Painters' Primer

PAINTERS' PRIMER by Shatterglass

"...Heart. Couldn't. Break. That was the problem here. A lonely boy. You were, just.

"There must be no self-pity, your pal said then. And that means NO self-pity. Can we not do this anymore, please? Emanation of a wood fire, blue of blue, singleton, scamp: we live not only in a world of thoughts, but also in a world of things.

"He did you a favor, your pal, when he told you this secret: First become ordinary, if you ever wish to become anything else. By Tuesday, you were so splendid the bees rose."

from "The Nature of Things" by Kathleen Ossip

or:

"Now I hear it in my head,

that strange wind that cries -

wakes me up sometimes,

that strange wind that cries -

makes me feel alive,

I see it in your eyes,

That strange wind..."

"Strange Wind" by Poe

or:

"Can you imagine what it would be like never to see the back of your hand. Then quite suddenly to turn it over and gaze at it?"

from Griffin and Sabine by Nick Bantock

***

Harry Potter pressed his back into the stones of Hogwarts' walls, then his cheek, then the backs of his hands. He thought about how the walls of Hogwarts changed every time he did. They were exciting and frightening at first, and when he first faced off against Voldemort at the end of first year, they had housed a deep and resounding secret, a truce between castle and boy, recalling how he had fought for the teachers and students and the very stones with which it was built. He thought they grew colder and shouted back more of an echo, perhaps, each time he fought with Ron, and how they were emptier and more hollow and much less comforting when the two of them were fighting with Hermione.

But the worst was now, when the greatest part of the danger had passed. Harry thought about how he had imagined Voldemort's defeat. Shouts of laughter and hazy parties and owls flying in broad daylight. He never imagined this feeling of disuse, of disgust with himself, and how the walls would sing it back to him with their rough greyness and undefined corners and winding corridors.

Hermione was sitting in the Gryffindor common room, memorizing entire texts. After the final battle, she had immersed herself in books with reckless abandon. Soon she stopped limiting herself to books about magic, soaking up Biology and Physics, Jane Austen and John Steinbeck. Harry swerved away from where she was sitting, feeling guilty for avoiding her, but unwilling to get involved in another pointless discussion about the lack of a science department in Hogwarts.

The fire was blazing merrily in the common room, oblivious to the fact that it had been extinguished for weeks at a time, schoolwork abandoned and laughter banished while the wizarding world was finally forced into taking sides. Harry stared at it morosely, missing Fred and George's antics. The products from their joke shop were a poor replacement of the twins themselves, who were currently racking in profits, and nobody could quite rouse a riot like they used to.

Harry sighed again, and then caught himself, disliking how moody he had become. He sank down in his armchair, making the cushion underneath him poke uncomfortably into his legs. Harry felt as though he wasn't taking full enough advantage of his freedom to live: so many had given their lives in this war. And then he steered himself carefully away from that subject, landing on what he felt he should be doing with his time. Schoolwork.

N.E.W.T.s were in a few months, and Hermione was much less frantic than he would expect: she seemed to have already learned everything that the N.E.W.T.s covered, and she was now relaxing with her 'light reading' before beginning to revise. Ron was fervently in denial that N.E.W.T.s were taking place, and as he was prone to causing bodily harm to anyone that suggested studying for the exams, most people didn't bring them up with him.

Harry himself was studying steadily every night. It all felt very unreal to him. Even though he was memorizing material in a very dedicated manner, he supposed he was as much in denial as Ron. It felt like this in-between period of studying with no Dark happenings would last forever, and he couldn't wrap his mind around the idea that in several months-three and a half, now, to be precise-he would actually be using all of the theory he was learning on the final exams of his school career before beginning Auror training. He rather suspected that the reason that Hermione wasn't denying the fact that her time at Hogwarts was coming to a close was that she was planning on going on to University after seventh year was done, so she really wasn't leaving school at all. And despite the fact that Harry and Ron shared a shudder over another four more years doing written homework, Harry privately thought that the idea was much less intimidating than venturing out into the so-called Real World, where he would be tested repeatedly on his abilities in his preferred career and expected to deal with dangerous and vicious things like finding a flat and paying taxes.

Finally putting aside his Potions essay around midnight, Harry realized that even Hermione had gone to bed, and most of the people left in the common room were concentrating on much more physical things than essay writing, and they were doing this in pairs, not alone. Harry got a bit cross-eyed looking at them, so he kept his eyes on his feet as he made his way up the stairs to his four-poster.

He still thought about Ginny sometimes, even though he knew that she had forgiven him. Harry found it odd that he himself felt more betrayed by his inability to love Ginny the way she needed him to than she did. She was actually eager to be friends with him again, finding it awkward to be on bad terms with her closest brother's best friend, but Harry couldn't let himself get close to her again. And it hurt him how patient she was being. She was so wonderful. Why couldn't he love her? He felt it a failing on his part.

He shrugged his way into his pajamas as soundlessly as possible, and his bed looked extraordinarily inviting. As he stretched out he remembered with fondness the pained look on Snape's face as he failed to find fault with Harry's potions project for their N.E.W.T.s level Potions class, a class that was much less painful than he had anticipated. It really was much more peaceful without Neville making the potions equipment explode. The absence of Neville had really seemed to improve Snape's mood... Harry closed his eyes and quite forgot why he was supposed to open them again.

When he woke up with a gasp, he almost mourned the loss of the scar-induced dreams. Screams were easier to explain than choked silences. And death was much easier to classify as a nightmare than a dream that replayed Harry's memory of that first night he had met Sirius, when he had thought that he had finally found a loving figure that would take care of him. Harry turned his face, wiping his brow on his pillow and then turning the pillow over. He straightened his sheets and flattened his quilt over his legs, concentrating on the feel of being awake before letting himself dream again. He found that it was much more likely to continue dreaming about the same thing if he failed to wake up properly in the middle.

And he didn't want those dreams. He wanted the nice, simple kinds, about flying without a broomstick and turning Dudley Dursley and his gang into gigantic cherry Popsicles. The kind of dream that Harry wouldn't have been afraid to tell Professor Trelawney about, in his old Divination classes. Not memories.

***

Draco was different from Harry. When he woke up from his dreams, he never went back to sleep. Lately he had been passing time by memorizing the contents of his schoolbooks, systematically and resolutely. He was already certain for full marks in Potions; all you had to understand for that class were how to read directions on a board and how to properly handle a knife, and both of these things were things at which Draco was quite able. He had therefore moved on immediately to Charms, and after a week of such rote memorization at night, he was both bored out of his mind and prepared for his Charms exam. He could make things fly, he could make things dance, he could make things vanish. Charms was a very simple class, even at the N.E.W.T.s level.

Defense Against the Dark Arts had always been rather simple for Draco. After all, Defense Against the Dark Arts was just a fancy way of saying Dark Arts to be Used Only in Defense, and if there was one thing his father had made sure that he learned at the manor growing up, it was the Dark Arts. So that led him to Transfiguration and Care of Magical Creatures. He was almost amused that he had only two subjects to study for over a period of three months. While he used to avoid schoolwork like the plague, and would have been immensely satisfied at having months of free time, he wasn't quite so sure now. Before the war he had received petty pleasure (but pleasure nonetheless) from patrolling the halls of Hogwarts, thinking of insults to throw at the Gryffindor Three, and, if it was a good day, using them. Then he would let Crabbe and Goyle... he winced and tried to turn his thoughts away from this topic, but to no avail. Goyle was no longer on speaking terms with Draco-as if they had really spoken before-and Crabbe...

Crabbe was dead.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, making sure that nothing was there that shouldn't be, namely tears. Perhaps what hurt about Crabbe's death was that even if he hadn't died, he wouldn't be speaking to Draco either.

Because Draco had ignored the summons from his father when the younger generation was called to receive the Dark Mark. Draco had, sneering all the while, turned in his letters from his father before opening them. Draco had stopped harassing Gryffindors unless they provoked him first. Because Draco had smashed Pansy's flute against the dungeon wall when he couldn't take the infernal screeching a second longer. Because Draco had called Crabbe Senior and Goyle Senior "a pair of spineless boot-licking wankers." Because Draco didn't especially want to lick boots.

***

Harry stumbled through the next day's double Transfigurations and double Charms, struggling to stay awake, and thanking the Powers That Be that he no longer needed to take History of Magic, as this class would surely have done him in. It was five weeks since the holidays, five weeks since that final battle. Hogwarts had recovered, at least, even if its students hadn't. McGonagall had replaced Dumbledore as Head of School, and she was doing remarkably well in this position. Dumbledore... it still stung to think of him, and how Harry had never made his peace with him and how he hadn't helped Harry, in fifth year. How he hadn't done anything. How he had let Sirius go to his death, let Harry lead him to it.

After classes, Harry walked around the common room, stopping ever so often to peer over Hermione's shoulder.

Hermione was staring at Harry bemusedly as he came out of his reverie.

"Well?" she said, apparently eager to get back to her latest book; Jane Eyre, it said on the cover. "What is it you want?"

Harry fished about for a while, looking around the room, before finally landing on a possibility. "Why don't we have another D.A. meeting?" he enthused, wondering why he hadn't thought of this before.

Hermione appeared to consider this for a few minutes. "You know the worst is over with," she said carefully.

"Yes, but those of us that want to be Aurors-I mean-don't you think-"

"If you'd let me finish," Hermione cut in, smiling. "I was going to say I think that's a wonderful idea. Professor Grubbly-Plank doesn't teach us much of the more practical stuff, does she? I thought she would be much more capable, but I guess, well, she really does specialize in creatures." Professor Grubbly-Plank seemed determined to merge Care of Magical Creatures and Defense Against the Dark Arts as cleanly as possible, resulting in classes that dealt heavily with defending yourself in the wild, which was no doubt important, but not exactly high on Harry's list for what was most urgent to learn.

