Simply Charming

Chapter 2:
The Confundus Effect

Afterward, it seemed to take days to get out of the infirmary.

His friends came: Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville... all of them showed up, and all of them complained vehemently about not being allowed to visit right away. Harry listened to their chatter about the botched Quidditch match, the gall the Ravenclaw Beater had for knocking Harry from his broom, and the absolute boredom Harry must have been subjected to for the whole day by himself in the infirmary. Harry remained quiet, letting his friends' opinions carry the conversation, nodding every time he sensed his reaction was required.

At long last, Ron commented on his reserved nature, asking him if anything was wrong. Harry made the excuse that it was the effect of the healing spells Pomfrey had subjected him to, that he was really fine. Hermione's silent frown told him she suspected something else was up, but was uncertain as to how to deal with the situation. He was vaguely thankful for her restraint. He did not need to talk.

He needed to think.

What had happened in the infirmary? He had been kissed, by his arch-enemy, no less. The other teen had just grabbed him and... and now Harry was scared. When he had felt the Slytherin's hand against his arm, when he'd realized exactly what Malfoy was about to do, he had been shocked, worried, and a little bit upset. But not scared. Now, fear clung to his innards like a horrible parasite, festering.

It took him the entire afternoon after Malfoy left to realize that it wasn't the other boy he was scared of. Malfoy had not harmed him after all, had not even threatened him. Harry felt threatened by something entirely different. What scared him - and when this finally occurred to his taxed mind, Harry pushed it away frenziedly - was that for some reason he could not bring himself to recoil from the identity of his charmer.

Incidentally, he ended up with plenty of time to mull over what had happened, despite his friends' continued presence. Two days after his fall, he was released from the infirmary with a concerned warning from Pomfrey to stay out of trouble, and he returned to the Gryffindor dormitories. His days were filled with his housemates' friendly jabbering, which he managed to fake participation in well enough to throw Hermione off the scent. His accident became old news quickly once everyone saw that he was physically in one piece, and Harry could push the memories of what Malfoy had done from his mind for a few hours a day at least.

But nighttime... that was a different matter entirely. Harry found that without the coil of emotion snug in his chest, he could not sleep. He had learned to want it, to drink from it, to cloak himself in it. The emotional mantle had wrapped itself soothingly around him, inviting sleep, lulling the tension. Reminding him that there was something or someone worthwhile out there. Its pulse was a second heartbeat; it filled a hole he had never known was there, and now that hole smarted and burned cold fire into his chest.

Harry realized that he wanted to be wanted.

But.

Did he want to be wanted by Draco Malfoy?

And then it was all confusion, because he was suddenly unsure if he knew who Draco Malfoy was anymore.

Draco Malfoy hated him. He had never made that a secret, and Harry had likewise never cut corners in showing Malfoy that the feeling was mutual. The blond's very presence made Harry's blood boil, made his face twist into a grimace, made him want to turn his wand on the other boy then and there and gladly risk whatever punishment befell him as a result. The Slytherin was detestable. Uncaring. Unashamed of his disgusting connections with all that was dark and terrible. Conniving. Cruel to everyone. Malicious. And above all, deceitful.

But all of that wavered when he remembered the pressure of the emotions enfolding him. Harry was brought back to earth with a forceful thud. That had not felt like something false or full of trickery. That had felt truthful, innocent, almost bare in its intensity, and its loss was affecting Harry more than he wanted to admit.

Those were not the thoughts of the person all those hateful words conjured up.

Harry went through the school week in a haze of futility. His classes floated past him, and more than once Harry belatedly realized how lucky he was to have been mostly ignored by his professors. McGonagall had the class writing essays on the complexities of aquatic animal transformations that week, so it was easy for Harry to sit back and stare at the wall, quill poised between his fingers, and just ponder. In Flitwick's class, Harry was brushed over because Neville and Lavender accidentally loosed a very rare flock of Bi-Winged Flox Fairies out of the window, and Flitwick was forced to request Madame Hooch's aid to catch them all. While the entire class stood at the window giggling as the Quidditch instructor zipped about, their Charms professor hanging on for dear life while hexing the fairies into submission, Harry remained at his desk, fingers spread over the polished surface. He had no idea what to think. He stared at his hands and the events in the infirmary played through his mind as if they were some sort of Muggle video. Sometimes Harry could practically feel the pressure of the hand on his sleeve, the cool finger drifting down his cheek. He felt the unexpected warmth of lips on his, tasted their soft, sweet flavor. He saw the blond Slytherin pacing the room, hands clasped behind his back, getting closer and closer.

