?"

"Do you mean their thesis?" Madame Pince frowned thoughtfully. "Yes, we have copies of research papers, theses, treatises and such by Hogwarts professors. They're kept in Special Collections."

"Can I see them?" Draco knew he was begging, but he couldn't afford to be too concerned with appearances at the moment. If it was there... "I'm... I'm looking for a treatise by Professor Snape."

"Oh. Certainly," Madame Pince agreed, somewhat surprised at Draco's enthusiasm. The last student who'd come in looking for a professorial treatise was that nice Miss Granger. She'd been looking for one of Professor McGonagall's essays. "I believe we have several of Professor Snape's works here on file. He was quite prolific when he was younger, I seem to recall."

Madame Pince retrieved a key from her desk and led Draco up a small spiral staircase to one of the upper balcony floors of the library. She went straight to a locked case and opened it, running her finger down drawer after drawer, reading labels. "Ah!" she exclaimed, certainly the most excitement Draco had ever seen her express. "Here we go." She pulled an arm-full of scrolls from one of the drawers. "There are ten or twelve works here, including his famous thesis on the incendiary properties of bloodroot. That little essay got him the job teaching here at Hogwarts, I believe."

"So these weren't all written after he'd started teaching here?" Draco asked, somewhat curious about his mentor.

"No," Madame Pince replied. "In fact I think his earliest work is the thesis he wrote in his seventh year as a student here." She frowned at Draco. "I know what you're thinking, Mister Malfoy. Professor Snape isn't as old as a lot of students assume. Yes, he's been here quite a long time, but he was only three years out of school when he started teaching."

Draco didn't know what to say to that, so he wisely kept silent.

"You may read the scrolls here at this table," the librarian directed Draco to a table between the stacks, and well back from the balcony. "Please come and get me when you're done, and I'll re-shelve them for you. And Mister Malfoy?" He looked at her. "You've only got an hour before dinner."

"Thank you, Madame Pince." Draco gathered up the scrolls in his arms and carried them to the table.

Draco scanned the scrolls frantically, looking for something, anything, that Snape might have written that could point him to the information he needed.

The dinner bell rang, and Draco froze, his hands gently flattening the scroll to the table. Several minutes went by as he stared numbly at the parchment, his hands trembling with suppressed excitement.

This was it.

Snape, you sneaky old bastard. You had figured it out years ago.

Draco's astonished silence was broken by Madame Pince climbing the staircase. "Mister Malfoy," she called. "It's time."

"Yes, of course," He rolled the scroll, clutching it tightly in his hands. "Madame Pince? Is there any possibility of my borrowing this one scroll, just for tonight? I'll have it back first thing in the morning - I promise."

"I'm sorry, Mister Malfoy, but that's not allowed with material from Special Collections." Madame Pince looked severe as she held out her hand to receive the scroll. "They're strictly for use inside the library."

"Yes ma'am," Draco sighed, defeated.

"You can come back tomorrow to finish whatever reading you need to do," she reassured him, locking the scrolls back in their drawer.

Draco nodded glumly. At least he was on the right track now, the thought made him perk up a bit. And I get to see Harry tonight. Maybe we can sneak outside and walk around the lake, if the weather's fine...

He stopped suddenly as the realisation hit him. I get to see Harry tonight. Harry has an invisibility cloak.

Draco returned to his room with a highly self-satisfied smirk. Once there, he opened his trunk and began pulling books from it, until he found what he was looking for. Running one finger along the index, he finally located the spell he would need to duplicate the scroll. All he needed was a blank scroll and his wand, and he would have his own copy of Snape's essay.

And he would see Harry later.

Life was so good.

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

Draco spent most of Sunday meticulously poring over the scroll. As he had expected, Harry was more than happy to help him break into the Library and copy the scroll when he explained he needed it to finish his paper in time. He even let Harry glance over the contents of the scroll, hoping to reassure him that he was not working on Dark Magic or harmful spells.

"You know Snape," he'd said to Harry as they made their way back to the Slytherin dungeons, duplicated scroll in hand. "He loves having his own words quoted back to him." They'd followed up with a lovely half hour's worth of snogging, but Draco had been too distracted by his success with the scroll to appreciate it with his usual enthusiasm.