Hermione held out her hand for Harry's fake Galleon, which was, miraculously, still in his pants pocket. ("Boys," Hermione muttered. "Don't you ever change your clothes?") She quickly charmed new numbers onto its surface, broadcasting the information that a Monday meeting would be held to all holders of similar coins. "Is that okay?" asked Hermione, showing him the date. "I don't think anyone is practicing..."

"They're not," Harry assured her. He knew the Quidditch schedules for all of the Houses, just in case he had to schedule extra practices for his team. "That'll be perfect."

***

Hoping that he hadn't imagined it, that he hadn't finally cracked, Draco pulled the Galleon roughly from his pocket, and then turned it over, dreading that all he would see was a date from the autumn. But he hadn't imagined it! His face fell a bit when he realized the meeting wasn't until Monday, and then he chided himself for feeling regretful about this. My happiness does not rest upon Potter's little meetings, he said firmly to himself. He could precisely remember his first meeting. It was the first D.A. meeting of Sixth Year...

Draco had walked into the meeting while it was in full swing, Blaise trailing slightly behind him with a mix of curiosity and disgust evident on Blaise's face. Draco had been loath to bring him, but then he realized that this was one place to which he could not bring his faithful shadows, Crabbe and Goyle. And he really didn't fancy walking into the meeting by himself, with a score or so students with hexes and curses ready on their lips. Harry had shot him a rather shocked look, but it was nowhere near the magnitude of shock that Draco had hoped for, and he felt his smirk slip a bit as a result of his anticipation being disappointed. Indeed, none of the members had been exactly keeling over, and Draco had realized somewhat belatedly that Dumbledore must had told them all that he was working for them now. His smirk had disappeared completely.

Damn Dumbledore, he had thought rather savagely to himself at the time. Now, looking back, he was rather relieved that he didn't have quite the element of surprise that he had hoped for. It was probably thanks to Dumbledore that he had walked out of that meeting relatively unscathed.

Blaise had looked just as surprised as any of them, however, when Draco had asked Harry quite politely if he could be of any use.

"I know all of the worst hexes," he'd told Harry. "I know everything that can be used that is still inside of the law, and a few that you can probably get away with even though they're illegal."

Harry had been polite in return, and truthfully Draco had expected nothing else; it had always been Draco or Ron that instigated their little run-ins, never Harry himself. Hermione had given them each a coin, and had them both sign their new list. Draco hadn't even wanted to think about what sort of jinx Hermione had put on this list this time, after her jinx had been relatively unsuccessful last time someone had betrayed them. He had just signed and forced himself not to think about it.

And after the final clashing of sides, after Lord Voldemort had killed Dumbledore and Harry had gotten him during his weak moment after that strenuous victory, Draco hadn't expected that he would ever speak with most of the D.A. again. After all, Draco knew how Snape was still treated, even though he had risked his neck for the Order during both wars. He had immersed himself in his schoolwork, just like the rest of what remained of Slytherin house, a few of the older students who had never really taken sides, some people who had joined the Order in favor of the Death Eaters, bringing with them information about Voldemort's plans, and the sons and daughters of Death Eaters who hadn't turned against their parents but who had been deemed too young to be held accountable for their actions by the Ministry. Over all, it was a sadly depleted little crew, but it wasn't really that much more empty than the other Houses, who had also lost people to both sides, if not quite so many to Azkaban.

Draco put the coin back into his pocket, halting his musings to pull on his pajamas and brush his teeth. Nine o'clock, he thought grimly as he slid under his covers. I can't believe I'm going to bed at nine o'clock. I must be losing my mind. But he welcomed the thick waves of sleep as they rolled over him, not even minding the streaks on his face and his still-damp pillow when he woke late next morning. He felt refreshed, and better than he had in a long while. It was a Hogsmeade weekend, and he was awake and alive, still alive.

Draco showered and pulled on several layers of black clothing, unable to give up his love for the color even though it stood for so much that he hated. Father and Mother and their pathetic Death Eater friends all wore black, but none of them looked quite as smashing as I do, Draco thought, in an uncommon good mood, as he preened in front of his full length mirror, cheeks still rosy from the showers and Slytherin scarf hanging around his neck in a very becoming fashion. Neither man nor woman will be able to resist me. Just so long as the women keep quietly to the sidelines...

***

Harry's sleep had been far less peaceful. He was beginning to suffer from a recurring nightmarish dream, and every time he woke he grew more and more afraid to return to sleep. Hermione knew he was having trouble sleeping; she had always been more perceptive than Ron. She managed to persuade him to tell her what the dream was, and he found it frustratingly difficult to describe. He told her it took place in the room in the Ministry that held all of those sparkling clocks, and she nodded her head encouragingly, waiting for more. "But what happens in the dream?" she asked him, and he flushed a bit when he told her nothing happened, he just sat on the floor in this room, waiting for something, dread gathering in his stomach until it hurt like a cramp from running too fast and too far. Hermione nodded, but Harry caught the confused look in her eyes, and it hurt him a little. He hadn't tried to explain it again.

Harry was relieved when it was time to go to Hogsmeade. He had already been up for several hours, lying in his bed and going over Potions information. He had found that being confident and capable in Potions boosted his confidence in every other subject, so he had worked mostly on Potions since the Holidays. He got a smug sort of pleasure from earning Snape's respect, and it made his Occlumency lessons much more bearable. Snape and Harry had stopped clashing with each other after the events of the Holidays, and Harry rather enjoyed this stark learning environment, where he wasn't distracted by friends or the kindness of the teachers. Not that he had admitted this to anyone, of course.

Hermione headed off to pick up a few more books ("Where does she keep them all?" muttered Ron), and Ron went in search of some broomstick polish. Feeling abandoned and silly for feeling so, Harry headed back to the castle to memorize a few more lists of Potions ingredients. His mind was beginning to feel like a catalogue.

Monday couldn't come fast enough for Harry. After an entire day of his Potions notes, broken up only by his essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts and some Charms practice, he thought that sticking his head inside a dragon's mouth would be a reasonable idea just to stop the monotony. Potions on Monday was a silent business, with Snape sending disappointed looks towards Harry's cauldron where his Extra Strength Pepper-Up Potion was acting exactly as it should, and the Slytherins in the room as dejected and depressed looking as always. Potions class was much smaller now that only the students whose grades on the O.W.L.s had been acceptable were here. Along with Neville, Ron had left, and many other of the Gryffindors who didn't care much for Potions and so didn't try very hard on their O.W.L.s, looking forward to a Potions-free year or two.

Hermione was still here, however, as was Dean Thomas, who had studied very hard in order to get top grades on all of his exams at the end of Fifth Year. The Slytherins were diminished for reasons other than grades; Crabbe was dead, and several boys that Harry hadn't known were in Azkaban because they had been Marked by Voldemort. Zabini was still here, as was Malfoy, and a few girls whose names Harry always mixed up; they had transferred to Hogwarts from Durmstrang in Sixth Year and Harry privately suspected they had only been put in Slytherin because of all of the Dark knowledge from Durmstrang swirling around in their brains.

When the time came to turn in samples of their Potions, Harry cleared his station up as fast as he could. He had spent his morning's free period in bed, and to his relief, he couldn't remember any of his dreams. Harry rushed down to the Room of Requirement and he arrived there before anybody else. He leafed through several of the books that appeared there for D.A. meetings while he waited. Hermione slipped into the Room after a few minutes, and then Ron a bit later, and then they started to appear. Neville was first; he said that he had an Herbology project that took up all of his free time and he was sorry and he couldn't come anymore and could Harry forgive him? Harry, of course, said yes, but he shot a slightly disgusted look at the door after Neville left.

Then came Seamus and Dean, who made no excuses. It was more of a blunt, "We don't really want to be Aurors and we don't really think we need to come to D.A. meetings since we have a real Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher now." They said it together and in a rush, and left before Harry could reply. He frowned a bit after them, and turned to Ron, who shrugged. Padma and Lavender also came together, and like always when he saw them, he acutely felt the loss of Parvati from their group, which distracted him so much that they were out the door before their words hit him: they weren't coming either. Ginny came in, not quite meeting Harry's eyes, as usual, and reported that Michael, Anthony, and Terry couldn't make it. She sidled out while Ron made a disbelieving sound and Hermione slammed her book closed in frustration. Ron was looking slightly murderous, and when the door opened next he said, perhaps more loudly than necessary,

"You skiving off as well?" And then Ron turned a shade of red that bordered on purple when he saw Luna's face peeking around the door, eyes filling with tears. At Hermione's urging, he went after her, leaving Hermione and Harry staring at each other from their cushions. Then Blaise popped in, coolly said he wouldn't be coming to these fucking meetings, it was all Draco's idea anyhow, so don't expect to see him again, and Hermione sunk back in her pillow, looking quite shaken.

"Was that everybody, then?" Harry asked after a few minutes had gone by.

"Oh, Harry, I don't understand, why were they all so rude?"

"I dunno, but is there anyone else?" Harry tried, hard, to look unaffected by what had just happened.

"Well, there's Zacharias-" ventured Hermione.

"No, I haven't seen him back at school, yet," Harry replied.

"The Creeveys-"

"No, they're taking time off as well."

"Cho..." Hermione said, and Harry shook his head.

"I think the only Harry Potter related activity she's up to is deconstructing the action figure," Harry said dryly.

"You have an action figure?" Hermione asked, looking quite traumatized.

"Well, he doesn't walk around as much as the one of Krum does," said Harry. "I think he's disappointed that he's just an action figure and not the real thing," he added.

