The Rise and Fall of Lieutenant Malfoy

Harry and Ron stood on the edge of the world, watching the clouds change as the sun went down in an explosion of color. It was a stunning sight, though the just-tangible hues of the fading sunset were actually muted by the shimmering brilliance of magical conflict at the battle's front. Predominantly lit with a steady, brilliant green glow, the western corner of the sky was punctuated with sickly patches of orange and pink. A trail of greyish smoke from the ground fires flashed into unnatural purples, tinted with blood and metal every few seconds. Harry imagined he could hear screaming faintly in the distance.

"Oh, that's a lovely fuchsia there, he'll be well pleased with that one," Ron commented idly. "Very nice with glowing eyes this season."

Harry blinked out of the nightmare he was contemplating with some effort. "What?"

"Aha, so you are still with us. You were starting to look a bit out of it there, mate. I don't want to see any of that 'descending into desperate madness' bollocks from you, Harry, or Dumbledore will kill me himself."

"Sorry... I was just thinking about - you know - the people. Out there." It seemed best not to go into specifics.

"I'm sure it looks worse than it is." Ron paused as a shower of house-sized meteors sizzled towards the battle from the darkening sky, landing deceptively silently as the sonic shocks began to radiate outward, accompanied by more colorful flashes. "I mean, they're all very powerful witches and wizards, and, you know, there are lots of easy SPELLS TO STOP YOU BEING HIT BY A SODDING ROCK." He had to shout the last bit to be heard above the trembling roar that had finally reached them from the crash site, which gradually subsided into an ominous silence. Harry looked even more depressed.

"I don't think I know any. I'd probably welcome being squished by a nice big rock. Very quick, burial's covered, and the murder weapon doubles as a tombstone." Ron considered this morbid comment and tried changing tactics.

"Hey, you don't have to tell me how hard it is to look for the silver lining. It's gotten bad enough now that I'm starting to think that warbly noise from the front is actually kind of soothing. Like a weird lullaby or something, you know?"

"I think that's the Cursed Lament of the Risen Dead."

"Oh. Uh. Well, thanks for clearing that up for me. Next time I'm out there I'll try to keep well away from it, then. See? In-for-ma-tion." He poked Harry in the arm on every syllable, careful to avoid his injured ribs. "That's what's going to win us this war."

Harry smiled in spite of himself. "You slept through that briefing the other day, didn't you? The Cursed Lament is a powerful binding charm in itself, you shouldn't listen to it. And as for the 'war', if that's what they're calling this mass destruction... well." His voice dropped to a sulky mutter. "Winning anything at this point is questionable at best." It was the first time Harry had fully voiced the thought that had been growing steadily in his mind for the last month. Every day, watching their situation grow more desperate and their losses mount higher, he watched a bit more hope in himself and the members of the Order trickle away. He was truly surprised to see Ron looked stunned at his comment.

"Don't say that, Harry--"

"Why not? Just look at this! They're ten miles from Hogwarts, Ron. This is the last stronghold in the north, Professor McGonagall said there have already been advances on the western fortresses and wizarding London, and the Muggle losses are getting higher, and--"

"Wow, fuschia!" Sirius Black, long hair askew and blowing wildly in the wind, came tottering out onto the balcony from where he'd been lurking just inside the tower door. He was wearing a patched orange sweater vest and very little else. "That's my absolute favorite one, isn't it yours, boys? I think it's lovely when they add little colors to the spells, it really gives the thing some class. I haven't seen a green that putrid since lunchtime in Azkaban."

Ron cut him off before he could continue. "Go inside, Sirius. You're neglecting your macramé." Sirius looked blank for a moment, then grinned widely and skipped back inside, whistling 'Greensleeves' jauntily.

"ARRGH," said Ron. "Stark...raving...bonkers! Haven't they been able to lift that stupid Inebrius hex yet? I swear I think the forces of evil only let him get back here alive so he could plant the seed of madness in all the rest of us as well. At least he was sane when everyone thought he was a homicidal lunatic."

"Mmm-hmm." Harry waslooking out toward the western front again, eyes unfocused and clearly not listening to a word. Ron sighed. Getting Harry's attention these days was difficult at best, and as usual, a particular sort of jolt into the present was necessary. "So.... You think Draco's out there today?" he asked casually. Harry's head snapped around this time. He looked two inches taller and wired like an overcaffeinated hummingbird.

"Er... I don't know. I doubt it, he seems to keep Voldemort company in his dark den of evil except for the really big stuff, doesn't he?" Harry cleared his throat and leaned against the parapet, trying to look nonchalant, but the casual effect was completely destroyed by the tension clearly present in his drumming fingers and rather wildly darting eyes.