Finally Harry, only half-joking, had accused him of getting bored with him already, and Draco had pinned him to the bed, kissing him into a delirious stupor. "See? I'm not bored with you yet, Potter," he'd whispered afterward, as they caught their breath.

"Hmm," Harry had agreed appreciatively, smoothing Draco's arms with the palms of his hands. "I'm pleased to see I can still get your attention."

"You've always had my attention," Draco had joked, his tone attesting to the humour of the situation, but carrying harmonies that spoke to the truth of his words.

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

The Membrana Altera potion, as Snape called it, was complicated. The ingredients were hard to find, the conditions were insanely specific. It had to be manufactured in an alembic, not a cauldron. There it had to be cooked at precisely 80 degrees Celsius, beginning in the hour of Aries on the first day of the full moon, and ending in the hour of Scorpio on the third day of the full moon. It had to be cooled very slowly, and then bottled and left to "cure" until the following dark moon, so that it might come to its full potency.

The effect of the potion was deceptively simple. It would, if properly prepared, create a magical "second skin" that would protect the user from all kinds of magical attacks against the body, including the Dark Mark. The protection would last as long as the user continued to take the potion, however if they failed... the membrane would dissolve, leaving the Mark to attach itself to the user's real skin.

It was just the kind of thing Snape would discover.

Snape had written this particular research paper nearly five years after he'd started teaching at Hogwarts. Draco wasn't sure where that event fell on the timeline, but he thought that Snape was probably already marked when he began this research project. This suspicion was confirmed when he spoke with the Professor late Sunday afternoon. Draco had asked to meet with him, and Snape had responded with an invitation to his quarters. Draco was mildly curious to see how the new Dark Arts instructor lived.

Snape opened the door wordlessly and led him to a small table scattered with the remnants of afternoon tea. "If you'd been earlier I could have offered you something," he said, glancing at Draco with mock severity. "But now I'm afraid I only have a few sandwiches and lukewarm tea. Would you like me to send to the kitchens for something?"

"No thank you, Professor," Draco assured him, taking the second chair while Snape hastily cleared away the dishes. He pulled the scroll from his bag and set it on the table as Snape swept crumbs onto the tray before moving it to the floor by his door. "I had my tea earlier."

"Ah, good," Snape replied, eyeing the scroll with satisfaction. "I see you found what you were looking for."

"Professor, I need your help with this," Draco said peremptorily. "I think I understand the mechanics of producing this potion, but I don't think I can do it alone."

"I did not expect you would need to do this entirely alone, Draco," Snape settled in the other chair and pulled the scroll around so he could roll it open and read it. Draco suddenly thought of Harry and wondered what he was doing right now. Would he understand what Draco was doing, and why? Would he support him?

"Hmm," Snape was reviewing the scroll with an odd combination of familiarity and surprised discovery. "I didn't remember that my prose was so stilted when I was younger. Ah well - no matter." He rolled the scroll and handed it to Draco. "You have questions?"

"Yes sir," Draco rolled the parchment between his palms. "It appears that this potion was never tested."

Snape pursed his lips. "No. There was never an opportunity for a 'human trial', one might say. It was tested on house elves."

Draco's eyebrows raised. "That's not recorded here. What were the results?"

"Satisfactory," Snape replied evenly. "In all cases the membrane protected the elf from the Mark, for as long as they continued to take the potion."

"And who performed the spell? I thought only Voldemort could do the Morsmordre."

"I performed the spell," Snape said, rolling up his left sleeve. "Where do you think we got the information?" He showed Draco his arm, where the Dark Mark was clearly visible, looking like it was etched with charcoal. "You need to see this. You need to fully understand the extent of the danger in which you place yourself."

Draco's face twisted, but he refused to wince or show any sign of fear or weakness. "I believe I do understand, Professor. And I believe this potion may be the answer to my problem." He stood and began pacing the length of the little table. "I don't see how I could prevent my father from having me marked. My only hope lies in deception."