Hermione swatted at his head. "You have the biggest ego..." she scolded him, but she couldn't keep from smiling that Harry was able to crack a joke after the meeting he had been looking forward to all weekend had just flopped. "Well," she said, standing up and straightening her robes, "I wanted to get to the library tonight before it closes-" and then she stopped at the look on his face. She saw the hurt there, even though Harry quickly covered it with an indifferent smile. "If you want me to stay-"

"No, you go on."

"Will you be okay? Do you want to come with me?"

"To the library? You know that most people's idea of fun doesn't involve hours and hours of quiet reading, don't you? I think I'll just stay here for a while, just... just in case," he finished lamely.

"All right," Hermione agreed, still a little worried but now looking forward to that book that she had ordered about the Civil War, which she had romanticized in her mind to include herself in one of Lincoln's famous hats and millions of House Elves labouring on the plantations of the South. She looked back at Harry as she went through the door, but he had already buried himself in a book that she was sure he wasn't reading, due to the fact that it was in French. Shaking her head, she left.

When Harry heard the click of the door as it closed, he put aside the book and walked around to the back of the room, where there were several small windows that overlooked the Quidditch pitch. It looked very peaceful covered in snow, much the same as it had looked during his first year and every year thereafter. He could just make out Ron on his Cleansweep, with a girl that could only be Luna clinging tightly to his back. He grinned at his friend. Every time Luna was upset he took her for a fly; Ron had confided to Harry that girls found this very romantic. Harry privately thought that Luna just enjoyed all of the close contact involved, but he had never voiced this suspicion.

Harry turned and looked around the room, which was different each time that he entered it. During the first D.A. meetings it had contained very elementary books on defense, and then it had added several books about Occlumency and a Pensieve that Harry had confiscated and had almost worked out how to use, and now it only held three cushions, as though it had only expected a few people, not the entire D.A. He wondered if he was clinging too much to the past, if he should let go of the D.A. as the others seemed to have done, if this was another thing that he was just supposed to forget about, like how the Headmaster's office had looked that day at the end of Fifth Year as he raged about his humanity, and the sad look Dumbledore had given Harry the morning of his death, as if he knew he would soon be gone and would have rather that Harry had fully forgiven him.

He sighed and sunk back into a cushion, leaning his back against the smooth stones of the wall, wondering briefly if the reason the room temperature was tolerable was because the glass of the windows and the stone walls were so thick, or whether the Room of Requirement adjusted its temperature for the users as well. He had closed his eyes when the door opened unexpectedly; he cracked one eyelid open and studied Malfoy's black-clad form, pale hair looking out of place against the harsh reality of the stone.

"Where is everybody?" Malfoy asked, looking put out.

"You mean you're not here to tell me that I'm stupid for trying to resurrect the D.A. and I can plan on never seeing you at a meeting?"

"Oh." Malfoy stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Don't bother getting comfortable," Harry warned him. "Nobody else is coming."

"I figured that out myself, idiot," Malfoy said, settling himself on a big red cushion despite what had Harry said.

"Then why are you sticking around?" Harry asked. He had never really gotten used to Draco being on their side. He had always expected Draco to be the first of the students in line for the Dark Mark. Draco had never stopped teasing him, nor Hermione and Ron, but it was just that nowadays, teasing. The malice had steadily drained out of his voice, until he could say the most annoying things and not even Ron would be tempted to pummel him. Well, not often, in any case.

"I don't have anything better to do," Draco said, shrugging. "Besides, any excuse to get into this room, right? I was thinking fervently about how I wanted a hot drink before I came in, and now look." Sure enough, the table was bearing a steaming pitcher full of what smelled like hot cocoa, a sugar bowl, and two mugs.

"It thinks I want some too?"

"No, but I was also thinking I wanted some company to drink it with. Are you sure you're really you? Or are you some sort of figment-Harry who was dreamed up by this room to satisfy my every desire?"

This question, which was asked in a voice full of amusement, seemed to be something Malfoy genuinely wanted an answer to, and Harry couldn't think of a way to prove that he was himself.

"What would figment-Harry say to that?" Harry said finally.

"Well, he wouldn't really say anything at all," said Draco. "It would be more along the lines of what he would do..." but Harry looked thoroughly mystified by this, so Draco laughed. "Obviously you're real, because otherwise things would have started to pick up by now."

Still looking confused, Harry stared at Draco, trying to puzzle the meaning of this out of him. He gave up eventually, when Draco didn't look the slightest bit fazed by his scrutiny and Harry's eyes began to ache. He had never noticed how Draco's pointer fingers turned inward, though, and how his hair looked slightly more golden now, rather than the silverish white-blond it had been before. Harry blinked several times, trying to get the image of Draco sprawling across a cushion out of his eyes. When he looked again, Draco was standing by the table, humming softly as he poured himself a cup of cocoa.

"So, do you fancy a cup, Harry?"

"Yeah, I suppose," Harry answered. He pushed up onto his legs, and then stuffed his hands awkwardly into his pockets before sauntering over to where Draco was standing. The warm mug felt heavenly against his hands, which were always colder than the rest of his body.

"So what are you doing here?" Harry asked finally, after scalding his tongue on a sip and setting his mug down on the table to wipe his streaming eyes with the backs of his hands. Draco watched all of this with the corners of his mouth twitching a bit, blowing on his own cocoa every so often while he waited for it to cool.

"Well, I did come for another D.A. meeting. But seeing as how that's not going to happen... I suppose we could work on our Potions homework?" Draco's voice was carefully indifferent, but he was unwilling to be turned out of this room, and away from the first social encounter he had had in about a week.

Harry groaned, though, and Draco's hopes sank a little. "I've been doing nothing but Potions ever since classes started up again. Anything but Potions." And Draco's hopes rose once more.

"Like what?" he inquired.

"Er," said Harry helpfully.

Draco paced around the room, which, he had noticed, worked on its principle much longer than just while you were outside the door. In fact, the hot drink had been an excuse to stay longer, when it had looked like he would have to leave. Now he found a shelf full of what he was looking for.

"Bet I can trounce you at any board game of your choice."

Harry walked across to what he was looking at, intrigued. "Monopoly. I didn't know wizards played Monopoly."

"Of course! And I always get Gringotts and develop on it: it's five hundred Galleons to land on when you put on a five-story flat."

"Oh, then it's a bit different than the Muggle version," Harry laughed, pulling the game down. "Do you want to have a go?"

"Potter, Monopoly can last for days..."

"I know."

***

Two hours later, Draco decided he was at a distinct disadvantage, because the sight of Draco's hands and eyes and hair didn't seem to be affecting Harry like Harry's were affecting Draco. Harry had landed on developed properties several times, according to the underhanded looks he kept shooting Draco out of the corner of his eye, but Draco would be too distracted by the hands shaking the dice to notice what the dice themselves read, although he did pick up on the fact that Harry was cheating after he had rolled five and a half three times in a row.

"Hey!" he had said, in a dramatically wounded tone. "I'm the Slytherin, I'm the one who's supposed to be cheating!"

"Cheating? Me?" Harry had replied, and his eyes looked so innocent that Draco had been unable to press the matter further. He decided that the only way for this to be evened out was for Harry to be just as distracted as he was, so he put into effect Distracting Techniques 3.0, Version Flirt. He first suspected that he was succeeding when he ran his hand lazily through his hair, rumpling it in a quite accidental on purpose sort of way, and pulled the hem of his sweater up an inch or so.

"Potter, I'm sure you mean to put those Sickles in your mug of cocoa, but could you please refrain from drinking out of the sugar bowl?"

Harry, looking slightly flustered, set the sugar back onto the table, and fixed Draco with a suspicious look.

The second sign that his plan was working was when he landed on Harry's properties three consecutive times and didn't pay for any of them. He had been running his tongue casually over his bottom lip, checking for hot cocoa after each sip. Harry made a slight choking sound, and Draco smiled hazily at him, stealing several 50-Galleon notes from the bank as he did so. Harry didn't notice a thing.

The seventh sign that his plan was working was when Draco began grabbing Harry's properties, one every few turns, stretching fetchingly with his other arm and yawning as he did so. Harry's eyes were beginning to glaze over.

By the time Draco got to the twentieth sign, Harry had only one property left, and he was looking very confused about this. "Oh but Harry, you sold them to me ever so many turns ago! Don't you remember?"

Harry lost spectacularly, and Draco felt quite pleased with himself. "We have to play this again sometime," Draco said hopefully, and Harry nodded, before coming back to himself.

"How did you do that?"

"Er, what?" Now he was in for it. But Harry's answer wasn't what Draco expected:

"Make another bowl of sugar appear?" There was a second bowl sitting next to the first one, which Harry had unwittingly clumped up in a most non-hygienic fashion.

"Oh. Haha. I don't know." Draco pushed the rest of the Monopoly money into the box, hoping that Harry never realized just how thoroughly Draco had cheated at that game.

"So you want to play again sometime?"

Draco couldn't quite believe his ears; who would want to repeat that performance?

"I always knew Gryffindors craved punishment," Draco said, smirking.

"You're probably the only person who will continue to check that coin," Harry said, slanting his eyes towards Draco and then quickly away again. He stood up, and his knees felt like concrete blocks for a second. "What time is it?" he asked Draco, horrified at how long they must have been sitting there while Draco went into paroxysms of glee as Harry let him cheat his way into a victory.

"...twenty 'til twelve.." Draco said, looking at his wristwatch, his expression soon matching Harry's. They fell over themselves putting shoes on that they forgot they had taken off, pulling their robes tightly around them, and casting questioning looks at each other.

"Goodnight, I suppose," said Draco finally. He made his way towards the door, and when he looked back, Harry was smiling.