He muttered something that sounded to Ron a bit like "black-hearted, two-timing bitch" but was probably just incoherent wibble. After a moment, he straightened up again with a resigned sigh and almost managed to look Ron in the eye. "I'm surprised you want to talk about him."

"Relax! I'm not asking if you've been consorting with the enemy."

"No, it's just--I'm surprised you'd actually mention him by his name, that's all."

"What, thought I'd call him Malfoy still? Gets confusing what with his father heading up the dark armies."

"Well, these days it's like people are more nervous about saying HIS name than Voldemort's. It's 'the pale terror' or 'the pureblood' or, God help us, 'You-Know-Who-Two.'"

"Well, Sirius just calls him 'Mister Stinkypants,' but I'm sure that's the hex talking. Almost sure," he added with a grin. Harry glared at him, and he relented slightly. "Sorry, Harry, I know you fancied him." Harry could see Ron was trying valiantly not to wince at this, and returned the favor by trying valiantly not to roll his eyes, with equally dismal results. "But I really can't see the point of your, er, carrying the torch any longer. I mean, he's gone totally over to them. I know I don't need to count the dead and missing he's responsible for to prove it to you. He's still just a spineless, murdering, Slytherin wanker, and he turned traitor in the end just like we always knew he would." Harry looked personally wounded at this and opened his mouth to make some kind of defense, though he wasn't sure exactly what would come out. Ron saw him struggling and his lecturing tone softened to something like pity. "Harry. We always knew. Even you."

Harry stopped looking for defenses and resumed his defeated air. "I didn't always know. You always say I'm too gullible, and I know I am so don't bother. It was just... there at the end he really seemed to be changing his mind." And the way he looked at me... he thought privately, though he didn't voice it as he knew from experience that Ron would classify it as Too Much Information. Like I was the answer to every question he'd ever asked. The same way I imagine I looked at him.

"Changing his mind?" Ron echoed incredulously. "Harry, you're a terrible judge of character. After all those weeks pretending to be on the fence or whatever, which was stupid enough, he SOMEHOW persuades you that he's really some kind of Order hero after all - never mind the six years of fiery hell he put us through, never mind the curses, hexes, slurs, set-ups and fistfights... no, he was a changed wizard. And then the next day he sent you a poisoned letter on Voldemort's stationery that basically said, 'GOTCHA!' You idiot, you almost died from it!"

"He knew Snape had the antidote to that poison!" Harry burst out. "He was all over the potions supplies the week before, doing stock rationing!" Ron just looked at him. "Look, I know he's gone and he's not coming back," Harry forced through the tightness in his throat. "I'm just saying that I don't believe he's the demon they're all making him out to be."

"He's got horns, according to Dean's report from the forest raids," Ron pointed out.

"That's just his damned vanity," Harry scoffed. Ron raised his eyebrows.

"Oookay. Whatever you've got to tell yourself, mate." He clutched at the low wall lining the rim of the balcony as a new series of explosions vibrated through the castle stone, powerful even from miles away. "Oh, Merlin, it's the pink ones again. I hope Sirius doesn't see this, he'll be hanging out of the windows."

"I can't see it," Harry muttered, squinting at the horizon. "I've gotten that spell mucked up again and I'm getting a horrible headache trying to focus both eyes at once."

"Are you sure you don't want to take your glasses back? You look really weird without them, and that spell's been useless every time you've tried to do it yourself."

"Yeah, but I'm sure it's better than the glasses. They're useless in the fighting - they always either get broken or evaporated or turned into a mutant slug with the first volley of curses, and then I'm blinded anyway. I need to get used to doing this ocular spell... I'm going to talk to Hermione again."

"All right--and I'm going to see if George has made any progress on his tracking charm."

"Still no word from Fred?"

"No... not yet." Ron focused hard on a loose stone between the doorway and the parapet edge. Harry began to regret his sulky tantrum over Malfoy; in the light of their own staggering personal losses, one turncoat Slytherin hardly registered as a blip on the scale.

"All right. I'll see you at the meeting later."

***

On a warm, spring day in their fifth year at Hogwarts, Harry was breezing down the corridor after Transfiguration listening to a heated argument between his friends about whether Sirius's flying motorbike meant he was incredibly tough or just incredibly cool. Ron's opinion was that cooler IS tougher, but Hermione disagreed.

"I didn't see any problems with cool when you kept staring at Bill flashing his earring around last summer," Ron's eminently logical argument continued.