"Yes, Draco," Snape agreed, his black eyes glittering. "I believe you are correct. But deception is a dangerous course. Nearly as dangerous as direct opposition. You must understand the road you now choose." He sat back and folded his arms. "If you are positive of your choice, I will assist you in any way I can. Certainly I can help you with the making of this potion."

Draco looked at him gratefully. "I would appreciate that, sir. And I believe it will work."

"Draco," Snape pointed to the chair. "Sit a moment." When Draco sat, Snape continued, "I need to mention a few things that aren't in the conclusions of my paper. First is that while the potion is as perfect as I could make it, and I am relatively certain it will work without a hitch, it is entirely possible that there could be unforeseen side-effects. I am not perfect, Draco, and the potion is quite complex. The greater the complexity, the more likely that there will be unexpected consequences."

"I understand," Draco said, clenching his hands in his lap.

"I will need to monitor you quite closely when you start taking the potion. You should start as soon as possible." Snape stood and walked to a bookshelf that covered the north wall of the room. He pulled out a small book bound in green leather and consulted it. "Hmm. Your timing is fortuitous. The full moon is next Friday. If you start tomorrow, you'll be able to brew the potion, bottle it and let it rest until dark moon two weeks after that. Leaving you just enough time to test the potion before you leave for home." He snapped the book shut and slid it back into exactly the same spot. He turned and looked at Draco expectantly. "Well?"

Draco looked confused. "Sorry. What was the question?"

Snape actually laughed. "That has to be the first time I've ever heard you say that, Mister Malfoy. Now stand up. We have work to do."

They gathered the ingredients that night and set up in Snape's private potions chamber. Privately, Draco thought Snape was overdoing it a bit, but the following week he found himself very grateful for his thorough preparation. It turned out that the hour of Aries fell at 3 a.m. on the day of the Full Moon, and he stumbled out of bed at 2:30, tired and cranky. Three cups of coffee later, he and Snape were nearly done with the potion.

They left it to cook in the alembic at 5:10 a.m. and Draco promptly went back to bed. He was still tired when the time came to go to class, and he dragged through the day exhausted, but he was also quite satisfied. This was going to work; he was certain of it.

**********

Hogsmeade Sunday dawned cold and clear, the last day of the month. Harry was looking forward to spending some time with Ron and Hermione. He'd been making a point to play chess with Ron and talk with Hermione at least once a week. He didn't want to lose track of his friends, and his conversation with Sirius made him realise he could do just that if he wasn't careful.

He and Draco continued to see each other privately every chance they got. He'd been a bit concerned when Draco had come to class late on Friday of that week, looking absolutely exhausted, but when he met him in the piano room later that evening, Draco had assured him he'd just been up late studying. "My studies have been somewhat neglected as of late," he'd whispered with a delightfully naughty smirk. Harry had blushed, which only made Draco laugh and kiss him again.

"You're neglecting your studies now," Harry pointed out when they pulled apart. Draco had been rehearsing a new piece, something by Stravinsky.

Draco's lips twitched up at the corners. "Well if you're tired of me already, I suppose you'd better leave me to my work."

"You know I'm not." Harry removed his arms from the other boy and slid off the bench. "But I do want to hear you play."

"Hmph," Draco huffed. "But I want to play with you." He twisted around and his hand crept around Harry's waist, fingers stroking the soft skin just under the waistband of his trousers. He looked up at Harry through blond lashes, and the heat in his eyes sent a jolt of desire through Harry's smaller frame. Heart hammering in his chest, Harry retreated to the window seat after that, silently grateful that Draco didn't push him any further. In some ways, he mused, things in the Draco department were getting a bit out of hand.

It wasn't that he didn't like the physical intimacy Draco was offering; he relished it, adored it, reveled in it. At the same time, it scared him half to death.

Harry wasn't entirely naive. As inexperienced as he was, he recognised both the signals that Draco was sending him and his own response to Draco's overtures. Kissing Draco was always the highlight of his day and the very physical response he had to that activity seemed to imply that some parts of him, at least, found the idea of sex with Draco extremely appealing. However... the truth was, he didn't know if he could bring himself to act on it. Draco touched him much more freely than he touched Draco, and Harry thought that was mostly because he just didn't know what to do with his hands.