"'Night."

***

Harry got back into his dormitory without too much trouble; it was, or at least seemed to be, much emptier now, with several of the older students dead and the younger students quiet and perpetually frightened. He slipped into his bed with a chorus of snores urging him on, and with Ron's mumbling making him smile softly to himself.

"But Hermione, I don't want to do homework today! I'd rather clean the showers with the house elves!" Ron muttered before turning onto his stomach with an extra-loud snore.

Harry gazed at the ceiling for a while, at the slants and cracks that he had fixed into his memory years before. His mouth still tasted of cocoa despite his toothbrush's best efforts. He couldn't figure out exactly where he stood with anyone anymore. Ron wasn't dating Hermione. Ron seemed to think that Harry was destined to marry Hermione as well, but Harry had an immense amount of trouble trying to think of Hermione in that way, which he supposed wasn't a good sign for any relationship they might get involved in. And Draco... he used to be Harry's worst enemy at school, always allying himself with the forces that were working against Harry. But now...

"I'm worth twelve of you, Draco Malfoy," Harry said quietly to himself, remembering similar words from Neville's mouth and wondering how they would feel coming out of his own. They seemed to hang in the air as if waiting for Harry to snatch them back. His mouth twisted. They didn't feel remotely true anymore. Now they just felt arrogant.

He rolled onto his side, studying his roomates' forms without his glasses, intrigued at how they blurred to look almost indistinguishable from Hogwarts and the Gryffindor dorm. Did he look like that when he slept? Did Draco?

***

Draco collapsed onto his bed, ignoring the curious looks he was getting from the inhabitants of his dorm, whom he didn't think slept at all. He felt like his body was perfect laid out just the way it was, and he found himself unwilling to mess about with his hair or his teeth or his night clothes. He fell asleep almost immediately, and woke before it was necessary. Draco was dressed and ready before most of his dorm had even woken up.

***

Harry contemplated his Galleon nervously all through Charms on Tuesday, listening to Professor Flitwick with half of his brain, storing the information of how far they reached today somewhere in the back of his head. Meanwhile his thoughts danced around behind his eyes. He found it increasingly difficult to control them. When would be too soon, when would be not soon enough? Finally, in accordance with both the Gryffindor and Slytherin practice schedules, he set the date on the coin for Friday, and he felt muscles he didn't know he was tensing relax. Warmth spread through his hands at the release of his tension, and when Hermione smiled at him, he smiled back.

***

Draco was in Astrology with Professor Firenze when he felt the heat in his pocket that he had been waiting for. He let out a sigh at this development; he hadn't been sure that Harry would follow through with his offer of another meeting. He was able to restrain himself enough to wait to pull the coin out of his pocket until after class, where he let out a disappointed whish of breath at the idea of waiting until Friday. It struck him during lunch that he could visit the Room of Requirement even if Harry had not called an official meeting, and this cheered him up. His cheer lasted all through Transfiguration, during which Headmistress McGonagall gave him an odd look when she saw him smiling, but then dismissed the class early and with no homework to speak of.

Draco paced back and forth in front of the door, trying to imagine just what he wanted there to be in the Room, finally settling for a fervent wish for something to do, something to occupy his time, now so full of empty spaces and silences that nobody seemed to want to fill.

When he opened the door, he gasped in spite of himself. The room was so changed from how it appeared for D.A. meetings that he didn't recognize anything but the small windows in the back wall. The other walls looked entirely different. One of them had piles and piles of what looked like blank canvases stacked in front of it. The second held a few haphazard shelves, upon which were large books labeled Picasso and Michaelangelo and others, and different colored tubes of what could only be paint. In the middle of the room sat an easel, which had a canvas already strapped onto it, and several brushes and a palette on the floor beside it.

Draco walked over to the easel, letting the door shut slowly and creakily behind him. He dragged a finger across the surface of the canvas, feeling it dip as it stretched. He let out a low whistle. All the blank space seemed to call to him, and he moved toward the shelves of paint, restraining himself to an aristocratic swagger, even though there was nobody here to see him.

He had never painted before. He could have sworn that he had never painted before. Yet he knew exactly which paints he wanted to use, and how much he wanted to smear haphazardly onto the canvas, which colors would look good with which.

Snow began to swirl outside of the windows as he painted, and he took a moment to admire it. The feel of the brush against the canvas was wonderful. Draco sighed as he stroked and drew a thin line of grey across the canvas. At first he went slowly, hesitant about how it would turn out if he rushed things. He didn't know what he was painting or what he was doing; was that a problem? He always needed to know what he was doing before.

Then he abandoned himself to the way it felt, and life began to spring up on the page. It was a flower, he would think later, trying to pull together an explanation for the shapes and lines on the stretch of beauty he laboured in front of.

It was unlike any flower he had ever seen, though, and he doubted that such a flower existed. It wasn't realistic, and at first that embarrassed him, that for all of the shades that he could create, he wasn't able to make it seem to be a snapshot. When he was finished and he began to flip through the books the Room had picked for him, though, he understood that the style of painting that Hogwarts exhibited was not the only style that was admired by critics.

Draco found the artists so fascinating that he held a firm doubt that these painters were Muggles. Picasso's different periods intrigued him. Monet's lilies looked like an image from one of his ever-elusive dreams. Van Gogh's paintings were anything but realistic, but when he stared at them, he found them far more convincing than the actual thing. These artists picked up on what the world really looked like, not just the empty appearances that the things took, the useless forms and colors picked up by eyes. The Muggle style of paintings, the ones that were impressionistic and didn't move, or abstract and didn't move, or, hell, just generally ones that didn't move: these were far more interesting than the standard Hogwarts portrait. He was hooked.

***

Harry was the object of much ridicule during that night's Quidditch practice. Even Ginny laughed at him when he pulled a bird out of the air under the impression that it was the Snitch. Ron clapped him on the back several times, trying to stir him from whatever world he was in, and then clapped him on the back of the head in desperation, but nothing seemed to work. Harry kept eyeing the lake, curious as to whether one could ice skate upon it, or would the Giant Squid be unhappy about that? Then he imagined skating, as he had never been allowed to do in his time with the Dursleys, and as he wasn't sure the wizarding world partook in. Skating with a light flurry of snow, and the wind in his hair, and mittens, and rosy cheeks, and a partner... And that shook him from his thoughts, but only temporarily, because then he fell to dreaming about having someone like Ron had Luna and Ginny had Neville and his Dad had had his Mum, and wasn't it normal to meet your future spouse at Hogwarts, shouldn't he be planning a family and disregarding exams and waking up from happy dreams, not hurtful ones? The whistle blew for the end of their allotted time on the field far before Harry was ready to leave it, but he noticed his team gathering together, obviously expecting some sort of pep talk, which wasn't really Harry's thing. What had this practice been like, anyway? Had they progressed at all? Were they any better than before? Harry couldn't remember.

"Harry, come on down!" he heard from Ron, and obeyed grudgingly.

"You know I hate this sort of thing," Harry said to him.

"But you're the captain this year, Harry..."

"Can't you just do it instead?"

And a warmth seemed to spread across Ron's cheeks, even though the sky was dusting a bit now, cold little flakes that sought out where they were most unwelcome. "Can I really?"

"Hell, Ron, you'd be doing me a favor, come on!"

Ron seemed perfectly happy to take over this responsibility, which was a relief to Harry, who always came away from their team huddles feeling as if they were a bit disappointed in what he had to say. He supposed that he had been denying how he was special and protesting how he was good for so long that he couldn't muster up the energy to convince a team they were awesome. Another little side-effect of his fame. Lovely.

Now that he was free from this duty, though, Harry was unsure about what he should be doing next. What he would most like would be to fly some more, but he had a vague feeling that the rest of his team would think that was awfully rude. He eventually came up with pacing off as if he had urgent business to attend to, which he put into effect, but he felt pretentious and stupid the whole way back to the castle.

This ended him up back in the common room, again, with Hermione at his side, still immersed in the writings of a Bronte. Harry supposed that this was Muggle literature, but he hadn't progressed far enough in school before he came to Hogwarts to be reading much literature, and in spite of Hermione's urgings, he had never taken up Muggle Studies, finding the whole thing rather useless for someone who had grown up with Muggles like he had. Yes, indeed, and like Hermione had, but never let it be said that she would let go of a chance at learning for the sole reason that it would be useless to her; no, it took full-scale exhaustion for her to consider dropping a class.

Harry smiled at this thought, and gazed down in an unfocused manner at the book on advanced Occlumency he had gotten from the library. It seemed only reasonable that since bettering himself at Potions had been conducive to a more respectful relationship with Snape, doing a little extra work for his Occlumency lessons couldn't hurt either. He remembered the few lessons he had shared with Dumbledore fondly, but Dumbledore had soon grown far too busy to teach, and then classes had been halted altogether. It was only after Dumbledore's death and out of an uncertain respect for his wishes, plus an instinct that a knowledge of Occlumency wouldn't harm his career, either, that had made him decide to take up Occlumency as his final major in the remainder of his Seventh Year.

He wondered what Draco was doing at this moment, and then he shuffled that thought firmly out of his brain, looking at Hermione for reassurance and receiving an answering smile in reward. Draco had made a mess of things for himself, and if he didn't want to try to make any new friendships, so be it. It wasn't Harry's job to save him. Do I really think that, though, wondered Harry, drawing his Galleon out of his pocket and passing his thumb over the edge where the date was inscribed. He supposed Hermione and Ron had discarded their coins after that last embarrassing meeting; they hadn't said anything to him about the new date he had put there.

