Morningstar

I saw a star beneath the stairs
glowing through the melting walls.

Who will be the first to begin their fall?

Wrapped tightly in the folds of his Invisibility Cloak, Harry watched his lover ascend the last few steps to the Owlery. The night air rushed through the tallest tower, and Harry smiled with delight to see the goose bumps prickling the soft white flesh as Draco drifted by his hiding place towards the trapdoor set in the floor.

It must have been there for years, hidden under the pellets and droppings of thousands of owls, until Harry had noticed the small room on the Marauder's Map. He almost laughed out loud as her recalled Draco's reaction when he told he had found them a place. He had visibly blanched at the thought of poking through the offal to find the entrance that had to be there somewhere, even if it wasn't shown on the map. Harry had never told him about the map, because that was his and Ron's and Hermione's secret. He had enough secrets with Draco.

The room, when they had found it, caused them both to sigh in relief. By the dusty and tattered blue hangings on the wall, and the formerly plush cushions scattered about, they knew it had been used for this purpose before. Soon, the hangings were black, the only colour they could compromise on, and the cushions were replaced with a straw mat and a futon. A sable-fur blanket was on the bed, and it provided a welcoming embrace in the constant rain of April. The tapestry depicting a Chinese Fireball added to the Asian décor.

Finally, they had a place where shame could not enter. As soon as they slipped through the opening, there was no Voldemort, no war, no Death Eaters, no school, no Slytherins, no Gryffindors, only their passion and need. Love was never mentioned.

On this night, Harry waited until Draco had closed the trapdoor behind him. He took a lungful of the fresh spring breeze to strengthen himself, and then he followed.

Draco was reclining lazily on the futon, atop the black spread, flipping idly through a Quidditch magazine.

'I knew you were standing out there,' he said without looking up.

Harry didn't answer; he only sat down on the edge of the futon and gazed at the Chudley Cannons seeker performing a modified version of the Wronski Feint on the cover of the magazine.

They stayed there silently for a time, Draco thumbing through the magazine and Harry just laying at the foot of the futon on his back. They didn't just have sex; in fact, one of the reasons Harry kept up whatever they had was because they didn't have sex all the time. As an attractive and popular Quidditch star, Harry could have gotten that anywhere. But with Draco, he could just stare at the ceiling for as long as he wanted, without having to answer questions about his health or state of mind. Draco was quite possibly the only person who could ever come close to understanding what it felt like to be an expected saviour. After all, didn't Lucius push his son to succeed even more than Dumbledore pushed him?

Ever since his fifth year when Dumbledore had sat him down and told him the truth about Voldemort and his parents, and why Harry had to be the one to fix it all, he had been ordered to prepare. Of course, Dumbledore made it seem more like gentle encouragement than anything else, but it was an order all the same.

Sometimes Harry likened himself to a gossamer thread. You could stretch it, and it would become thinner and thinner until the point where it snapped and became two pieces. He had snapped a few days before Christmas holidays. It wasn't pretty. He was still uncomfortable talking to Hermione. However, that thread had been knotted together again after Draco got to it. There was something calming about someone who never seemed to give a damn.

'Draco, I-' He broke off suddenly, unsure of himself.

'You what, Potter?' After their first kiss, Harry called him Draco, never Malfoy, but Draco had never once called him Harry.

'Nothing.' He dropped his eyes, not wanting the other boy to search them out with his own. There was something about the secrets contained in those eyes that made him want to spill his out, one after another, ruining everything he ever had.

Quick as a snake, Draco struck, grasping Harry's chin and turning his face to meet his.

'It obviously isn't "nothing". Look at you, you're shaking like a leaf!' He spoke with concern, and a bit of disdain.

'Really, Draco, it's nothing. I don't want to talk about it.' Closing his eyes, he carefully leaned closer, hoping he'd get the hint. Lips met, and all conversation was forgotten for now.

Harry always kissed with his eyes close, because Draco was scary that close up, but Draco kept his open, searching for something he hoped he'd see in Harry's face as he moaned at his touch and grasped him with sweaty hands.

They became religious during those long spring nights, crying out to a God they've never met. God had nothing to do with it. True worship never involves God.

II.

Or will we become one?

Am I the star beneath the stairs?
Am I a ghost upon the stage?
Am I your anything?

Spring's freshness was displaced by the heat of May, and in celebration they had decorated their room with flowers spun of golden threads from their wands. Beltane was spent in each others arms; blasphemy, but they had proved time and again that God never mattered.

Their days were spent as enemies, green and red competing - on the Quidditch field, in the halls, in front of teachers. Insults were hurled, each one nastier than the rest. Nothing was sacred. Draco would rip Harry's heart out, and Harry would spit in his face, both knowing that apologies would be made in due time.

In some ways, he enjoyed their fights, because it reminded him of a time when things were so much more simple. Your enemy was your enemy, not a lover or a confidante. Quite honestly, though, he was never happier than when he was in this room.

It was always Harry who fell asleep in Draco's arms, to be awoken gently and escorted back to the Gryffindor wing, but tonight, it was Draco who passed out after only a few kisses. In sleep, Draco lost the hard lines around his mouth and the aristocratic airs were replaced by a slight snore. His skin shone alabaster in the artificial moonlight from the ceiling. They'd added a charm much like the one in the Great Hall, just of the moon, that played out the cycles of waxing and waning over and over again.

III.

I saw a star beneath the stairs
glowing bright before descent
and in the morning there is nothing left
but what's inside of me.