So while he couldn't deny that he found Draco extremely appealing in a very physical sense, when it came right down to it he felt really awkward about the whole thing. He had no idea what to do, and he was immensely uncomfortable with is own ignorance. Well, okay; he had to admit he was not entirely ignorant, in that he knew what he liked. But what would Draco like? What do boys do with each other? On the one hand, he wasn't very keen on doing what Hermione would have recommended; visiting the library. It made him feel very vulnerable, somehow. On the other hand, he didn't want to confess his ignorance to Draco either. That would be almost worse.

Yes, that would definitely be worse, Harry finally decided. So he steeled his resolve and visited the library that afternoon. The human sexuality section was not difficult to find, and he returned to his dorm room two hours later, a bit dazed from information overload, but probably better informed than he'd ever been about anything in his life (outside of Quidditch, that is). He'd left most of the books in the library, but managed to screw up his courage to take out just the one title; The Big Book of Gay Wizard Sex. He'd kept his face steady, but Madame Pince didn't even raise an eyebrow at the title. When he got back to his dorm, he surreptitiously tucked it under his mattress.

The books opened a whole new world of experience to him. He hadn't really thought much about sex, beyond wanking (which he spent a good bit more time doing than thinking about). He excused himself his ignorance on the grounds of being just a bit preoccupied with not getting killed every year, but suddenly it had become very important to know a bit more about what he was feeling and thinking. Harry decided it was time to take matters in hand, as it were, and educate himself.

So that morning he had let everyone else go down to breakfast while he sat on his bed, in an empty dorm room, with the curtains drawn around his bed, and read about sex with boys. How it was done. How it was not done, surely just as important. Some of what he read sounded very interesting indeed, while some of it made him cringe.

He closed his eyes and imagined touching Draco. Sliding his hands up underneath his school shirt to caress the soft skin beneath. Stroking his belly and sides, and finally sliding a hand down, past the waistband... and that was where he froze. What if Draco didn't like it? What if he did it wrong? Would Draco laugh? Be disgusted? Send him away? Harry's stomach churned and he slammed the book shut furiously.

"Harry?" He started when Ron spoke. He hadn't heard him come into the room. Harry quickly opened the drapes and stood up, straightening his robes. He flushed when he met Ron's eyes, which were filled with amusement.

"Ron, it's not what you're thinking..."

Ron shrugged, grinning. "Don't worry about it. I have five older brothers, remember? Sometimes you just have to take care of things."

Harry sighed, defeated.

"Come on," Ron gestured. "Hermione's waiting."

Harry grabbed his cloak and they left the dorm room. As they walked downstairs to the common room, Ron asked, "So... anyone special?"

"Ron, I told you I wasn't..." Harry sighed with exasperation. "Oh never mind." Then a thought occurred to him and he looked over at his friend, who was wearing his usual cheerful expression. "Listen, what if I was seeing someone?"

"Well I'd say that's great, mate," Ron replied easily. "Who is it?"

Harry stopped on the stairs. "Ron, what if I was seeing someone... unusual. Someone you didn't like."

Ron stopped one step below him and looked up at Harry. "I dunno. I guess I'd have to say you know your own business. Depending on who it is, I might wonder about your judgment." He looked up at Harry quizzically. "You're not dating Pansy Parkinson, are you?"

"No," Harry replied, grimacing at the thought. "But seriously... what if it was a Slytherin?"

"Right, so that's where I start questioning your judgment," Ron said. His tone was half-joking but his expression was serious. He thought about it for a minute. "Well, trying to be fair here, I have to say I don't know most of the Slytherin girls at all. Outside of Parkinson and Bulstrode, and I doubt you'd be caught dead with either of them." He looked at Harry, his expression suddenly uncharacteristically shrewd. "So, Harry... are you telling me you're seeing a Slytherin?"

Harry was silent.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," Ron concluded just as Hermione called up the stairs. He glanced back at Harry sharply. "Let's go. We can talk about this later."

They walked to Hogsmeade, grateful for the unseasonably fine weather. Harry suddenly noticed that Ron and Hermione were keeping their distance from one another.

"You know," he said pointedly, "you don't have to worry about upsetting me. If you want to hold hands or something, that's fine with me."

