Simply Charming

Chapter 1:

Simply Charming

Harry sat in the infirmary bed, hands folded patiently over his sheet-covered lap. He was waiting.

Fine time for him to fall off his broom. No, really. A fine time. Harry smiled to himself. He really could not have planned it better if he had tried.

He certainly had not meant to collide with the Ravenclaw Beater. He had been chasing the Snitch, miles ahead of the other Seeker, and hadn't seen the Beater until he was almost on top of him. For some reason - and Harry simply refused to consider that a Ravenclaw would be dastardly enough to plan this - the boy had shot upwards right into Harry's path, knocking the front of his broom straight into the air. Harry, hand out to grab the golden, zipping Snitch, had no chance at all. His fall was so sudden and so fast that he really didn't have time to consider the fact that there was now nothing between him and the ground until he actually hit it.

It was his arm again. It had hurt worse than a Blast-Ended Skrewt burn, but strangely, Harry could not help immediately seeing the situation as an opportunity. Finally, he would get some answers.

Because Harry was being watched.

Had been, for weeks actually. He'd first noticed over dinner one night in the Great Hall. A prickling, burning, all-encompassing tingle in his veins. At first, he had been nonplussed, even angry. People stared at him all the time, and frankly, he was getting dangerously close to hexing everyone in sight for it. He tried to convince himself it was better to ignore it and not lose House points, but it was tempting.

It was the timing that finally caught his attention. Flitwick had spent the last month introducing a very interesting charm to the class. Harry had originally thought that this particular charm was rather sinister: cast it on a person, and it enhanced his or her perceptions of any special energies focused his or her way by another person. Flitwick introduced it as "a protective spell to use upon oneself so one could see if one were being targeted by animosity," and the look he gave Harry told the boy all he needed to know about the little man's reasons for the current curriculum. Harry had tried the charm on himself a couple of times with Voldemort in mind, but it seemed silly, especially considering that Harry had his own form of Voldemort-radar built into his scar.

But someone else had seen fit to cast the charm on him during the week following the initial lesson, and though this should have upset Harry a great deal, he could not summon any feelings except curiosity and an odd sense of anticipation.

It was because the tingly, watched sensation he was experiencing did not seem to be grounded in any sort of animosity. Rather, it made Harry feel warm, protected. Certainly not threatened.

It had taken Harry a week of introspective reasoning and after-class discussions with Flitwick over the hypothetical applications of the charm to conclude that he was not merely the object of someone's attention. Someone... liked him. And that thought made Harry so warm and comforted that he went around grinning insanely until he caught a teacher looking at him in a weird, concerned, or -- in Snape's case -- utterly disgusted way.

Of course, Harry's next course of action was a given: wonder about who it might be. He had been tempted to single out Hufflepuff students, seeing as they shared his Charms class. But Flitwick taught several sixth year Charms classes, to members of every house, so that idea went nowhere. Because of the openly caring emotions he was feeling through the charm, Harry eliminated Slytherin from the running, as they all hated the very air he breathed. He managed, in his chats with Flitwick, to discern that most of the Hufflepuffs and half of the Ravenclaws could not cast the charm successfully without help, and discounted several of his own housemates for the same reason.

But. That still left a numerous group. It needed narrowing, desperately.

Harry smiled slightly. "Maybe I did mean to hit that Beater."

The truth was, he had been looking for an excuse to push his admirer into the open for the last week. He was beginning to understand that it was more than a mere crush. The emotions, the sheer desire focused on Harry had been intensifying slowly but surely as the month went on. It rolled within him in waves that were sometimes so deep and enveloping he could barely draw breath. Sometimes it distracted him so much he got himself into trouble. Snape's Potions class last week had been incredibly hellish. Harry wouldn't even be in that class if not for Dumbledore's insistence, and to be distracted by consuming adoration and desire while trying to focus on a task he hated anyway had been difficult. Thirty lost House Points and a yelling match with Snape later, and Harry was almost ready to entertain the notion that his admirer was, in fact, Slytherin, simply based on their proximity and the insane intensity of the feelings directed his way. But that was stupid, because he felt just as distracted in Transfiguration, where there were no snakes in sight.

So Harry could chalk up his collision with the Ravenclaw and subsequent tumble to that distraction, and pretend to ignore the perfect scenario that had been dropped into his lap. What he was hoping for - no, praying for - ever since Pomfrey had carted him into the hospital wing, was that this little terrifying accident would push his admirer right over the line.