"I never said Bill was tough," Hermione countered. "Just that he was sex on legs." Harry gritted his teeth and braced himself for the inevitable outrage that would follow this like Snape after naughty schoolboys, but it never came. Ron's indignant choke was cut off abruptly as they turned a corner and saw Malfoy pacing back and forth in front of the ornate mirror outside the Prefects' toilets, spinning unnecessarily hard on the turns so that his cloak billowed behind him. Something about the cut of the material looked a bit strange. Harry was tilting his head trying to figure out what it was when Ron found his voice beside him.

"Malfoy?" he started, and the other boy staggered mid-turn, nearly toppling over, and glared at them furiously. "What the hell are you wearing?"

"Nothing you'd be able to buy, so bugger off and leave me alone, Weasley."

Harry was staring at Malfoy with a fascination he couldn't explain, trying to work out what it was about the cloak that made it shine like that, and cling to his shoulders in that molded way that showed the smallest dip in his delicate-looking clavicle. "Malfoy, is that... leather?"

"Well, of course it is," Malfoy replied proudly. "Calfskin, none of that scabrous dragonhide crap. That stuff can give you boils, hadn't you heard? This is much more comfortable."

"Isn't that kind of impractical, though?" Hermione sounded dubious. "It can't possibly be very warm, and leather is extremely difficult to clean, you need all sorts of specialized spells--"

"It doesn't matter, Granger," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "I have to get used to this style in order to be taken seriously as a dark wizard. It's half about the proper attire, you know," he added, drawing himself up and tossing impressive blond fringe away from his face.

"And I suppose the other half is about the hair?" Ron snickered.

"No, the other half is made up of talent, style, witty comebacks, and a soulless capacity for great evil, you worm-crawling cretin," Draco retorted through narrowed eyes.

"Ha! Only one out of four, then?" crowed Ron. "Funny, I never had you pegged for a do-gooder, but clearly you're trying to make amends through your lack of Dark talents. Welcome, Malfoy," he drawled, in a fair impression of Draco himself. "Welcome to the daisy-picking, puppy-saving, het-shipping side of the Light."

Draco stared, apparently speechless with horror. Ron pressed his advantage and took a step forward, lowering his voice. "One warning, though - you'd just better watch yourself in our company. We may have set ourselves against You-Know-Who and his brainless minions, but even we don't always. Play. Nice." He poked Draco in the shoulder for emphasis on each word.

An odd look came over Draco's face, not quite a smirk but definitely not the rage he'd displayed earlier. He ignored Ron and looked sideways at Harry, eyes lidded and cast rather farther south than his face. "I certainly hope not," he purred. Ron was taken aback.

"Really?" he asked in disbelief. Draco's look of horror returned as quickly as it had vanished, though now it was directed inward as his eyes stared unseeing at their confused faces. His mouth opened but no words came out. Ron frowned. "Malfoy?" he prodded.

"You're all hopeless," Draco managed to mutter, and he stalked off down the corridor, leather cloak flapping behind him.

"What the hell was that about?" Ron asked, still frowning.

"No idea," Harry replied, still looking after Malfoy's retreating figure, the shiny cloak flowing smoothly after him. "What's het-shipping?"

"What? What're you talking about? Head-chipping?"

"Never mind, I must've heard you wrong."

***

"Right!" snapped the General, clapping her hands together smartly. "If you'll all kindly calm down for a few moments, we will take stock of our advances, regroup from our losses, and plan the next stage of defense. Longbottom! Drop that mace at once and pay attention!" Neville, who had been swinging the ancient weapon around his head in the rather professional manner he'd learned in a three-week training course at Durmstrang, lowered it reluctantly and allowed his shoulders to assume their usual rounded shape. The General glared at him sternly a moment longer, eyes piercing under the brim of her tartan hat, then turned back to the group assembled in the Great Hall. They were hardly a large enough gathering to need the space, as most of the resistance were out fighting or gathering intelligence, but Firenze had insisted he was not comfortable being unable to see the skies, and so they had reached this compromise. "Professor Lupin," McGonagall continued, "your report from the front, please."

Lupin got slowly to his feet, looking even more drained than usual in these final days of the waxing moon. His right arm was bound up in a sling, relieving pressure on a wide gash in his shoulder which was heavily bandaged and spelled with several of Madame Pomfrey's strongest remedies. Harry still winced to look at it, remembering the sight of the Erumpent that had gored him charging out from a dark clump of stunted trees as they made their way to meet the field generals with supplies. Exactly what an Erumpent was doing so far from the African plains where it belonged was not difficult to explain, given their increasing proximity to the battle.

