Simply Charming

Chapter 3:

Lumos Dissendium

Harry could measure the following week into increments based on the two overwhelming emotional states he found himself in. One was most definitely that persistent, hot-headed anger Malfoy always seemed to provoke in him, and it came upon him quickly, unannounced.

The other state... he called it uncertainty. Because you can't really pinpoint what you think, he told himself. You can't, so don't even bother trying to figure it out yet. Harry left it alone, and that was fine because "uncertainty" was more comfortable than... well.

The first moment occurred in between classes sometime on Monday. He marched around a corner on his way to Potions and immediately had to flatten himself against the wall in the dimness of the dungeon corridor because Malfoy was right there, standing with Montague, the seventh year Slytherin Quidditch captain, and Harry's mind was still in a jumble. Neither noticed him, despite his rather ungainly scramble into the shadows, and after a few seconds Harry understood why.

"Where the hell is your mind at lately, Malfoy?" Montague's voice grated furiously in Harry's ears. "You think this is some sort of joke?"

Malfoy sounded poisonous when he answered. "I am certainly not about to explain myself to you."

"We are playing Ravenclaw in two weeks, and as much as I hate to admit it, that Chang girl is good at what she does. So you better get your damn act together!"

"Shut up, Montague!" Malfoy's eyes glinted dangerously, and Harry suppressed a shudder at the malice housed within them. "I don't give a damn about your opinion anymore. I never did. All you think about is the bloody Quidditch team."

Montague was facing away from Harry, but he could see the Slytherin captain's fists clench. Malfoy shook his head disdainfully.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe there are other more immediate concerns than flying a bloody broomstick back and forth like some ridiculous insect? Maybe you haven't been paying attention to the world around you, but some of us are a bit preoccupied with what our future has in store for us!"

"Since when do you have anything to worry about, Malfoy?" Montague was sneering, Harry could hear it in his voice. "We all know your family is well taken care of by a certain someone. Pity you don't deserve it."

Malfoy was on the older boy so fast Harry hissed. He grabbed Montague by the collar and shoved him into the wall. "What the hell do you know about any of it? Your family will never be where mine is, and you will never be in my situation! Don't presume to tell me my duties. I know where I stand!"

He gave Montague a shake, glaring at him. Harry watched, mesmerized. The two Slytherins' faces were separated by a mere six inches and Harry could almost see the chill glint in those stony grey eyes. It was a look Malfoy had turned on him often enough since their first year at Hogwarts, and it was always that look that ultimately frightened Harry into lashing out at the other boy. He did not envy Montague at all: the fear in the Slytherin's face was apparent. But the look in his eyes - icy anger - actually made Harry wonder just how safe Malfoy was at the moment.

Malfoy must have seen it too. He sneered at his housemate. "You would do well to cover that over, Montague. I don't think you want to be on my bad side. That's the same as being on his bad side. And we all know what happens then."

Harry's mind darkened at the ugly threat. Even if it was directed at another Slytherin, it slammed something home in Harry's chest... and the sudden emptiness was frightening. Harry was immediately furious: at Malfoy for his nonchalant deception, at himself for falling for it yet again. Why did he continuously fail to learn? Malfoy wasn't going to change, ever. He would always be the self-righteous bastard he had been, growing up under the crook of Voldemort's arm.

With a smirk, Malfoy released the other boy, straightened Montague's collar condescendingly, and stalked away. Montague stared after him for a long, tense moment, then turned and went the other direction, presumably toward the Slytherin dormitories. Harry couldn't fathom what else lay down that corridor.

Malfoy's steps took him past Harry's hiding place. Before he had time to think about it, Harry followed, determined to catch him and... he didn't know. Something hurtful, as hurtful as what Malfoy had done to him. He would know what to do when he caught him.