Finally deciding that trying to read was a wasted effort, Harry set the book on the table with his writing materials and claimed one of the armchairs that was closer to the fire than where Hermione still sat. He remembered painfully seeing Sirius's head in the flames of this fire, and then he squashed that thought as well. What can I think about? he asked himself ruefully, and studied the jostling flames for a clue, but they presented nothing to him, nothing.

Harry was eternally grateful to Ron when he saved him with a game of chess that night, yes, saved him from his own thoughts. They bantered a bit over Harry's castles, and whether castles took longer to break in than the rest of the pieces. Harry's still refused to move when he made what was, in their opinion, a bad move-he had to pick up their scrambling forms and put them where he wanted them himself. Hermione's glares convinced them to take the game up into their dormitory, where they played happily until Harry fell into a trap, and Ron mated him in three moves, grinning the entire time.

"I thought I had that game," Harry moaned in a ridiculously whiny tone. "I almost won! Why'd you have to go and ruin it?"

Ron laughed. "The day you beat me at chess when I'm really trying is the day that Lucius Malfoy confesses to the world that he only became a Death Eater because he was madly in love with Snape."

They both made faces. Harry kept his mind firmly away from the Malfoys, giving it a chiding Not now.

"It didn't turn out at all like I meant it to, though."

"What are we talking about here?" Ron's voice was teasing.

"Oh, life, bananas, my Aunt Petunia's pick in wallpaper, the chess game. Your choice."

"Well it turned out just how I meant it to."

"You mean you envisioned ending up with Luna?"

"No, I meant I divined, using my incredible skills in Divination type thingers-thank you, Trelawny, thank you-that the game would end with my queen brutally massacring every last one of your pieces before settling into a nice, peaceful checkmate. But what's wrong with Luna, anyway?"

"I just always thought you'd end up with, well, you know." Harry squirmed under Ron's glare.

"No, I don't know. What are you trying to say?"

"Well, I always thought you and Hermione -"

"Me and Hermione! Me! And Hermione! But, my dear Harry, it is you who I always envisioned with Hermione!" Ron looked incredibly put out. Harry turned a rather embarrassing shade of pink after hearing Ron speak his thoughts aloud.

"But Ginny-you said before that Ginny-"

"I knew that wasn't going to last, you nitwit. But you and Hermione are destined for each other... the long and trusting friendship between the brave, brave Sir Harry and his scholarly fair maiden turning into something else entirely, and all that rubbish, right? I mean, it's practically destined to end up like that."

"Destined." Harry turned cold at these words, and then hot. "You mean you would never consider Hermione that way?"

"You mean you wouldn't?"

They studied each other for several moments in varying degrees of astonishment, taking turns turning colors and puffing out in short breaths exclamations like "I never!" and "Who'd have thought?"

Then they began speaking very quickly to each other at the same time, in a way they had perfected over the years of their friendship, catching most of what the other was saying.

"Then you must really be serious about Luna, I guess, and well, I've never really given her that much of a chance, and I've teased you about her, and that wasn't at all nice of me, can you forgive me?, and she is awfully nice, I just never really thought, you know, and now, and well-"

"If you aren't going to go off and live happily with Hermione, and have loads of babies, and alternately make up new spells and try them out on unsuspecting Dark Wizards, and bond over Hair-Taming Potions, then what are you going to do, I guess I haven't really asked you, I've just been caught up in my own relationship, and-"

They both arrived on this idea at roughly the same point, and their horrorstruck expressions mirrored each other to such an extent that a stranger at that point could have easily overlooked their contrasting physical appearances to land on the conclusion that they were, indeed, brothers.

"What about Hermione?"

"She, well..." Harry faded off, staring into space.

"I'm sure there is someone nice here at Hogwarts for her," Ron said in a hopeful tone.

"What, like Goyle?"

"That's not funny, Harry. We have some decent blokes in our form. I mean, there's Dean, and Seamus, and..." Ron was at a loss.

"Seamus and Dean. That leaves her with a lot of choice."

"Yeah, and if it was true love, you'd think it would have kicked in by now."

They sat in glum silence for a couple of minutes.

"You're sure you couldn't ever see her like that?" Ron finally asked.

"Me? You were the ones who were supposed to be together! You and Hermione, me and Gin," Harry stopped.

"Yeah, that worked out well."

They lapsed into a depressed silence.

They were getting ready to despair when Hermione burst into the room. Both Harry and Ron wasted a second or two on their typical thought upon her entering: "It is so unfair that girls can get into the boys' dormitory but boys can't get into the girls'!" This distracted them from wondering if she had overheard their conversation from outside the door. They were spared from this worry entirely by the radiant look on her face. There was no way that Hermione would look like that if she knew that they had both been discussing her future at great liberty.

Hermione was confused momentarily by their thunderstruck expressions, but she didn't let this get in the way of her news:

"I'm engaged!"

Harry, of course, immediately came over to hug and congratulate her, beaming so hard that he couldn't make very coherent sentences. Ron, of course, was having a similar problem with the sentences, but it looked as though the cause was slightly different.

"To WHO?" he managed to say finally, which resulted in two stares being sent his way. He edged backwards, but he still looked at Hermione expectantly, for all the world as if he could think of no one who would have proposed to her.

"Why, Viktor, of course," said Hermione.

"Oh," Ron said, before forcing himself to get up and go congratulate her himself. "Of course. Viktor, of course. Of course."

"Is Ron okay?" Hermione asked Harry with some consternation.

"Yeah, I think so," said Harry.

When they were both done with the hugging and the cheek-kissing and the nonsense-cooing, Harry and Ron caught each others' eyes and promptly dissolved into laughter.

"Well, really," Hermione said, perplexed, "I don't see what's so funny at all." She cast a stern eye on Ron and Harry, who were by now rolling on the floor, tears streaming from their eyes, but to no avail.

"Glad-you-happy-" Ron managed to force out between wheezes. Hermione laughed along for a few minutes, charmed by how child-like they looked, before leaving the room. She continued to shoot bemused glances over her shoulder the entire way to the common room, until their laughter faded from her ears. In no time at all she was back at her books, but this time she smiled every time she read about marriage, or someone receiving a letter, or owls, or just birds in general - really. What nonsense.

***

Harry was wiping his eyes with his right hand, holding his glasses with his left, and Ron was holding his stomach, apparently in some amount of pain. Occasionally a giggle would escape Ron's mouth, at which time Harry would laugh in response, often escalating to a full scale round of rolling around once more.

"I haven't laughed that hard in a long time," Harry said. Then he added, "I've always wanted to say that!"

"Oh, yeah, that's a good one," said Ron, clutching at his belly. "I supposed Hermione's got the whole relationship business, what did you say, 'in the bag'? Our little girl is all grown up. Ha! I've wanted to say that, too!"

"Yes, 'spose you could say that," Harry agreed. "She's a big girl after all, huh? Doesn't need us boys to look after her."

"Mm."

"You realize now I'm the only unattached one of the three of us."

"Double mm."

"I suppose this means I'm going to be set up on blind dates and such."

"What's a blind date?"

"Oh good."

***

Draco's day consisted of tentative doodling on what should have been his note space (I know it all anyway, he rationalised) in the spirit of an excitement over how he could paint any and all of it, he could paint whatever he wanted, he could paint it all tonight-and then the inevitable crash after his post-lunch periods when he remembered he had Quidditch that night, no painting after all.

Quidditch that night was cold and dry. Draco appreciated being Seeker because it meant that he didn't have to mingle if he wasn't in the mood to do so. The night was cold, dry. Cold and dry and cool and clear and he could see over the lake and across the top of the Forbidden Forest and the lights going on and off and twinkling and moving inside Hogwarts. After catching the Snitch the first time, he let his mind wander. He wasn't captain this year because that was predictable and he hated predictability.

Draco was obsessed with defying destiny in all its shapes and forms. He had been a contrary child; the only way to get him to do anything was reverse psychology, and even that didn't work once he was old enough to notice the smiles the adults shared upon his doing the opposite of what they told him. Being raised by Lucius and Narcissa had been... unique. His childhood ideas of what was good and what was bad had been badly skewed, and he had shaken these off soon into his schooling; however, this had made him wary of any fixed idea of good and evil. Sometimes he thought that he hadn't turned to Dumbledore that summer because he had finally had enough of the Dark Arts, but that it was only the ultimate act of contrariness, the ultimate way to refuse to give his father exactly what he wanted.

He wasn't sure of his motives or himself. He wasn't really sure of anything.

Draco mused that perhaps he had fallen so suddenly in love with painting because it drew his thoughts out into a tangible form. Suddenly it wasn't just images in his brain. Once he painted it, it became real. He could touch it. It was there.

With this thought, he swirled upward on his Firebolt 900 to once more pull the Snitch out of the air. If only it was so easy to catch it with Potter flitting about, he sighed mentally. He loved his broom, though: a little treat to himself after taking possession of the bank account that was, after all, in his name, and running to hide under Dumbledore's wings. This Quidditch Final maybe I'll beat him, he thought. It was no use for Draco to tell himself things like 'I'll definitely beat him next time!', because he knew that it was a lie.

He smiled in the general direction of the applause some of the younger members of the team were giving him at this graceful manuever. The older ones, of course, sat sullenly on their brooms, avoiding his eyes. They felt betrayed even though the Order had won and the Death Eaters disbanded once and for all, what with Voldemort finally inarguably dead and most of the leading members in Azkaban. My father among them, Draco thought and then wondered why he was prone to such sad musings today. In an effort to distract himself, he spun away from where he had released the Snitch, circling around the currently unused goal posts before shooting up into the air, away from the tightly packed snow on the ground.