"Because," Harry reasoned confidently, "if my crush had almost gotten killed, I would at least swing by the see if he was okay. At least."

Lately, however, Harry had been imagining past the "at least." It was a marvelously stimulating way to pass the time, especially in the still required, still boring-as-hell History of Magic class. Now, in the empty infirmary, Harry kicked back, waited, and imagined.

What if it was Ginny? She probably did not know this charm yet, but Harry liked to toy with the idea anyway. She had had a flaming crush on him up until two years ago, after all. He pictured the scene.

The infirmary door flies open and Ginny rushes tearfully into the room. "Oh Harry," she cries, collapsing at his bedside, grabbing his hand in a vise-like squeeze. "I was so worried about you! Are you all right? Can you ever forgive me for not expressing how I feel? Well, don't worry, darling. I love you. I LOVE you. I can't believe I almost let you die without telling you. And kissing you. PLEASE let me kiss you." Harry blushes and scoops her up and the kiss is sweet and perfect and sisterly--

Harry stopped, frowning. Sisterly? He shook his head to clear it. What in the world...?

"Well... that's no good," Harry muttered. And he really couldn't ignore it. Ginny was a sister to him, as appealing as being crushed on felt. He moved on.

The infirmary door flies open and Hermione and Ron dash in. Ron opens his mouth to speak, but Hermione interrupts him. "I just can't take this anymore," she cries, and lands a deep heart-stopping kiss on Harry's lips. Harry is startled beyond belief. Her hands hold his face gently as she pulls away. Ron gives a shout of anger, but Hermione turns tearfully and says, "I'm sorry, Ron, it's Harry that I love." Harry struggles vainly, begging Ron to forgive him, that he had no idea, but Hermione pushes Ron out the door and stalks back to the bed. "Time to declare my love properly, Harry," she says with a frightening leer. She pushes him down on the bed and pounces--

Harry started, lurching up in bed fast enough to jolt his half-healed arm. "Where the hell did that come from?"

He grabbed his head, forcing the unwelcome images away. That simply would not do. Ron would kill him for thinking about his girlfriend that way. He didn't even know what had brought that disturbing series of images on. Sometimes his mind went too fast for him to keep up.

The infirmary door flies open and Susan Bones rushes in... and ended up groveling on the floor, professing her unworthiness. The infirmary door flies open and Luna Lovegood runs to his side... only to recite terribly corny love sonnets to him until he died of embarrassment. The infirmary door flies open and Lavender comes in... carrying her portable shrine to The Boy Who Lived, a penknife, and an empty phial to fill with Harry's blood.

If one thing was being made clear by all this, it was that he, Harry Potter, was incredibly nervous.

He tried a few more scenarios. Cho Chang entered the infirmary, treated him to a disappointing striptease, and proceeded to compare him to her current boyfriend, utilizing details Harry was not aware his subconscious knew anything about. Katie Bell arrived to give Harry the snog of his life. The Patil twins came in together and cornered Harry at the far end of the room for something which he was only too glad to banish from his brain, if only for the way it made his skin flush and his nerve endings tingle.

The infirmary door flies open and Hannah Abbott strides purposefully into the room in a luscious skin-tight shirt. "Well then, Harry," she says in her alluring murmur, "that settles it. No more waiting." She locks the door and pulls handcuffs and a leather whip from her pocket. "Let's get cracking, shall we?"

It was right about then that Harry knew his mind was officially trying to kill him. He buried his face in his hands. "For crying out loud..."

In truth, he couldn't decide what was worrying him more: the images he was coming up with, or the mixture of physical responses he was having because of them. What should have made him feel jumpy and nervous - Hannah Abbott, the Patils, Katie Bell- was incredibly provocative. And what should have made him feel safe and loved - Ginny, Hermione, Luna - was extremely off-putting. He didn't even want to think about the Lavender scenario.

And Cho Chang? Yeah, whatever.

Harry sighed and stared at the still-closed infirmary door. Who was it behind the charm anyway? And when was she coming? Was she even coming at all? More than anything, he wanted that door to ease open and admit the person who had been showering him with such deep, candid, visceral emotion. The amount of it almost frightened him, and its clarity and honesty bowled him over every time he stopped to consider it. It burned like a red ember deep in his chest, and he could only assume that the sensation was even more intense for the person from whom it originated. Inside its protective flow, Harry felt a glowing sense of serenity and comfort, but also something akin to sorrow. Sometimes he lurched awake in the middle of the night wanting nothing except to run through the castle, to search out the person, as if he could somehow take the engulfing emotions and tame them, share them, bring them down to a more manageable level. The fact that they were growing steadily made Harry's own heart ache. He could not imagine anyone living with that level of unprofessed feeling.