Malfoy paused just before exiting the corridor and Harry stopped, thinking the Slytherin must have heard him, preparing for the furious row he himself intended to start. But Malfoy did not turn. He stretched out a pale hand and rested it against the wall. His other hand came up slowly, fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose, and he gave a deep, shuddering sigh. Harry watched as Malfoy's shoulders hunched suddenly; the outstretched hand balled into a fist, and with a weak murmur, the Slytherin slammed his hand against the wall. Harry saw raw scrapes bloom on Malfoy's knuckles. For a long moment, Malfoy's shaky breathing was all Harry could hear. Then the Slytherin moved through the doorway in front of him, injured hand dropping limply to his side, and disappeared.

Confusion rolled over Harry, banishing the anger into that other, vague realm he could never understand. What the hell was going on? One minute he hated Malfoy more than anyone he'd ever known, and the next, the Slytherin did something that turned his fury on its head, and Harry couldn't hate him anymore. He followed slowly through the doorway and headed up the corridor toward Potions, trying to piece it all together. But it was a broken puzzle, mixed up too completely, and Harry was at a loss.

* * *

After staring blankly at the wall during Snape's lecture on the various methods of using wolfsbane, Harry came to the conclusion that he had to talk to someone about this. Not that he was going to walk up and say Hey there, Malfoy kissed me a couple weeks ago and now I don't know what I'm supposed to do, do you think you could discuss some options with me? Harry almost laughed out loud at the idea. He was confused enough about what was going on; he didn't need to try to explain its intricacies to another person.

No, this had to be dealt with carefully. First he had to decide who he was going to talk to, and then he had to come up with a way to broach the subject in an unsuspicious manner.

There were really only two choices for who to talk to, and for the remainder of the day, Harry was leaning toward Ron. After all, Ron was his best friend and one of his dorm mates. It would be easy to catch him alone in their room, and he knew that Ron would be more than willing to help him make sense out of everything.

But then Harry got to the inevitable part about Malfoy, and realized that perhaps asking Ron would not be such a grand idea. For one thing, Ron was no slouch. If Harry came up to him talking about an enemy student, Ron would immediately jump to the conclusion that it was their favorite Slytherin. And then he would demand an explanation, ask what the git had done, why Harry had not said something earlier, and did he want Ron to pound the other boy's face in?

Harry sighed. The truth was, he didn't want Ron to pound Malfoy's face in. He wasn't even sure if he had a reason to want that yet, and if anyone was eventually going to be pounding the blond's face in, Harry wanted it to be himself, anyway. After Malfoy's altercation with Montague, he had been about to do just that, after all. Knock some sense into the stupid Voldemort-worshipping Slytherin. But then... what had actually happened then, anyway? Harry could not really define why his anger had suddenly died. It was just... gone.

Realization slid into his mind so silently he did not detect its presence right away. Malfoy had shown weakness. Vulnerability. That was what cooled Harry's fury, confused him. And that was also why he couldn't talk to Ron about it, because Ron would see Malfoy's lapse as an opening, a fatal breach in defenses he had never been able to break through. An opportunity to attack the Slytherin. Harry needed someone who would be able to understand the delicate balancing act he was trying to decode: Malfoy was an enemy certainly, but there was obviously something wrong with the situation, something that needed sensitive handling. Not just the get-mad-and-counterattack response.

So that left Hermione.

That option solved some of the problems, but it also opened up a whole slew of additional ones as well. Leaving out any mention of Malfoy at all, he would have to be precise about what he said if he wanted any sort of real advice. But this was Hermione. While vague allusions might distract Ron from figuring out who he was talking about, his other friend was a different story. She would treat the matter tactfully and remain calm when Ron would blow up, but she would also be picking it apart in all its minutiae until she solved the mystery. She couldn't help it: it was her nature. One of the things Harry usually loved about her, but now it just made matters difficult.

He managed to get Hermione alone in the common room late Wednesday evening while she was studying Ancient Runes. When he sat down next to her on the couch, she immediately looked at him, her brow furrowed. He'd decided he had to talk to her; she was the only one who could give him the type of answer he sought. But he knew Hermione. If he wasn't extremely careful, she would come to the correct conclusion on her own.