Sometimes he only saw Malfoy's expression as he banished the charm, and it was then that Harry was most confused.

When Flitwick's class finally let out, the students having lost interest in watching the odd broom show outside, Harry shuffled from the room in a daze. His stomach was even more upset than usual, and he knew the cause: he had Potions that afternoon. It would be the first time he saw Malfoy since his visit to the infirmary.

"Harry, are you all right?"

Hermione, behind him. Harry plastered a weak smile on his face and turned to his friend, hoping he could keep himself together long enough to fool her. It need only be for a moment; she had Arithmancy class almost immediately.

"Hello, Hermione."

The girl cocked her head at him, a frown fluttering over her features. "Harry, is something bothering you? You seemed... distracted, in class today."

He could tell by the way the corners of her mouth went down that she was understating her concern, giving him the benefit of the doubt. Harry forced himself to smile wider.

"I'm fine, Hermione. Just a little tired. I haven't been getting much sleep."

Hermione looked worried. "Is your arm still bothering you? Oh, I knew you shouldn't have left the infirmary so soon! Sometimes the bones don't set right. It's rare, but it has been known to happen. Perhaps you should visit Madame Pomfrey again, have her take a look."

Harry's smile was genuine now, but only out of relief. "Yes, that must be it. I think I will do that, thank you, Hermione."

His friend smiled widely, obviously glad that she had been of some help. "I have to run, Harry. Arithmancy in a bit. Let me know what Madame Pomfrey says. She can fix you up, and maybe give you something to help you sleep."

With a wave, Hermione headed down the hall. Harry watched her go, the smile dropping off his face as soon as she turned away. He gave a sigh and looked around, suddenly afraid he would be accosted by someone else. But the hallway was emptying, his classmates heading down to the Great Hall for lunch. Harry was not hungry. He needed a quiet place to sit and do what he had been doing night and day since his accident. He didn't seem to be getting anywhere with it, but it would not leave him alone.

He headed down to the dungeons, hoping to find a silent corner for a few hours.

* * *

When Potions began, Harry managed to slip unnoticed into a seat along the far wall. Thankfully, Snape was lecturing that day on Bubotuber Pus, so Harry could drift yet again into his stupor. As the professor's voice droned on, Harry felt his mind going in similar circles. He could not get past the first and most important question: why?

Why had Malfoy kissed him? Better yet, why had Malfoy put the charm on him in the first place? It made no sense. Harry wracked his brains for an explanation, something he could tie into what he knew of Malfoy, but it was difficult, especially since "what he knew of Malfoy" had basically taken flight right out the window. All Harry could see was the last expression that had crossed the Slytherin's face, his own cheek burning from the gentle slide of the other boy's finger. The emotion had looked like regret. But Malfoys did not regret. In their eyes, Harry mused, they had nothing to be sorry about.

And yet... Malfoy's eyes had been in turmoil, livelier than Harry had ever seen, and at the same time, somber. Unfamiliar. Harry found himself gazing at his blond classmate a few seats down the row and shook his head, looking away. Malfoy was a Slytherin after all. Not a Gryffindor. Not a friend. Definitely not someone Harry could relate to. He peered at Malfoy again, watching as the boy let out an exasperated breath and smacked Goyle's hand away from where it had been toying with his carefully placed quill and parchment. Goyle drew his hand back with a frown and dropped his eyes under his friend's condescending glare. The Gryffindor felt relief flow over him. Now that was the Malfoy he knew and lo--

Harry blinked and looked away. It was just a saying, he told himself angrily. What did it matter? But his gaze kept going back to the other boy, trying to discern where the line was drawn between the real Malfoy and the imposter.