That kind of intensity would eat him alive.

Harry shook himself and settled down again. Perhaps the person was shy. Perhaps she would be by momentarily. Harry would just have to be patient. After all, this person, whoever it was, had already dwarfed his ability to be patient, to wait for something... or someone.

Ginny? Lavender? Hermione? Luna? Hannah? Somehow, he could not wrap his mind around any of them. The emotional surges he felt cried out for something more, for recognition, and none of the people of his imagination quite fit. Could it truly be one of them who had cast the charm? All of them were proficient enough, definitely, and all of them cared about him. He hated to think that he'd been obliviously causing one of them such pain. The truth was, the idea of one of his close friends liking him, as weird as his scenarios had turned out, was strangely comforting. He liked the notion, and he wondered if perhaps seeing the person, knowing who it was, would alter his feelings for her drastically enough. To be able to equally return the affections of this complex and emotive person...

Gradually, Harry became aware of a sound approaching. Footsteps, coming down the hall outside the infirmary. At first he thought it was Pomfrey returning to check on him, but there was no rustle of her dress against the floor. These steps were quiet and sure, the evenly-spaced stride of a youthful person... with a goal. Harry swallowed. In moments, he might come face to face with the person who had charmed him. Of course, it could also just be a concerned anyone: a well-wisher, a teammate, a teacher...

Harry pulled himself up straighter in bed and smoothed the covers. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and faced the door. Whoever came through, he was going to greet them in a gentle, friendly way. He did not want to scare the person off.

The footsteps paused outside the closed door for a lingering moment, and then the door creaked as it began to open. Harry smiled brightly.

"I was starting to wonder when you would show up. It's been incredibly boring without anyone to - Malfoy? What the hell?"

The silver-haired Slytherin came in silently and closed the heavy door behind him, pressing with both long-fingered hands until it thudded back into place. He turned to face Harry, eyebrow raised, a curious smirk gracing his lips. Harry clenched his teeth against the annoyance that boiled up at the sight of his arch-enemy. He should have expected this, but he had been so preoccupied. Of course Malfoy would show up right then. Right when he was expecting to meet... whomever.

Well. The other boy would have to leave.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" he demanded.

The other teen merely looked at him, leaning against the door, hands in his pockets. "That was a smashing fall, Potter."

Harry glared. "And I'm sure it made you very happy. What are you doing here?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Pomfrey's keeping everyone away. Says you need rest or some such nonsense."

So that's where everyone was. Harry cursed inwardly. It made sense: only Malfoy would be wily and immoral enough to get past her unnoticed. "So you decided to grace me with your insults because you thought I might be bored?"

The other moved away from the door. Harry watched him take a few slow steps in his direction, wishing he had his wand. Pomfrey had taken it away upon his arrival in the infirmary.

"How did you get past Pomfrey anyway, if no one else did?"

Malfoy glanced up at him as he walked, sneering. "It's no secret that your friends are not only not the smartest bunch, but also notoriously unfamiliar with the subject of deception."

"So you snuck in."

"Not hard to do."

Harry pursed his lips. "Well, you can just sneak back out and send someone who actually has something nice to say. I know you only came to make fun of my fall."

Malfoy paused next to one of the beds, running his thin, pale fingers lightly over the sheets. He eyed Harry from behind a screen of light hair, grey eyes gleaming keenly. "Would you like me to?"

Harry watched as Malfoy paced along the row of beds with steady, contemplative steps. He was not wearing his school robes, something Harry was curious about, but too stubborn to ask. A loose blue button-down shirt over black trousers. Shiny black dress shoes Harry suspected were from the most expensive clothing store in Diagon Alley. His hands were clasped behind his back. He was pacing the room, slowly but surely, and getting closer to Harry with each pass.