Which may have explained why his question came out so vaguely.

"Say there was someone who you'd felt one way about for so long it had become part of who you were, and then one day they showed you a side of themselves that turned everything upside down. And you didn't entirely like the new side because of that. Or, rather, you weren't sure how you felt about it. And you thought you knew who they were before, but now they're acting very odd. With the new stuff. But maybe it's just more of the same old stuff, the stuff you were used to, and the reason you couldn't really trust the person in the first place. Would you suddenly trust the person because they've changed?"

Hermione looked perplexed. "Harry, I don't think I quite understand the situation. Is there someone in particular you're thinking of?"

Harry struggled to find a way to keep her on track and in the dark at the same time. Hermione searched his face, and her eyes widened. "Oh, Harry, has Ron done something?"

"Hermione--"

"Is it Ron--or myself? I know Ron can be a bit brick-headed at times, and, well, I'm... not exactly know for my tact... but anything we've done, I promise you--"

"It's not you, Hermione!" Harry said firmly, grabbing her shoulder and giving her a gentle shake. "It's not you. Or Ron."

"Oh..." The realization Hermione had been clinging to dropped from her face and she looked more puzzled than ever. "I just thought... you did seem as if you were avoiding us a bit, but I never considered... But it's not us?"

Harry shook his head, beginning to wish he had never opened his mouth.

Hermione bit her lip, and Harry could practically hear the thought process clicking incessantly. "Well... then is there anyone at all? What I mean is, are you even talking about someone in particular, or is it a hypothetical situation?"

"Hypothetical," Harry answered, a bit too quickly. But Hermione was looking thoughtful, tapping a finger against her lip.

"Alright..." She fixed him with a troubled look. "Harry, I don't... really know what you're trying to get at here, but... I just don't see how someone who has never been trustworthy before could suddenly change. If anything, it would make me more suspicious about that person."

"But there are... What if there were things that you knew...and maybe you couldn't explain it... that you knew were the truth? Things that couldn't be lied about?"

Hermione looked frustrated, and more than a bit worried. "Well, I guess... Are you sure it's not Ron or me, Harry? Because I would rather you told me."

"Hermione. I'm sure."

"Then I suppose... I guess the best thing to do in that situation is to go directly to the source. Get a straight answer."

Harry barely fought back a grimace. He'd tried that, and had only ended up more confused. But Hermione was chewing her lip now, fingers twined together nervously, and Harry knew that if he didn't wrap this up quickly it would begin to delve into places too close to home.

"Thanks, Hermione," Harry said, forcing a weak smile. "Maybe you're right. I'll do that."

He rose to leave the common room, but Hermione reached up and caught his hand.

"Harry, are you sure you're alright?"

The worry in her eyes shriveled his insides and he almost winced. "Yes, I'm fine. Just tired."

This had to be dealt with, and soon, Harry decided as he trudged up the stairs to his dormitory. Luckily, everyone else was already asleep, and he collapsed onto his bed, already deep in thought when he hit the soft coverlet.

He realized he had not told so great a lie after all: perhaps confronting Malfoy again, "getting a straight answer" as Hermione had suggested, was not such a bad idea. Sure, he had tried it and it had turned out badly. But he'd had time to consider Malfoy's words and behavior - consciously and unconsciously - and perhaps this time around would be different. Harry felt that he might possibly be able to organize everything in his mind well enough to have a coherent discussion with the Slytherin... provided Malfoy didn't throw anything else at him.

It was simply a matter of figuring out his approach.