Only once, when Harry sneaked a glance, did he find Draco Malfoy looking back at him, and then he wished he had not seen it. The expression on the Slytherin's face was loose, openly regretful. When he caught Harry's eye, Malfoy scowled and looked away immediately, his gaze wandering to somewhere on his desktop. His anger at being caught in an emotion he obviously had not managed to keep hold of was evident to Harry. He was reminded very forcefully of the finger, light against his cheek.

Had he caught Malfoy at something then, too? But no. Malfoy had instigated the whole thing. If he didn't want to be caught then why...

As the class wore on, Harry got nowhere in his thought process. Indeed, it was incredibly difficult to think rationally about something so irrational, especially when the moment his mind wandered, he found himself remembering the way his arm had cooled so quickly after Malfoy's hand was withdrawn, the way the boy's mouth had given the brief kiss gently, with no scruples attached. No expectations. Almost a release.

But what did Malfoy need to be released from?

A spark of frustration snaked its way into Harry's head, and his mind leaped at it desperately, turning him away from the baffling path it had been about to venture down. You know the answer, his mind hissed. What else would a Malfoy be capable of doing if not...

Harry listened, his reluctance fading, giving way to irritation, resentment, and finally, a boiling rage that threatened to consume him then and there. His hands gripped the desktop, knuckles dead white. He forced himself to stare down at the grained wood, knowing that if he gave in to the temptation to look at Malfoy, he would lose control completely. Of course. Why had he not thought of it before?

It was a trick. Just another method to hurt Harry. As only a Malfoy could do it.

His brain whimpered weakly that it was not true, that he must only remember for a moment the emotional outpouring he'd felt, but Harry was in overdrive. His fury was escalating even as he sat there, and he began to fidget, desperate to get out of the room. He was a fool. To even consider that Malfoy had some other motive... it was ludicrous. He knew the Slytherin, dammit, knew him better in some ways than he knew Ron and Hermione.

Snape's lecture ended not a moment too soon, and there was a bustle to leave the dungeon classroom. Harry forced himself to gather his things calmly and follow his classmates up the corridor. It was a good thing Malfoy and his friends were separated from Harry by other students; at that moment Harry was mad enough to do anything.

He did not stop to think about why this particular assertion of Malfoy's self-righteous superiority should make him so angry. That selfishness was nothing new, after all. The boy showed it all the time. Why should this instance be any different? But Harry was being driven by nerves alone, and nerves told him he had been wronged horribly. His emotions teased and twisted about.

Malfoy had gone too far.

Harry came up from the dungeons in a frenzy of anger and frustration, expecting to fail at catching Malfoy alone. The main hallway was packed with third-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws coming in from Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. A large class must have just let out on the first floor as well, spilling many of Harry's younger house members down the stairs. The place was full of students, all chattering animatedly, pushing through the doors of the Great Hall for supper. Harry caught sight of Hermione and Ron to his left and ducked low against the wall to escape their notice. They would only invite him to dinner, and that was the last thing on his mind.

He scanned the crowd for the familiar platinum hair, and finally saw Malfoy... but not where he expected. He could not believe his luck: the Slytherin was pushing unceremoniously against the crowd, heading outside. Harry waited until most of the students had made it through the Great Hall doors - until his friends were safely inside - before relinquishing his spot by the wall and following Malfoy out of the castle. The blond's regular troupe of Slytherins had been nowhere in sight, and for a moment, Harry paused to consider. Why was Malfoy all alone? And why outside? For a second, he felt nervousness creep into his belly, but then the absolute dumb luck of his situation brushed it away. Malfoy was always flanked by his cronies. He would probably never get another chance like this.

Outside, it took Harry a moment to fixate on the tall boy walking across the lawn in the vague direction of the Quidditch pitch. Malfoy had removed his robes and slung them carelessly over his shoulder, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. Harry's eyes narrowed as his anger flared up once more. He took a deep breath and struck off after him, thinking about exactly how he would begin what was sure to be another heated argument. Harry was mad, but not blinded enough to dive headlong into a bad situation. He wanted to catch the snide Slytherin by surprise, not flummox himself immediately by saying something stupid in the heat of anger. And Merlin knew he was very likely to do just that.