This was why he loved Quidditch, just for the sheer pleasure of flight. This feeling of rapture that he gained from the sun sinking down and the clouds dispersing slowly as the night drew nearer, this joy at the last brave birds who had stayed in the sky so late on a wintry day, this was why he continued to play Quidditch year after year even though the Slytherin team lost the cup every time. This was worth the angry silences after a match was lost and the disappointed look in Snape's eyes. This was freedom.

Draco banked his Firebolt steeply and spun to face the rest of his team. They were slowing; practice must be almost over. Fleeting glances over his shoulder told him that the sun was practically hidden by trees, so he headed back to the world of solids, where things cut and bruised and stung. He felt himself returning to his body as he landed; gravity had that effect. He realized his lips were chapped and his nose sore from the cold, his hands itched from the mittens he wore over his Seeker gloves. His right foot ached. He hated coming back to his body. There was nothing there to come back to; only an empty-shell with too-long fingers and nobody that understood. Only homework assignments and conversation about nothing in particular, nothing important.

Trying to put on an enthusiastic face for the after-practice pep talk took more energy than usual. He was sorry to get out of the air but then glad to get into the heat. The Slytherin common room shone with the reflected rays of the fire off of the silver-plated surfaces. He accepted a cup of cocoa from Pansy's hands when the house elves brought down a few pitchers, ignoring his father's voice in the back of his head telling him that too many sweets would make him fat, that any respectable Malfoy kept his figure. It's just one cup, father. Just one cup.

***

Harry's day was hellish. All morning he was trailed by girls who asked him if he had asked Hermione to marry him. They seemed quite disappointed when he told them they had the wrong guy, and, indeed, they wouldn't find the guy inside of Hogwarts. Ron seemed to be having similar problems: he barely responded to Harry's hello in Charms, settling into his chair with a grunt and a glare targeted at no one in particular.

Hermione, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying all of the attention. She looked positively radiant after her Arithmancy class, telling them over hot soup and sandwiches how a number of girls from Hufflepuff whose names she didn't even know offered to help her pick out her dress, and how Lavender and Padma had asked in between giggles if she needed any bridesmaids.

"Of course, I think that'll be your sister, Ron. Maybe my cousin Elaine, too, if she's interested. Oh, I can't believe I'm getting married! I'm so happy!" And she was off in her own little world. Ron and Harry both rolled their eyes, not quite understanding how a wedding ceremony could be any fun at all to plan. It looked like it would be an awful bore. They made encouraging sounds as she broke to take breaths for a time, but then quit even this, wondering if she would notice. She didn't.

"Save me, Harry," Ron was whispering between bites before lunch was over, and Harry nodded, in complete agreement.

Potions went pretty well, for a Potions class anyway, with nothing broken or spilled. The day ended uneventfully, which was a surprise. After the monumental happenings for the past two nights, Harry had been expecting an explosion, at the very least. But no such luck.

"Everything calm on the Gryffindor front," Harry murmured as he removed his glasses and got into bed.

"You are so weird," came Ron's answer.

***

Thursday was... Thursday. Draco hated Thursdays. Today especially he decided the world should know that, declaring it to his roommates as he woke up (waking up! What an awful way to start one's day), and then loudly to the people sitting around him as he figured out he had been putting salt into his coffee rather than sugar, and lastly to Snape in the hallways as he hopped around rather unattractively after stubbing his toe. "I really bloody hate Thursdays."

"Language," Snape said before moving on.

"Yeah, yeah," said Draco under his breath.

The only bright moment in his day was the recollection that he had no Quidditch today, and so he was free to paint himself out tonight. Against his will he found himself growing nervous about seeing his painting again. What kind of pouf paints flowers, anyway? Not the kind he was, Draco resolved, laughing shortly. Tonight he would paint something... masculine. Manly. Something... something else. Damn.

When Draco was finally in the corridor that led to the Room of Requirement while Barnabas the Barmy did handstands and cartwheels in and out of his portrait, he was possessed of a sudden irrational fear that his paints would be gone, his painting would be gone, his pleasure would be irretrievable. Wasn't that how life worked? It gave you just a taste of what was good, just enough that you would miss it when it spiraled away?

He paced past the empty wall where the door would appear once. He pictured a room full of statues and baskets of fruit to paint. And it didn't seem appealing.

He stalked past the blank space a second time, appealing simply for shelves and shelves of art books, something to read and study that no one else knew about, nobody else was studying, something entirely his own.

On his third trip Draco realized no, he wanted to paint. He didn't know what he wanted to paint, though. He appealed to the room simply for something to paint and the materials to do it with; something interesting and provocative, something with depth.

The door sprang into existence.

Draco stared at the handle, brass curls and a big keyhole underneath. He didn't know what he would find behind it, and this time around it scared him; before he was just asking the Room for something to do, something he would like. Now he had asked it for whatever it was that he most deeply desired to paint. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what that was. He wondered if the Room could hear him now, if it was an entity of its own like the Sorting Hat, or whether someone's spirit was behind it like that diary his father had given Ginny in his second year. He wondered if it was still making adjustments, and what he would see if he could see in without opening the door. Objects materializing? Shrinking and growing?

He prayed firmly at it, like he remembered doing when he was small to that statue of Jesus in the front of the church. Please, he had asked it, please give me someone who loves me. Nothing had happened immediately back then, but this more naïve version of himself had reasoned perhaps it would take time? Now it had been more than ten years, and his prayer had never been fulfilled. Did that make the Room of Requirement more understanding than God? He wasn't sure he believed in God. And here he was, philosophizing about it.

Please, he asked the door, the Room, give me what you gave me before, and with something to paint, something I'll enjoy and something I'll learn from, but not- in his mind sprung up images of green eyes behind glasses -not something I don't want, don't wat to know about myself yet.

He opened his eyes and looked at the door dubiously. It looked the same as it had looked before. Draco studied the grain of the wood like he was looking at a potion, pulling out the ingredients to identify what this concoction was.

And then, with much trepidation, he opened the door.

At first he didn't see anything different from how he had left the Room two days ago: his painting was resting against the easel, and was probably quite dry. He got a thrill from looking at it. It looked different, foreign, like someone else had done it and not him. He was able to study it critically now. Draco liked what he saw. He shivered, imagining signing his name fluidly across the bottom in bold black ink.

He stepped around the easel, looking for a sign that all of his worries hadn't been for naught, and then he saw it. It was a circular mirror, perhaps two feet in diameter, with a simple wooded frame. He was sure it hadn't been there before. Pacing over, he levitated it to his height with a muttered Wingardium leviosa and caught a shock from his own grey eyes looking back at him. He looked at his own reflection the way he always did, for a minute, forgetting where he was in the hair-tucking and eyebrow-tweaking. Then his eyes widened a little as what the Room was telling him sunk in. He was to paint himself.

A jolt of surprise surged through him, and he left the mirror hanging in the air as he retreated to the shelves of pre-stretched canvases and paints. His eye caught on a book entitled Pablo Picasso. Draco laughed and then almost jumped, startled at the sound but still amused at the image of a self-portrait done in this style. This made him feel better, as if he didn't have to take it so seriously, hell, he could paint a hundred self portraits, it wasn't as if he was paying for the paint or the canvas. This was just an experiment, that was all. Nothing to get excited about.

***

If the Slytherins noticed his paint streaked hands or the bag of art supplies he had tucked self-consciously under his arm, they didn't say. His momentary fear at never being able to paint again had led him to experiment in taking objects out of the Room. Did they just dissolve? he wondered. What stops Weasley from simply imagining a room full of Galleons? Stupid Squib hasn't thought of it, I suppose. Indeed, the tubes of paint and sketching pencils were quite solid as he unpacked them into his trunk, stacking them neatly in a hollowed out area that he created with a nifty charm from last semester's home-economics course.

The Room had provided a book of heavier parchment than Draco was accustomed too; the whole business reeked slightly of Muggles, what with the pencils and the metal circular binding on the parchment and his paintings that didn't move. He was beyond the point of caring, however. This was fun, this was something at which he was good. For the first time he began to have elaborate fantasies about his future career. Draco had always assumed before that his father would get him a place in the Ministry, and he wasn't interested enough in politics to dream much about being Minister of Magic. Now he spun himself a web of trips to Italy and France, foreign boys eyeing his paintings admiringly, the artsy types with hair as long as his own.

Oh, this was fun! Draco pictured mysterious men, slightly older and wearing a cologne that he couldn't identify, just that it smelled of money. And they bought a few paintings, but of course they were more interested in the painter himself. Or worldwide fame! And his face on an art book, wizarding or not, he didn't really care. People asking for his autograph, people standing in line for his autograph. He laughed again, and then was surprised. Twice in one night, and a dozen more on Monday. Draco hadn't laughed so much since... he cast his mind about. Since my previous life, he finally thought, and headed into the bathroom to wash up.

***

Harry didn't remember much about Transfiguration that Friday, or about what he did during his free period after lunch; his mind was muddled with trying to hear what the Hufflepuffs were discussing about their Quidditch practice the night before and wondering what he should wear tonight at the same time. I can make it through double Occlumency and double Potions on the same day but I can't wrap my mind around how I'm meeting Malfoy-no, Draco-tonight, Harry thought. I must have gone soft after the final battle. Woe is me.

Then he shook his head at actually having thought the words 'Woe is me'.

"I'm going insane," he told Ron from his bed in the Gryffindor dorm. "I seriously think I may be clinically insane." Harry said this very matter-of-factly. It wasn't a laughing matter, after all.

"That's nice," Ron said. He was distracted by the catalogue in front of him. Harry leaned over to see what Ron found so engrossing.

"Earrings? D'you really thing your Mum can take another son with pierced ears?"

"They're not for me and you know it, you prat. I'm looking for Luna. It's her birthday at the end of February."

"Whoa, you've already progressed to earrings? What's going to be next? Baby rattles?"