All of a sudden, Harry felt more tired than he ever had. He did not want to talk to Malfoy. He didn't even want to be in the same room with him. He was rarely around the other boy at all anymore, what with their conflicting interests and schedules. Only Quidditch and Potions got them in the same area for long enough to infuriate each other. Harry had wanted, had desired to finally meet the person who had been watching him all this time, and he suddenly saw very clearly that he was not going to do so. Not today. The emotional tide was welling up higher than ever, and his body was not prepared to handle both it and his arch-enemy. He wanted to sleep.

"Malfoy," Harry sighed, exasperated and more than a little angry. "As much as I enjoy our little arguments, I really am not up to it right now. I am incredibly tired, my arm is killing me, and I don't want you here. Please go away."

Malfoy stopped walking and looked at Harry with narrowed eyes. "Did you break it?"

It took Harry a moment to figure out what Malfoy was talking about. "Yes, it's broken," he muttered. "I fell off my bloody broom, after all."

Malfoy snorted softly. "Unusual, Potter. You fly better than that."

Harry snapped. "What the hell do you care? I was a little distracted, okay? There, happy? Potter's got a weakness, now you know, and you can exploit it. Just let me sleep!"

Malfoy let his fingers drift over the back of a wooden chair a few feet from where Harry lay. "Distracted by what?"

Harry grimaced. His head felt hot and heavy, full of sensations that were not his. Maybe the truth would satisfy the git long enough to get him to leave. "If you must know, I think I've been charmed, all right?"

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. He was not looking at Harry, but at the chair. Still, Harry saw the small quirk of his mouth, the way his lip curled in amusement. His breath escaped in a short chuckle. "Someone actually managed to cast a spell on the Boy Who Lived?"

Harry didn't like the way this was going. Malfoy was pulling him in circles, repeating what he said, trying to get him to rise with that hateful, practiced patience of his. Harry knew this game, knew Malfoy would continue on this path, growing calmer and calmer as Harry himself got angrier and angrier.

"Yeah, well, they're not going to get the chance again, so don't get any ideas." He eyed the other boy, but Malfoy only stared back at him placidly. In a fit of frustration, Harry sought for words, knowing he was twisting the truth into a blatant lie. But it wouldn't matter, he reasoned; Malfoy would never know the difference.

"I know who did it, too, and believe me" --Harry glared at his nemesis, putting all the threat he could into his voice, hoping to even slightly intimidate the Slytherin-- "I am going to throttle the person when I get my hands on him."

Grey eyes narrowed, fixing on Harry's green ones searchingly. He was close enough now for Harry to see every tiny change in expression, every fine indentation in his skin. He noted, surprising himself in the process, that Malfoy looked tired; he had almost invisible circles under his eyes. For a long moment, the infirmary was silent. Harry could hear the blood beating in his ears.

"So," he said, grasping the shaky upper hand as soon as it was dealt to him. "Why don't you say whatever it is you came to say and then leave me in peace? Merlin knows I need it now."

A very slight smile drifted across the other boy's face at Harry's words. Malfoy's gaze went slightly out of focus, his hand reaching up automatically to brush long bangs from his eyes. His attention seemed to fix itself on some point just beyond Harry's head and he stared blankly. Something flickered briefly in his eyes, and then vanished, but it made Harry nervous.

Malfoy's voice came low to his ears, soft and resigned. Decided. "As you say... May not get another chance."

The blond Slytherin stepped forward smoothly, gripped Harry's good arm, and locked Harry into a kiss that sucked the energy right out of his body. Harry was so surprised he froze, and Malfoy gently deepened the kiss. His lips were warm, moving slowly over Harry's own. Their touch was tender, simple, shyly requesting of him, but demanding nothing. The same resignation that Harry heard in Malfoy's voice existed there, in the softness of his mouth, the sweet taste of honey gracing his lips.

When Malfoy finally pulled back, Harry was left breathless, empty-headed, unable to do anything but stare open-mouthed at the tranquil half-smile on the face in front of him. Malfoy let a smooth, cool finger drift slowly down Harry's cheek. The Slytherin's expression wavered, slipping into regret, and his wand was suddenly, inexplicably, in his hand. His breath ghosted across Harry's skin, words nearly inaudible.

"Finite Incantatem."

Malfoy stepped away, his hand leaving a cold void on Harry's arm, and walked to the door, not turning back. Harry watched him go in winded silence. He felt himself emptying slowly, surely. All the tidal emotions he had become so used to feeling, all the burning intensity and need he had wrapped himself in as if they were a warm blanket, were sliding out of him, swirling away. Deserting him.

He had never in his life felt so empty.