Malfoy gave him plenty of time to consider his first words: his steps took them across the pitch and on over the next field in the direction of the Forbidden Forest. They passed Hagrid's hut just as the sun began to dip beneath the treetops. Harry shivered and pulled his robes more closely around his throat, wondering distantly at Malfoy's short sleeves. But looking at the Slytherin's normal clothing only served to remind him of the incident in the infirmary, and Harry's fury reasserted itself like the chill breeze that glided along the grass.

Finally, Malfoy stopped walking. It was very abrupt, a reasonable distance from the edge of the forest, and Harry pursed his lips in grim satisfaction. There was absolutely no one around. No one to hear their ensuing confrontation. Just as well, as the topic was not something Harry wanted anyone else to know about.

Striding the last few meters, Harry caught up to the other, his feet halting of their own accord just behind him. He meant to speak quietly, threateningly, but something inside him that he didn't recognize, something wildly out of control, poured bile into his words, turning them into harsh rasping sounds.

"Bet you thought it was funny, didn't you?"

The Slytherin stiffened, then gave an almost inaudible sigh and pressed a palm to his temple. He did not turn to look at Harry, merely gazing out over the stretch of green lawn toward the dark, waving trees. His voice sounded tiredly.

"Go away, Potter."

"No!" Harry stalked toward the other boy. He was not going to back down this time. There were no teachers in sight, no friends to stop him. No startling kisses to jumble his thoughts. He was going to have his say.

"I want to know how funny you thought it was, Malfoy! I hope you got some satisfaction out of it anyway, because you are never going to again. Though I have to say, that was incredibly low even for you. A sad little trick to play; how long did it take you to come up with that one?"

Malfoy turned to look at him, blinking once. He studied Harry with a half-lidded gaze. "You thought it was a trick."

Something unrecognizable fluttered in those eyes, startling Harry. Malfoy's statement was strangely empty, devoid of.... what? The anger went out of Harry like a deflating balloon, leaving him willowy and wordless. He could not quite put his finger on the peculiar character of the Slytherin's voice, but it made his own harsh words seem overly loud and unnecessary. This was not how he had expected things to play out. All of Harry's hastily planned words fled, and he had no idea where to go from there.

Malfoy glanced at him, and a shade of a smirk flickered over his features. It disappeared just as rapidly as it had come, and Harry sensed weariness behind it. The Slytherin raised an eyebrow at him and spread his arms, indicating the deserted lawn.

"I would rather like to be alone if you don't mind, Potter," he said, the familiar cynical lilt in his voice. Harry expected his hackles to rise as they usually did in response to Malfoy's tone, but all he felt was confusion. He was utterly lost. He needed some way to recover his bearings.

"Why are you out here, Malfoy?" he attempted, some of the residual frustration leaking into his words. "Couldn't you be just as alone in your dank dungeon cell?"

Grey eyes flicked his way briefly, but his counterpart did not answer. The silence bore down upon them both. Harry couldn't stand it anymore. He cast about for words to fill the void. "If this is something about me--"

"It's always about you, isn't it, Potter?" Malfoy's voice was not accusatory, just soft, missing its usual energy. "Always you. The Boy Who Lived."

A half-smirk tried once more to climb its way onto the Slytherin's face, but failed. "Well, this one's not about you. It's about me. Only me."

Malfoy exhaled and pulled his fingers through flaxen hair. Harry watched it shift slowly back into place. He was reminded of sand flowing under a breeze.

"Believe me, Potter, if I could fully extricate you from this, I would in a moment. I can't let you into this problem. It's mine, about me, but you complicate it."

Harry frowned. "Maybe it wasn't my problem originally, but you involved me in it. You complicated it, if anyone did!"

Malfoy laughed, a harsh, vacant sound that Harry's entire body protested against. After being so full of that overwhelming emotion for so long, and then suddenly emptied, everything stung, but this sound... burned.

"You think I decided this? Give me a little credit, Potter. I didn't want this, it fell on me. I don't even know when. I don't want to know when. It was just suddenly there, every moment of every hour, a bloody onslaught. I tried ignoring it but you can't do that; it's worse than a Howler. It just explodes inside and gets bigger and bigger." Malfoy sighed, his shoulders hitching. "I've let this go on for too long..."