And I don't want to die tonight;
will you believe in me?

'Draco, does it have to be this way?'

'Hmm?'

They were lying naked on the futon. The night was still young; their moon replica hadn't even risen yet. But in the scheme of things, they were much closer to the end. They had a week until they wrote their N.E.W.T.s, only a week left of life as they knew it. Harry had come tonight with a purpose, and no amount of desperate last minute kisses could deter him.

'Do we really have to get up at dawn and hurry back to our common rooms with our secrets, wishing we were here instead of preparing to leave Hogwarts to fight a war we don't even want?'

'Are you asking this rhetorically, or do you expect me to give you the solution?' It was said softly, not sardonically or bitterly or any way he had ever spoken before.

'Actually, I was just asking so I could answer my own question,' His voice was different, too, strangled with expectancy and hope.

'Think about it. You're already of age, and I will be soon. We're adults, aren't we? Doesn't that give us the right to choose our own destiny instead of being guided by some invisible hand? Don't you get sick of it all?' A pause.

'Dumbledore's always there, breathing down my neck, suggesting I take an extra class with him and Lupin, asking me about my dreams, my scar, what my turds looked like this morning. They all want me to do something about it all, but what if I can't? I've been researching, and think of the energy that will be released when Voldemort kills me! It will be catastrophic. I don't want to do this; I can't…' He trailed off, his eyes looking into some horrible future. Draco didn't say anything.

Harry suddenly bolted off the bed, pulled on his trousers, and pushed up the part of the ceiling that lead to the Owlery. He was standing at the eastern opening, gazing out into a sea of midnight ink when Draco finally followed.

Taking a gulp of the night air that had only now become cool enough for his comfort, he continued.

'We could leave, now. I've already changed my galleons into pounds; we could be at Heathrow by suppertime.'

'And where would we go?'

'I was thinking Canada. Have you ever seen pictures of the Rocky Mountains? There's a mostly wizarding village there. We could escape. Just be Harry and Draco, not the Golden Boy of Gryffindor and the Slytherin Fantastico, or any other of the stupid titles they've given us.' He turned from the window and fixed his absinthe eyes on Draco.

He had crossed the invisible line between them, voiced the thoughts neither of them wanted to hear. Like it or not, it had been done, and now was the moment of truth.

'And have you figured out what to do about this!' He shoved his bare arm in front of Harry's nose, forcing him to look at the skull and the grinning snake. 'This isn't going away anytime soon. I can't just up and run away from my problems. I have to deal with them!' The outburst shocked Harry, and the look on his face made Draco choose his next words with care.

'I just can't, Harry. Not while he's still out there. I'd damn this world if I could, but I can't do anything with… this on me. It's a modified form of the Imperius, with a bit of the Cruciatus added in for good measure. He sends me nightmares of what will happen to me, and what he'll do to my mum if I disobey orders. He took all my secrets. Except you. It took all my will, but I kept you from him.'

'You leave while you still can, if you want. I can't. I'm sorry.'

He turned and dropped down the hole, back into their cozy little room, and lay down with his hands beneath his head, the fully-risen moon on the ceiling illuminating his tears. He closed his eyes when Harry landed beside him on the bed and started licking them up. Their trousers ended up in a heap at the end of the bed, and they made love in earnest as the moon drifted along the ceiling.

IV.

And I don't want to fall into the light.
Will you wish upon?
Will you walk upon me?

I don't want to die tonight.
Will you...

Intrusive dawn came above the tallest tower at Hogwarts, and the light pervaded the Owlery, its fingertips touching the metal ring set in the floor. What it could not see through the door was a ransacked room, missing nothing except a tapestry of a Chinese Fireball.

If one listened to the minute echoes that still reverberated, they would hear the words of two boys that neither of them had said before.

'Harry, I love you.'

'When did you start calling me Harry? I love you too.'

'After you, then, my love.'

In the Slytherin Head Boy room, the armoire doors hung open. It was filled to brimming with all manner of robes. The only things missing were the few pieces of Muggle clothing.

Harry's trunk was missing from the end of his bed, as was the picture of Ron, Hermione, and him in Paris, smiling and waving happily in front of the Eiffel Tower.

The two boys flew side by side on their broom, reduced luggage in their pockets. When they passed over a small town just beginning its day, they went high up into the clouds, higher than either of them had ever flown before.

In the less populated areas, they skimmed the ground, performing stunts for one another, for once just sharing instead of competing. They went quickly, but they managed to catch some of the beauty in the light.

Late evening, and they are on a plane over the Pacific. Draco has never been on an airplane, and for that matter, neither has Harry, but he lets Draco have the window seat. He watches with delight as this hardened, withdrawn young man exclaims over the in-flight movie and the pre-packaged headphones.

Dawn is breaking again when the plane touches down in the land of many possibilities. They have a breakfast of Timbits and coffee from the airport, and Harry shows Draco the arcade. They obtain the services of a taxi cab and head northwest past the fields with cows lazily clipping grass. The flat plains give way to gently rolling foothills. Curled up in the back seat, the black head is whispering to the blond one that they are driving on the wrong side of the road.

'But, Harry, we're on the right side.' He stifles a yawn.

They ask the cab driver to let them out on the side of the highway where the earth suddenly thrusts up toward the clouds.

They pull out their brooms, grateful for their freedom. The future is more uncertain than it ever has been, and they are grateful for that, too.