"I'm afraid that the latest news is not good," Lupin began, and there was a collective groan from his audience. "The last pockets of resistance in the Forbidden Forest have been forced to withdraw almost to the castle, due to the recent airborne volleys of brimstone and flesh-eating Puffskein mutations."

"Ew," Harry heard Ron mutter beside him. Firenze was pawing the floor and nodding his golden head sagely at Lupin, gathering himself for a pronouncement.

"I had seen such disaster in the stars, it is true," he intoned. "The centaurs' ancient home is no more. In addition..." he paused to look darkly around the hushed room, "the constellation of the Dragon has been particularly prominent of late." Professor Sinistra looked at him in confusion.

"There has been thick cloud cover in the evenings for the past two weeks, Firenze; how on earth were you able to see anything at all?" Firenze blinked at the question and shuffled his hooves nervously.

"I, er, hear the messages of the stars without the burden of visual sight, O Leftward Teacher," he finally responded. Harry noted that Professor Trelawney was gazing at Firenze with something like awe, her jaw slackened into a loose grin and her eyes glazed over with admiration. Her left hand had been idly twisting a jeweled necklace around her throat for the last five minutes, and it seemed only a matter of time before she'd manage to strangle herself.

"You are truly gifted with the Sight, O bountiful Horse Man," she imitated, tottering forward. Firenze backed away in discomfort as the General let out an exaggerated sigh.

"There's more, I'm afraid," Lupin added, clearing his throat for attention. "The destruction in the Forest lends further confirmation to the rumors of a larger force at work near Hogwarts than we have previously seen. There's a strong possibility that it's the, er, Malfoy influence."

"Lucius!" barked a voice from behind Firenze. Sirius appeared, having apparently just transformed from his Snuffles form, wearing a choke chain collar and clutching a well-gnawed bone. "That airheaded tramp? He's not been seen near Voldie for months, totally unreliable. Lucius could never even so much as take a piss without Riddle there to point his wand the right way round."

There was a general mutter of agreement until Dumbledore held up his hand. "We were reliably informed, Remus, that Lucius Malfoy's forces were deployed to the southwest, approaching wizarding settlements in Cornwall. Do we have any information as to the reason for this sudden tactical change?"

"Actually," Lupin said, looking like he'd rather be snogging Trelawney than delivering this news, "I didn't mean Lucius." A shocked hush followed this pronouncement, followed by widespread panic.

"Oh my God... we don't have the firepower to counter something like that--"

"He's already been through my old hometown - do you think we should we relocate to Greenland--"

"I bet Snuffles the Wonder Dog could take on old Stinkypants, if we could just get that cursed Poodle Shearing Charm to work--"

"The Dragon in the stars - you knew it, my stallion!" Trelawney cried in ecstasy, her voice soaring over the rest. She grabbed Firenze around his human waist and hung on as he half-reared skittishly.

"Everyone please remain calm!" Dumbledore's magnified voice roared through the confusion, and the room quieted slightly. "We will not retreat, nor will we make any drastic change in our current battle plans. We shall send out a supporting force tomorrow morning, made up of all who are fit enough to hold a wand. We no longer have the luxury of waiting for full recuperation, I'm afraid. However, those who have been injured will stay at the back of the main reinforcements, and only act out of absolute necessity. Understood?"

There was a general mutter of assent, but the sound was not encouraging. "Excellent," Dumbledore beamed. "I suggest you all rest up then, and eat well before we set out tomorrow. I'll see you in the morning. General, if you would accompany me to my office for a chat before we retire?"

Once the attendees were dismissed, the room cleared quickly, but Harry caught a few muttered comments in which 'eating well' was likened to enjoying a last meal before execution. It did seem likely that Hogwarts would be under siege - or worse - by this time tomorrow, and there was no telling what sort of strategy they'd be able to employ after that. Not to mention that he'd likely be seeing Draco in full-on Evil form tomorrow and, knowing his luck, be forced to fight him to the death while his tortured friends looked on in desperate hope. Feeling intensely depressed, Harry slowly rose to leave with the others, but doubled over as Hermione elbowed him in the ribs, which were still sore from the explosion a week ago.

"Ow, Hermione, what'd you do that f--," he stopped as she nodded towards the last occupied table, set back in the corner. George sat there next to Lee Jordan, his head in his hands. "Oh," Harry said. "Come on," and they headed toward the table behind Ron, who was already halfway there.

***

"Look, I didn't do it on purpose, Potter, I just tripped. And I didn't even like it that much."

"Um." Harry was at least experienced enough to realize that the quick brush of lips had hardly been a real kiss, but still. Something about the rather glazed look in Draco's eyes had made it clear his actions were quite intentional. "Your hands were shaking," he pointed out.