* * *

So that was an uncertain moment. Frankly, there were more of those than there were angry moments, but Harry wasn't really keeping track. It was quite enough trouble simply concentrating on anything school related. With McGonagall demanding two long essays on Animagi by the following Tuesday, and Slytherins in Advanced Potions twice a week, Harry had his hands full trying to keep his focus. Every time he passed Malfoy in the halls, he felt his insides quailing, though the other boy never looked at him. Harry felt as though he should do something, anything, but he could never force himself to act. Getting Malfoy's attention would be easy, after all; he'd definitely done it before. But keeping those narrowed eyes on him for long enough to get answers when it was clear Malfoy did not want to talk about it anymore?

And that was saying nothing of the fact that there was no way in hell he would get the Slytherin to talk to him while inside the castle. Harry was not about to confront him in front of everyone.

It was during these silent passings in the hallways that the furious moments gained the most ground. The Slytherin walked by him again and again without seeing him, and Harry began to wonder whether Malfoy was actually seeing anything with those blank, faraway eyes. His cronies Crabbe and Goyle still followed him most days, but even they were slowly being shut out. Harry could tell. As the week wore on, Harry saw less and less of the two larger Slytherins, and then less and less of Malfoy himself, until Potions rolled around again on Friday and Harry slumped toward the dungeons, resigned to his fate of once again darting glances at Malfoy, trying to figure him out for another grueling hour and a half.

The Slytherin was not in class that day.

Crabbe and Goyle were there, slouched over their desks, but the empty chair between them glared painfully. Harry didn't even put up a pretense of paying attention this time around; he stared at Malfoy's vacant seat, weaving back and forth between anger and that blasted uncertainty until Goyle caught him looking and scowled at him. Harry merely smirked back and continued his perusal of the vacant seat.

Class ended during one of Harry's angrier spells. He had just been contemplating the outlandish possibility of Malfoy having withdrawn from the school without having the decency to provide him with the answers he so desperately needed, and it was with this flippant abandonment of caution that he approached Snape's desk.

"Professor," he said, eying the rest of his classmates as they exited the dungeon classroom. "Where's Malfoy?"

His voice was cold, and he could tell that Snape heard it. The man raised disdainful eyes to his, and pointedly steepled his fingers in front of him, arms leaning on his desk.

"I beg your pardon, Potter?" he said icily. Harry pursed his lips.

"Malfoy. He's not in class. Do you know where he is?"

Snape glared at him as if Harry had absolutely no business being curious about anything, much less the whereabouts of a Slytherin student. "And why, may I ask, are you interested?"

But Harry's brain seemed to have prepared for this in advance, and it had a ready retort. "Aren't you interested, Professor? He's your best student. He never misses your class."

A look slanted over Snape's face, and Harry squinted at the man, suddenly unsure. The Potions Master was troubled, Harry was sure of it, but he hid it well; the expression was masked faster than Harry could think about it.

"Of course I am," Snape spat. "He has not been feeling w--"

Snape suddenly stopped and grimaced. Harry knew he hadn't intended to tell him that little bit of trivia. Uncertainty took over again. First Malfoy acting crazy, and now Snape letting something slip. What was going on? Harry searched the professor's face for an answer, a hint, anything at all. But Snape had collected himself and was now glaring at him so hatefully that his skin crawled.

"Class is dismissed, Potter. Now get out before I slap you with detention for meddling in other peoples' business."

Harry turned and left hurriedly. Once again, he'd been caught unprepared by his own sudden emotional switch. Snape was right. Why should he care about Malfoy? So what if the Slytherin missed a few classes? It wasn't as if he were the only student doing that.

Still, Harry could not help wondering where Malfoy was at that moment. Why he had been absent. What exactly had managed to shake up the normally self-reliant and certainly self-righteous boy?

* * *

The next day was Saturday and a glorious trip to Hogsmeade... for everyone else. Harry had no interest in going to the sleepy little wizarding village, not when he couldn't rest at night, or keep five seconds' worth of focus in any of his classes, or think of anything other than how upside-down he felt. He bowed out of the trip with a feigned nonchalance that surprised him, saying he wanted to work on McGonagall's essays, and making Ron promise to pick up some Chocolate Frogs for him at Honeyduke's. He expected to see the worried half-frown Hermione cast at him as she walked out of the castle, Ron at her side, but he was unprepared for the concern echoed in Ron's eyes. How much had Hermione said to her boyfriend about their conversation anyway? Harry forced a smile and a wave, praying she had kept it to herself.