Ron turned red at this, his face warring with his hair, but he kept turning pages resolutely. "You can laugh all you want, Hermione told me a girl really likes getting jewelry."

"Hrumph." Harry leaned back against his pillows, before checking his watch nervously.

"Why do you keep checking the time? Got a date or something?"

Harry laughed nervously at having his encounter described in this way, finally settling on, "Not really, no. Why, don't you?"

"Naw, Luna's got her club meeting tonight, you know, M.C. Something or other, or whatever."

"M.C.L.?"

"That's it, Magical Creatures Lovers, I think. Hagrid was positively orgasmic when they asked him if he could sponsor them."

"Oh. Bad mental pictures. Stop now."

"Sorry mate." Ron stretched and Harry checked his watch again. "Listen, Harry, why don't you show up early, if you're that nervous? Girls like it when you get there before they do."

"Since when are you the expert on what girls like?"

"Oh sod off."

Harry got off of his bed, though, and pulled on a fresh pair of jeans, one that stayed around his waist without the added assistance of a belt, and a clean Gryffindor tee-shirt. He didn't bother combing his hair; it didn't make any difference, anyway, and why was he getting dressed up to meet Draco Malfoy again?

"Insane, I tell you."

"Are you going to tell me what this is about?" Ron spared him a glance while he flipped another page.

"Uh, no."

"Fine then. Good luck."

"Right." Harry tripped coming down the stairs. He figured this wasn't a good sign. A couple of first years tittered at him, and he glared until they shut up. "Hrumph," he said again.

"You don't need to get testy with me, dear," said the Fat Lady as the painting swung open.

"Sorry," said Harry, and then he banged his elbow against the corner of her frame stepping down. "Oh, bloody hell!"

"Sorry indeed," the Fat Lady snipped. "You watch your mouth, sir. Just because you'll be out of here soon doesn't mean the rules don't apply to you."

"Yeah, sorry!" Harry said once more, and then he set off in the direction of the Room, watching his feet carefully, deciding that if he didn't, he would have a lot more bruises, the way this night was going.

***

Draco was there first. He had decided, not on principle, but out of fear-fear again!-that he should be there first. Sweeping away whatever traces he had left in the Room. It happened upon him that he might not be the only one who used the Room, since the entire D.A. knew about it. He imagined one of the Hufflepuffs walking in on him painting, and went a little blind. He wondered if his subconscious would betray him tonight and summon up the paint and the paint books even though that wasn't what he was here for. He called for the door with a plea for the normal D.A. setting, even though the back of his mind was demanding another night of painting. Draco hoped fervently that the Room listened to his consciousness, rather than his subconscious. He hoped it could hear him asking for this.

It did; or maybe it just heard Harry's footsteps and arranged itself likewise. That would figure-the Room jumping out of its way and away from Draco's grasp because the Boy Who Bloody Well Lived was approaching. But Draco didn't feed any malice to this thought. Rather, he was too busy being thankful that the paint was hidden from Harry's eyes.

He smiled at Harry's approaching figure before slipping into the Room and pulling the Monopoly box down off the wall. He had started counting out Galleons when Harry burst in, inelegantly, as if he ever did anything otherwise. Except for fly; Harry was wicked good on a broom. Draco smiled again, showing his teeth this time, a challenge. There was no way that Harry would win tonight.

***

Harry watched Draco pull Galleons out of the box and count them into piles next to the board for a moment, and then his mind kicked in.

"I don't really want to play Monopoly tonight."

Harry could have kicked himself for the effect this produced on Draco. His eyes clouded, and he started sweeping Galleons carelessly into his hand, knocking over the pieces he had set so carefully by the start; the dog for Harry and the wizard's hat for himself.

"That's fine then..." Draco said coolly, and Harry realized what this must have sounded like.

"No, that's not-I just meant, maybe we could just, I dunno, talk?"

Draco's features went into a slow rewind, the hope-yes, that was what it was-slowly lighting his eyes up once more, mesmerizing Harry in the process. He felt his ears burn, and he wrenched his eyes away in embarrassment.

"That sounds wonderful," Draco answered to the hesitation he saw in Harry's gestures.

"Well. Okay," Harry managed, dropping onto a pillow as Draco shoved the Monopoly box back onto one of the shelves. Draco looked around before choosing a pillow against the opposite wall, facing Harry.

"So, did you think about what exactly you wanted to talk about, or is this an spur-of-the-moment sort of thing?" Draco teased him, shifting his back against the wall until he found a comfortable position.

"Well, uh, we haven't really talked before, and I realized that, because I don't really know much about you, other than the fact that you can be a total git when you try, so I dunno, I thought we could start with the basics?"

Draco felt a warmth of pleasure that Harry had been thinking about this, had been thinking about him, and the corners of his mouth curved up against his will. "Like, do you have any siblings and that sort of thing? Only problem is, I already know all about you. Everyone does."

"Everyone thinks they know all about me," Harry said bitterly. "They don't bother to ask me to confirm anything, do they?"

"You mean you have a sister too?"

"I - what? A sister?"

"Actually she's only my half-sister. Her name's Persephone, she's my mother's daughter. She lives in Spain."

"You. Have a sister."

"Yes, twat, that's what I'm saying. She graduated from Hogwarts two years before we started."

"Oh. Well, no, I don't have a sister. I just meant, everyone hears about me being raised by Muggles and then they stop there, like it is some sort of international standard that all Muggle families were the same, like my experience was no different than anyone else's."

"And it was?"

"Well, I suppose, if you call being locking in a cupboard that doubled as my bedroom for most of the time different, then, yeah."

"Hm, so your childhood sucked. Doesn't everyone's?"

"Uh, no, Draco, some people are part of what is commonly referred to by humans as a 'happy family'."

"Oh. Wouldn't know about that."

"Right."

"Well, look at it this way, a cupboard is probably a lot warmer than a dungeon, right?"

"There are dungeons in Malfoy Manor?"

"Harry, I believe the commonly accepted response to that is along the lines of 'oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't know!'"

"Knew that."

"So."

Harry dug around for a topic that didn't include two dead parents on his part and two uncaring ones on Draco's. "What are you going to do after this year?"

"I dunno." Draco stretched, and then noticed that Harry seemed to be waiting for some further answer. "I always assumed Father'd get me a job in the Ministry... I guess that's still the way I'm headed. This is what I'm seeing: a relationship with some bloke that I have a deep and resounding affection for, but nothing like love, a job that I hate, paperwork, paperwork, paperwork, and my boyfriend periodically leaving me and coming back when he can't find anyone more gorgeous. Actually, I was kind of hoping to play Quidditch..."

This was all very interesting, but Harry's mind had stopped working right around the point when Draco said 'bloke'. "You're gay?"

"Oh, very good, Harry. I thought the whole school knew that by now. I guess I've just been spoiled by the Slytherins, who are actually rather perceptive; I guess I forgot that Gryffindors generally walk around with their heads in the clouds."

"Bu-"

"And especially after I broke up with Blaise, I thought the whole school was talking about that, maybe I'm just paranoid-"

"Blaise Zabini?"

"How many Blaises do you know? Or are things feeling homophobic over on your side of the room?"

"No, it's just-Blaise? Yech."

Draco looked relieved. "Yeah, I know. I don't remember what I saw in him... I guess I must have thought he was cute..."

"So, ok. So, all right. Um."

Amused, Draco decided it was time to put Harry on the spot. "What about you? Who are you with?"

"Er. Well, Cho was, er, not really over Cedric, I suppose, and Ginny was," Harry blanched.

"Well? Tell the truth," said Draco.

"...boring, actually, and Hermione's engaged..." Harry trailed off. "Who does that leave me?"

"Oh, Harry, you went for all of the predictable ones, that's your problem."

"And what would you have me do? Or rather, who?"

"Hmm, I can see you with Dean Thomas..."

Harry blushed, and shook his head frantically.

"You're right," Draco agreed. "Dean and Seamus are obviously meant for each other."

"Ack."

"Oh, shut up, Potter. But then, what do you see yourself doing in ten years?"

Harry screwed up his face. "I guess I'll be an Auror, except by then most of the Death Eaters will have been caught..." he floundered a bit. "I'll probably end up lonely and out of work, just like Professor Lupin."

"Hopefully not just like Lupin," Draco said with a snigger. Harry eyed him suspiciously.

"What do you mean now?"

"Well, if you want to end up eternally pining for your dead lover..." Draco shrugged.

"Okay, what are you talking about? And how do you know this stuff while I don't?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Just answer me! Lupin had a girlfriend? She's dead?"

"God, Harry. No, Lupin did not have a girlfriend. Lupin had your godfather."

"WHAT?"

"How thick can you be?" Draco murmured, raising his eyes to what he supposed what the approximate direction of the heavens.

"Sirius was... gay?"

"Well, according to my father, Black and Lupin were an item in their school days." Though that isn't exactly how he put it at the time, Draco remembered, wincing mentally.

"Oh. And here I thought-I mean, I was so depressed, and I was certain that I was the most upset, the most affected, when Sirius-when Sirius-" Harry sunk lower into his cushion with a moan, closing his eyes. He opened them when he felt a delicate touch on his nose, going cross-eyed and then wide-eyed looking at the too-near face of one Draco Malfoy.

"Quit with the self-pity, Potter. It doesn't flatter you." Draco plopped down onto a pillow next to Harry. "Too many revelations for one night?"

"I guess you could say that." Harry attempted a weak smile. He raised a hand to straighten his glasses.

"Let's just talk about something stupid, okay?"

"All right."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Draco running his left hand through his hair nervously, and then twirling a piece of it in his fingers.

"That's bad for your hair, you know," Harry remarked. Draco scowled at him. "So. The weather sucks."