"I was NOT shaking, you imbecile, I was just trying to get my balance! You'd be a little wobbly too if you'd just stumbled upon a graceless, scrawny prat like yourself standing filthy and half-naked in the middle of a greenhouse where you were supposed to be working. Not surprising that I was so horrified at the sight of you that I lost my bearings. You look like a plucked chicken."

Harry frowned suspiciously. "I took my cloak off because I've got detention for another two hours, and it's hot in here, if that's what you mean by 'half-naked.' Anyway, have you ever actually seen a plucked chicken, Malfoy?"

"Only after they had lost their heads," he growled, "which can be arranged. Drop it, Potter."

Something about Draco's dangerous tone - and his own boredom with carefully watering all of Professor Sprout's herbal charges droplet by droplet - leant a kind of recklessness to Harry's mocking banter. It had been a long week, only the second of the sixth-year term, and he was itching for an outlet for his tension. "No, actually, I don't think I should. You kissed me, admit it! On purpose!"

Draco looked like he couldn't quite believe this was happening. "You-- you are insane," he stammered. "You are raving mad. You are even more egotistical than I gave you credit for. As if I would bother to waste my charms on a pitiful little jumped-up Gryffindor. You aren't even a pureblood."

"Oh, that," Harry said, annoyed at the old insult but too strangely disappointed to argue. The mudblood debate hardly seemed worthwhile when it wasn't directed at Hermione. "Fine, then," he sighed resignedly, and turned back to his plants, trying to remember where he'd stopped counting with the water dropper.

"Of course," Draco said quickly, "if you wanted to kiss me..."

"Why would I want to kiss you?" Harry retorted, even more quickly.

"To see what it's like, of course. You're clearly obsessed with knowing the forbidden pleasures of Malfoy snogging." Harry stared at him.

"I am?"

"Yes. Yes. You are, Potter." Draco nodded firmly as though trying to convince himself. "It's obvious that you sit for hours dreaming about it - what it would be like..." he paused, staring at Harry, and took an involuntary step forward, "...to have just one simple moment with these lips...to bury your fingers in my hair, feel me breathing into your mouth... run your lips over my face, my neck..." his eyes lost their focus as he seemed to be drifting into a reverie of Harry's imaginary exploits, and his speech grew subtly more jumbled. "...Our tongues tangling together, my teeth tugging at your lips...long nights alone, craving what you know you can never have...my name always on the tip of your tongue, sheets twisted around you like a lover's embrace but no, it's a poor substitute and you reach out for comfort but there's only the cold, bitter stone, and--" He broke off, his breathing rather irregular. "Don't you?" he finished weakly. Harry was looking at him like he'd never seen him before.

"Well, I will NOW," he managed, wide-eyed. Draco's mouth fell open.

"Oh. Good. I mean, well, then - now's your chance. Your one and only chance, I should point out."

"Aside from that chance a few minutes ago when you 'slipped,' right?"

"Look, do you want this or not?" Draco snapped. Harry started to laugh, but realized he was pushing dangerously close to the edge of Malfoy's tolerance. Besides, he found that he did actually want this, in some small way, and if it really was his only chance he should probably make the most of it.

"Yes, I- well. That is. Would you mind?" Draco's expression relaxed a little. He was used to being asked for permission for things. He seemed to consider his options, then finally relent against his better judgment.

"All right. But you can not tell ANYONE about this, Potter. Not a soul."

"I won't even tell Ron," Harry assured him. At this a panicked, standing-under-a-falling-piano sort of look flashed across Draco's face.

"Especially not him!! Are you insane?"

"I said I wouldn't!" Draco eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then relaxed again.

"Fine. You have my permission to ravish me." He lifted his eyebrows slightly, tilted his chin up and closed his eyes: the picture, he imagined, of angelic expectation - if one ignored the fists clenched in nervous tension at his sides. Harry found this stance unbearably funny and had to take a moment to breathe deeply and compose himself, suddenly nearly hysterical with nerves. Draco continued to pose in oblivious superiority, and puckered his lips slightly for effect. Harry fought back another peal of laugher and realized that this was not actually going to get any easier. This whole bizarre experiment would certainly be shot straight to hell if Malfoy realized he was laughing. Gathering together every scrap of his not insignificant courage, Harry gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and delivered a slow, soft peck to the offered lips. He took a moment to breathe in the scents of expensive soap and the rich leather that lingered from Malfoy's discarded cloak, and then sat back, grinning dizzily. It was absolutely fucking fantastic.

Draco's eyes blinked open with a frown. "Is that it?" he demanded. Harry's grin widened.

"Nope," he said, and reached for him again.