Harry spent the morning pacing the quiet hallways of the school. He could see his arch-enemy in his mind and remember every single one of the boy's movements as if they were seared there. The more he played over each memory - Malfoy's slow measured walking along the forest's edge, slamming his hand into a solid stone wall, moving toward Harry only to draw back as if burned - the less he could equate them with the snarling, haughty Slytherin he'd come to accept as a commonplace part of his school day. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he nearly stepped on Mrs Norris coming around a corner by the Charms classroom. The large cat hissed loudly, and Harry apologized and left the corridor as quickly as he could. He certainly did not need Filch on his case as well.

It wasn't until Harry's stomach gave a protesting growl that he turned his steps downstairs to the Great Hall. Most of the students who had not gone to Hogsmeade were outside somewhere on the grounds, and the four house tables were nearly empty. Harry sat down with a sigh at Gryffindor table and began to pick at a few dishes that magically appeared before him. He was halfway through a small meat pasty when he looked up and saw a familiar figure sitting at the end of the table farthest from him.

Harry barely had time to register who it was before the other boy rose from the table, his own plate hardly touched, and glanced up, straight at him. Malfoy looked exhausted. There were circles under his eyes and an uncharacteristic pinching around his lips and forehead. Harry's mouth fell open, but he was too surprised to do much else. Further weariness seemed to descend upon the Slytherin as he gazed at Harry from across the room. For a breathless moment, Harry thought the other boy was going to say something. Instead, Malfoy closed his eyes tightly and shook his head as if to clear it. He moved down the aisle across Harry's line of sight and exited the hall without meeting his gaze again.

The hunger fled from Harry, leaving him flustered and empty. He stared at the now-closed doors as if he could will them to open and spit Malfoy back into the Great Hall. It was impossible to eat now; his stomach was simply too roiled with... uncertainty. How was it that Malfoy could suddenly do that to him? Just by looking at him, by touching his arm... or not touching his arm.

By kissing him.

Harry shoved himself away from the table and left the Great Hall. The corridors were still empty but their peacefulness was now gloomy and unfulfilling. Harry became edgier and edgier with each corner he turned. He couldn't think anymore.

Several ill-defined moments later, Harry found himself standing outside a familiar stone gargoyle in a dim hallway. He had not realized he'd arrived there, and he studied the gargoyle through narrowed eyes.

Well, Hermione had been unable to help him. It was worth a shot.

He opened his mouth to try the last known password when a voice startled him.

"Harry?"

He turned and saw Dumbledore standing a few feet away, looking at him curiously through his half-moon spectacles. The tall wizard was clothed in loose red robes, and his long beard drifted like cotton fluff.

"Professor, could I... speak to you about something?"

"Certainly." Dumbledore spoke the password - Butterbeer - and gestured for Harry to enter. "Hogsmeade not holding your interest today?"

Harry shook his head, smiling weakly, and followed the Headmaster up the stairs.

* * *

"What is troubling you, Harry?"

The Headmaster was sitting at his desk, hands clasped on top. Harry sat in a plush armchair across from Dumbledore but despite the softness of his chair, he couldn't get comfortable. He perched on the edge of it, fiddling with his fingernails.

"Professor... How do you know when you can trust someone?" It sounded lame, even to him.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at Harry. "Has something happened to make you feel you are in danger, Harry?"

He shook his head. "No... no, I actually don't think I am. Not the sort of danger you're talking about, anyway."

Dumbledore eyed him thoughtfully. "I may need more information."