Hermione looked surprised and then embarrassed. "Ron, you told me you were going to tell him."

"And I was!" Ron insisted, flushing a bit himself. "It's just, well we haven't had much chance to talk lately, have we, Harry?"

Harry found himself reddening. "I know, I know. And I'm sorry I've just been... well... busy..." he trailed off helplessly as Hermione laughed.

"Oh we are all hopeless," she cried, throwing her hands in the air. "Anyway, what Ron was supposed to tell you, and that's only because he sees you more than I do, what with my studies and prefect meetings and all..."

"Yeah, okay, we've all been busy," Ron interjected. He turned to Harry. "We kind of broke up," he admitted.

"Oh," said Harry, surprised.

"Well we realised, after a month of boyfriend-girlfriend stuff, that we really didn't like each other that way after all," Hermione explained. "I mean, we've been friends forever, but well, it just didn't work." She gave a little sheepish grin. "The mysteries of attraction."

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "And once we figured that out, we realised that we wanted to keep our friendship. And quite frankly, I don't think I would have survived much more of that." He shuddered in mock horror and Hermione smacked his arm. "Ow! See how she abuses me, Harry? We'd never make a couple."

Harry laughed, a sense of relief flooding through him. "Well I'm glad we're all still friends."

They wandered through Hogsmeade, visiting each shop in turn. Hermione needed to pick up books at Flourish and Blott's and Ron insisted on visiting Zonko's.

Harry and Hermione sat at a table in the Three Broomsticks, and Ron went to get them butterbeer. Harry leaned over to Hermione and quietly said, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Of course not, Harry. You can ask me anything," she responded cheerfully. The walk had added colour to her cheeks and she looked the very picture of a perky schoolgirl. Harry wondered, not for the first time, why he didn't feel more toward Hermione than friendship.

He finally decided on the direct approach. "How did you know? That you and Ron weren't, err, like that."

Hermione studied him for a minute before replying. "Have you ever listened to much Muggle music?"

"Some," Harry replied, as images of Draco playing Mozart flashed through his mind.

"Well there's this Muggle song with really stupid lyrics, but it talks about how you know if he loves you? And the answer is: it's in his kiss." She sat back looking surprisingly smug. "Trite but true. That's how I knew we weren't meant to be a couple." The smug expression fell a bit. "Apparently he thought so too."

"Oh, Hermione." Harry patted her hand, but she pulled away brusquely.

"Don't patronize me, Harry. And don't worry about my love-life. I'll know when I meet the right one. And I'm young yet. I've got plenty of time. Really, I'm more worried about my NEWTs."

Harry chuckled. "Why am I not surprised? And I didn't mean to patronize you. I just didn't want you to think less of yourself because things didn't work out with Ron. I think you're terrific and I bet lots of other boys do too."

Hermione looked at him steadily, her gaze evaluating. "But we're not like that either, are we Harry?"

Harry paused, wondering what to say. "We're friends, Hermione. I've never thought about you any other way."

"Good," she sighed, obviously relieved. "Quite honestly, that would be just too strange."

"Yeah." Harry grinned crookedly. "Yeah, it would."

The evaluating gaze was back. "So are you seeing anyone? You never really did explain why you were out so late that night."

"Oh god." Harry put his face in his hands. The suddenness of the question, his confusion and frustration from earlier that morning, Hermione's surprising openness, all threw him off-balance. "It's... complicated," he mumbled.

He started as her cool hand came to rest on his arm. He looked up into her warm brown eyes, surprised at the compassion he saw there. "It's all right, Harry," she assured him, squeezing his arm. "If you want to talk, we're here. But I'm not going to pry."

He was filled with a sudden anguish, and a strong urge to confess all; the late-night rambles, his meetings with Draco. What would she say if he told her? I'm gay, Hermione. The words felt bitter, perched on the tip of his tongue. He couldn't force them past his lips. He tried desperately to speak with his eyes, and he thought for a moment that he saw an answer of some kind in hers.

Then Ron returned to the table, butterbeer in hand, and the moment passed. They laughed and joked, Harry recovered his earlier good mood, and for a little while it was just like every other year at Hogwarts.