The last bit was spoken almost to himself, a dispirited mutter Harry barely caught. The fatigue in Malfoy's face, the way his eyes squeezed shut as if he could block everything out... No words came. Harry moved forward unconsciously.

Malfoy grimaced and stepped back. A swift jerk of his head. His pained expression stopped Harry.

"Maybe you were just..." Harry groped for words.

"Intrigued?" Malfoy sneered half-heartedly. "Interested? Curious? Obsessed? Trust me, Potter, I've been through the entire list. It's worthless. I know what this is. And it's a bloody joke."

Harry spoke before he could stop himself. "It didn't feel like a joke, Malfoy."

The look turned on him was baleful, but underneath was another thread that Harry was suddenly certain he wasn't supposed to see. He stared, entranced, wondering if Malfoy was no longer able to hide his emotions.

"What are you looking at?"

Harry shook his head. "Malfoy... I just... don't know what's going on. Is this some kind of trick? Because if it is, I'm tired of it! You've had your fun, at my expense as usual. Why draw it out? It doesn't make any sense."

"Of course it wouldn't make sense to you, Potter," Malfoy spat, his voice veritably smothering itself in sarcasm. "Malfoys have everything. Clothes, servants, vaults of money. The Ministry in their pocket. What could possibly be missing in the selfish life of a Malfoy? Right, Potter?"

He walked a few steps as if driven and halted again, hands clenching at his sides. His jaw tightened fiercely. "It's bloody nonsense, yeah? Believe me, I am well aware of how all of your spineless little friends see me. I couldn't care less how much of a waste of good oxygen they think I am. The feeling is mutual after all. And the Malfoys never need anyone else anyway. We're already on the winning side of this war. Or so I'm told."

It was that last sentence that shut Harry's mouth against the angry retort bubbling up inside. He peered at the other boy through narrowed eyes. How could he possibly respond when Malfoy kept upsetting the tried and tested balance they had cultivated for so long? Was this the trick, to fluster Harry into utter confusion?

Finally he settled on repetition. They had gotten off track somehow. Perhaps this would right things, put them in an order he recognized.

"It doesn't make sense, Malfoy. You are not like this."

The Slytherin grimaced. "What do you know about me, Potter?" And then he held up his hand. "Never mind. Don't bother. It would be so easy to just give you the fight you want, anyway. But I haven't the strength for it. I can't argue that it should make sense to you. Salazar, not when it doesn't even make sense to me."

"Never stopped you before," Harry muttered.

Malfoy was facing away from him, his pale profile stark against the trees beyond.

"Fancy that," he said softly.

And Harry could do nothing but stare at him, stunned into silence yet again. He could not fathom the situation. At least, that was what he told himself. Harry had the sneaking suspicion that if he just stopped for a moment and thought about it, actually considered the implications of his nemesis' actions, he would uncover some things that would flip his world on its end. Unknown territory. It frightened him: not so much the door he felt he was being pushed through, but rather that he was intensely curious about what lay beyond that door.

In a frenzied effort to break the silence and stop the door from opening, Harry blurted out the question that had been plaguing him for nearly a month. It had been bottled up for too long, and it burst from him angrily. "Why the hell did you do this to me, Malfoy? Why did you feel the need to--"

To what? Screw with his head? Make him consider his enemy differently? Hurt him on such an appallingly personal level? He could not finish. Grey eyes settled on his, and Harry saw something twist within their depths. He knew with a sickening sensation that the other boy understood every silent ending of that sentence, and found himself wishing he could take them back even though he hadn't spoken them aloud. The ghostlike injury in the Slytherin's eyes cut him deep inside.

Malfoy half reached, as if he meant to touch him, but his hand faltered and dropped to his side. His gaze burned into Harry's.

"Why the hell did you do this to me?" Malfoy whispered.

Harry could not look at him any longer. He dropped his eyes to the ground, his thoughts whirling in a confusing sort of clarity. He heard footsteps, felt the air thin around him as Malfoy drew away. When he looked up, the tall Slytherin was moving along the edge of the forest, walking slowly, head down. For one empty second, Harry felt the urge to go after him. Something had been damaged, needed to be repaired. But what could he say?

The distance yawned between them, vast and suddenly bridgeless. Harry remained where he was.