Harry sighed. "There's a person who has recently... done things that make me feel differently about them. I don't know if they did it on purpose or by accident, but... the person has changed. In some way. The problem is, I have never been able to trust what this person says or does before... and now I don't know what to think."

"But you feel you should put some stock in the change this time around."

Something in Dumbledore's voice caused Harry to look up sharply. The man was gazing at him from behind tented fingers. Harry stared back into the Headmaster's eyes. He suddenly had the sense that he had just told Dumbledore everything - about Malfoy, about the kiss, the Slytherin's odd behavior - instead of the generalized question he knew he had uttered.

Did Dumbledore already know?

For his part, Dumbledore smiled gently and leaned forward. "It has been my experience that when people ultimately change, it can take place so gradually that denial is the only logical course of action in their eyes."

Harry squinted at the Headmaster. Who exactly was the man referring to? Dumbledore merely reached a gnarled hand to straighten a stack of parchment on his desk.

"So you're saying this person is in denial," Harry said, knowing full well that that was only half of it.

"I am saying" - and here the aged wizard looked Harry directly in the eye - "that change, especially of oneself, is quite possibly the most difficult obstacle to overcome."

Harry looked down at his hands. After a long moment, he raised his gaze to Dumbledore's once more. "How do I trust this person, then?"

Dumbledore smiled and for a split second Harry was absolutely certain the man knew more about the situation and the person - people - Harry was talking about than he did.

"How? There is no straight answer to that, Harry, as you well know. Trust must be earned. But one thing is certain. While people lie, deceive, and hide the truth from each other, the magic does not. Magic is always truthful. It has no capacity for deception. Only those who wield it have that power."

Harry knew enough about Dumbledore to quell his frustration; his answer was there, buried somewhere in that cryptic response. He turned it over in his mind. Malfoy's tide of emotions had felt truthful, visceral, and painfully intense. But Malfoy had cast that charm on him. Was it possible to lie so deeply inside oneself? Harry wasn't sure. Then again, his own present mental state seemed to be playing tricks on him as well. How did he feel now, exactly? Harry felt as if he were standing on a razor-thin edge, and that one tiny nudge in either direction would send him over, one way or the other. In one chasm lay the past... and in the other lay the change, and the truth. Harry did not know which was which.

And just where the hell did Malfoy stand? It seemed to Harry that the Slytherin had fallen into the side of change, but had become a bit muddled as to what his own truth was. Was that why he had cast the charm? An attempt to find clarity?

An attempt to deny?

Suddenly the solution spread itself before him like a tapestry. Only part of his answer lay with Dumbledore; the rest of it depended upon Harry himself.

He stood up, and saw the Headmaster looking at him knowingly.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "You've been very helpful."

"Harry." Dumbledore's voice caught him as he turned and moved toward the door. He stopped and glanced back. The man had risen and was standing behind his desk, hands clasped behind him.

"Change takes time. No one is required to know exactly who he or she is immediately."

Something released within Harry, slight and indefinable. He nodded and smiled absently. Exiting the office, Harry went down the winding stairwell, out through the passage guarded by the gargoyle, and turned his feet in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.

He had thought enough. It was time to act.

* * *

The Gryffindor common room was vacant except for a few first years sitting around chatting. They eyed Harry shyly as he passed but he barely noticed. Everyone third year and above was still at Hogsmeade and it would be at least another hour before the early birds started filtering back to the castle. Harry opened the door to a marvelously empty dormitory. Someone had left the window open, and a cool breeze glided in, ruffling the bed curtains and finding the new outlet down to the common room. Harry shut the door behind him and the curtains stilled. He walked to the center of the room and stood there for a moment, steeling himself for what he had determined to do.

Malfoy had not gone to Hogsmeade either. He was in the castle somewhere, or out on the grounds. Which meant this would work fairly well. He hoped.

Harry was not entirely sure about proximity issues concerning the charm Malfoy had cast on him. The nature of the charm made him think that distance would not make much of a difference - the charm was intended for a person to cast it on himself as protection from anyone, anywhere - but then again, Harry had not cast the charm on himself in the first place. Malfoy had, and he had obviously focused the charm's powers specifically to channel his own emotions, because otherwise Harry would have received a certain hateful Dark Lord's fury along with it, at the very least.

But Malfoy had cast it with himself in mind. Did that make a difference in the level of emotions Harry had felt?

Well, no matter. Whatever Malfoy really thought ought to come through pretty clearly while he was in the same general vicinity as Harry. And, Harry mused with a relieved sigh, there would be no Malfoy there to doctor the charm up - if he had done so before - or block off any of his emotions from my notice - if he could even do that at all with this type of magic.

It felt good to be covering all the details.

Harry pulled his wand from his jeans and took a steady stance. When he had tried the charm with Voldemort's emotions in mind, the ensuing malice he felt had given him a jolt. But it had not surprised him: he knew what to expect from Voldemort's quarter. It was nothing new. Likewise, he'd felt Malfoy's emotions once before and knew their thread. He grasped at the vague memory of those feelings and muttered the words of the charm, focusing all his consciousness on Malfoy.

It hit him like a battering ram.

Harry's mouth flew open and he choked. Something had changed. The original unflagging desire was there, and the concern, filling Harry's insides. Malfoy's inexplicable need to be near him swirled through Harry's body, and it would have warmed him as it had before... except now it was intertwined with a seething mass of something entirely different. Harry's chest constricted, seizing on itself under the flood. A tiny primal area in his brain shot through the turmoil and stopped him from ending the incantation, whispered to him to wait, wait, but Harry doubted he could have forced the terminating words past his closed throat regardless.

Regret. Shame. Sorrow. Harry grasped at them as they tumbled past him, through him. For a single clear instant, he saw them in succession, and his entire body cried out at the force and futility of each. Helplessness entwined with the sheer need to be near Harry. Frustration and shame coiled around concern. Blazing fury swirled with the familiar desire. Regret enveloped everything in a dull pounding wave, horrible and wrenching. But the deeper Harry went, the clearer the boundaries between the mass of feelings became. He began to see that though he could feel all of these emotions, some were more removed from his awareness, as if he were watching them flow around him, while he stood invulnerable in a sea of poison. The hopelessness shuddered against him, but he could not quite grasp it. The regret cocooned him, but did not smother.

Harry's battered brain registered that though he could feel these bleak emotions, they were somehow not directed at him. So, who...

And then, in the whorl of chaos, Harry discerned something else, riding above the rest. It struck straight to his heart, left him warm and aching and full... and it hurt like hell.

Harry dropped to his knees hard on the stone floor, but the pain withered under the internal onslaught. He tried to stem the tears but they rose anyway, adding to the vague grief that already filled his body. He raised his wand in shaking fingers and whispered the concluding words.

"F-finite... incantatem..."

As suddenly as it had come, the flood receded, leaving Harry on his hands and knees over cold stones, gasping for air. He sat up with a shudder and closed his eyes, pressing a hand over his face.

How... how... Harry did not know where to begin. His insides burned, a deep-seated tear somewhere in his chest. That was truth, right there, and Harry knew immediately that he had never felt it before, that it was the thing Malfoy had managed to hide from him. But he saw now that the other boy had been unable to hide it from himself, and the idea of that constant grief, shame, and regret strangling the other emotions made Harry so ill he could barely see.

Malfoy...

Harry crawled across the floor and settled wearily against his bed, breathing hard. Things were sliding into place faster than he could keep track, and as each one clicked home, more and more about the last few weeks made sense to him.

And, in a way that was strangely comforting, the confusion that had been pulling him apart began to melt into startling clarity. He still wasn't sure how to articulate it to himself, or to anyone else for that matter, but he knew one thing for certain.

He did not want Malfoy to hurt like that anymore. Not because of him. He had to find the Slytherin. See if there was a way to heal this wound.