"Yeah. Too cold. Bad for flying."

"Tell me about it. My team thinks I've gone insane. I pulled a bird out of the air the other day instead of the Snitch. Actually, I'm not entirely sure I haven't. Gone bonkers, that is."

Draco smirked. "Took you a while to pick up on it. Me and my housemates have been saying it for years."

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Gee, I'm really feeling the love."

"Whatever. Anyway, I've been wondering, why did you turn down captaincy this year?"

"I didn't want it," Draco replied, looking away.

"Why?" Harry prodded, unwilling to leave it at that.

Draco looked him directly in the eye, and sighed, recognizing a similarly stubborn soul. "If you insist." He took a breath and held it for a moment before letting it out. "Everyone expected me to be captain, right?"

"Yeah."

"And we would be Seekers and captains together."

"Yup."

"And the rivalry would continue at a furious level."

"Uh-huh."

"We would hate each other with the fire of a thousand suns. Or whatever."

"Is this going somewhere, Draco?"

"Just a minute. It's what everyone thought would happen, am I correct?"

"Yeah, yeah, you're correct."

"Well, I didn't want that." And Draco leaned back, satisfied that this answered Harry sufficiently. Harry merely looked confused.

"You mean you didn't want us to be rivals?"

Draco looked at Harry appraisingly before answering: "No, I didn't want to do what everyone expected."

"Ah, you say that. But what you really mean is that you had a deep longing to be my friend, and the Quidditch captaincy would only be one more thing in the way."

Draco pushed Harry lightly, and Harry pushed him back. Draco pushed Harry off of his pillow, and Harry hit him with it.

A quarter of an hour later, there wasn't an untouched pillow in the room, and it looked as though the snow had migrated indoors. Both boys were panting heavily, leaning against the wall, and occasionally chuckling as they surveyed the mess they had made.

"You know we can wreck as many pillows as we want, here, and nobody will ever know," Draco mused aloud. Harry grinned at him.

***

When they finally parted ways, both smiling every few seconds, suddenly and grandly, Draco called Harry back.

"Do you think we should continue to meet here?" Draco remembered his thoughts from earlier. "I mean, it isn't as if the Room is exactly a secret, there are a bunch of other people who know about it, and, well-" he was unable to follow this train of thought to its conclusion.

Harry seemed to understand, though. "Where would you suggest?"

"We could be normal and boring and meet up somewhere in Hogsmeade," Draco suggested.

"Is tomorrow a Hogsmeade Saturday?" Draco's heart leaped. Tomorrow!

"Yeah, I think so."

Harry mulled this over. Should he suggest somewhere? That smacked of, well, a date, and this thought made Harry's stomach churn, though perhaps not unpleasantly. He decided to analyze this further later. Draco saved him by coming up with something that Harry found vaguely amusing:

"We could investigate the Shrieking Shack, I've never been."

Harry chuckled, and agreed. It was nice to know that there were at least a few things that Draco, or, rather, his father, wasn't all-knowing about. He could definitely have some fun with this.

***

Draco couldn't stop smiling and the Slytherins noticed; he supposed it was about time they noticed something was different in the life of their former unofficial leader. He told them he had just put into effect the first stage of a really nasty practical joke, and they seemed satisfied. After telling them this, he felt quite in the mood for a practical joke, so he snuck into Millicent's room and shrunk all of her knickers a little, and then put a neat charm on Zabini's bed that turned it to quicksand when it felt the weight and warmth of a body. Ah, sweet revenge. Sometimes he loved being who he was.

The drawing pencils were burning a hole in his trunk, so he got them out along with the sketching booklet he had swiped. Draco stretched out on his bed in a sharp state of being. He was delightfully aware of his toes, his fingers. He felt the air on his back where his night shirt was riding up. He felt the creases in his bed sheet below him. He lazily pulled his fingers across the blank parchment in front of him, and then, boldly, his tongue. He loved this feeling of freedom before he set anything to paper, and the freedom to be trivial, to take himself something besides seriously, to do whatever he wanted, right now.

The pencil's tip curved up and across his paper. Draco stared at the line it made, and then experimented with the thickness and the pressure exerted. He licked the graphite cautiously. Why didn't wizards use this stuff? It was ingenious.

He floundered around in his trunk for a full minute looking for his ink-away before realizing the stuff probably wouldn't work on the lines made by these pencils. Draco looked at the tiny stack of pencils in his trunk. Two of them looked slightly different from the rest - they had a strange sort of substance at the other end of them. It was springy and he could cut slivers off with his fingernail. What the hell is this? he thought. Then the light went off in his head, and he scrubbed at the lines on his parchment with the substance, almost laughing when they rubbed immediately away. This is incredible, he acknowledged. There is no way I'm taking notes with a quill anymore. Hogsmeade, be ready. Draco is coming, and he's not afraid to shop.

***

Ron grinned at Harry as he entered the dorm room, and then asked pointedly, "So? Where did you say you were?"

Harry sighed as his hopes of things keeping quiet were dashed. Seamus and Dean looked over at Harry curiously. Seamus and Dean... Draco said...Harry looked at them just about as questioningly as they looked at him. Seamus looked confused, but Dean recognized why Harry was glancing back and forth between them; he laughed and winked roguishly at Harry. Harry's eyes opened wider in surprise, and then he looked away, embarrassed.

Ron was tapping his foot. "Spill, Harry. We haven't got all night."

"Does Harry have a new girlfriend?" This was Seamus.

"No!" Harry answered. "And I'm right here in the room, remember? No need to talk about me like I'm gone."

"Of course, Harry." Seamus waved a hand in his direction, before latching his gaze on Ron once more. "So, what is it then? A boyfriend?"

Harry sat down hard, and missed the corner of his bed. Ron got red in the face laughing at him, and Harry went a bit pink himself.

"I dunno," Ron said when he finally caught his breath. "He hasn't told me."

"Notice he hasn't denied the 'boyfriend' accusation either," Dean pointed out.

"Dean!" said Harry, blushing even more furiously from where he was sitting now, on the floor.

"What is it then, Harry? Enlighten us," said Ron.

Harry moved up onto his bed before replying, thinking fast. "I was just meeting a friend."

"Who? Care to elaborate?" Ron was smiling mischievously; Harry had a sinking feeling in his stomach that told him that Ron saw right through him.

"No, I don't, thanks though," Harry said, effectively stopping the conversation. Ron looked disappointed. Seamus made a face. Dean just winked again. Harry headed into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

When he emerged, Ron was flipping through another catalogue, this one reading Chocolates for All Occasions. "Are you going to Hogsmeade tomorrow, Harry?"

"Yeah, I was planning on it," said Harry, nervous.

"Want to come with me to Honeydukes to check out their collection for Valentine's Day?"

"Uh, I'm kind of going with someone."

"Kind of?" Ron raised his eyebrows. "Like your 'no, not really' date?"

"No, not like that." Harry sounded cross. "That wasn't a date, it was just, well, meeting up. Not a date. Definitely not." He could feel his face burning again. "I mean, I was there, I'd know, right?"

"Sometimes I think you wouldn't know a date if it danced in front of you wearing a skirt made out of peanut shells," said Ron.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I'm just as clueless as you, anyway. Neither of us saw that engagement coming."

"Yeah, and Draco said it was pretty obvious."

"Draco?" Up with the eyebrows again. They were getting quite a workout, tonight.

"Yeah, um, he's who I'm going to Hogsmeade with," Harry said in a rush.

"Draco Malfoy?"

"The very same."

"You're going to Hogsmeade with Draco Malfoy." Ron studied his face for a minute before smiling. "That's kind of cute."

"Cute?" Harry gagged. "I take it back, what I said about me being insane. If you are the model of sanity, I'm perfectly normal."

Ron smiled again before returning to his catalogue, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like 'wait until I tell Hermione'. Harry pulled the curtains of his four poster closed and buried his red face in his pillow. Ron was taking this entirely the wrong way. It wasn't a date. He and Draco were just getting to be friends. Real life wasn't some kind of sordid love story. Real life was... boring.

Harry tossed in his bedclothes. Life was boring. But not so much as it had been just a week ago, he realized. Perhaps he had finally started getting over the whole Voldemort thing. Well, as much as one could get over it. Sirius's face swam up in his mind, his eyes ached. He heard a gust of air from Ron's direction as he blew out the candle, apparently, from the way the light changed in the room. There seemed to be only one or two left, and these were across the room from Harry. His eyes bored holes in the darkness.

He tried to imagine his life in a few years, just like Draco had asked him about earlier, and all that he could think of was the inane pride he had felt upon Moody - no, Crouch - telling him that he could be an Auror one day. He couldn't imagine himself actually doing it. A bit late for second thoughts now, isn't it Potter? he thought wearily, and turned his mind back to the problem of Draco. Draco, the spring-time being that was exuberant and knowing, continually a mystery to Harry. He remembered with some fondness the days of midnight duels and ferret bouncing. He had this romantic notion that this was connected to his scar nightmares and writing to 'Snuffles' and silly worries like who he was bringing to the Yule Ball.

He remembered when Draco had stopped antagonizing them, biting their confrontations back to a half-hearted exchange of insults every now and again. He had been puzzled by this until Dumbledore had mentioned Draco during an Occlumency lesson, and then he thought he understood. But he didn't understand. He didn't understand Draco. What had driven him to five years of hate followed by almost two years of devoted service to the cause? What had changed him? Had he ever been different, was he different now? How could anyone change that completely? And even these monumental questions paled in comparison to the ones that Harry was afraid to voice, even in his mind:

What does he mean to me, now?

Can I trust him? ...and

Why can't I stop thinking about his hair? What would it be like to touch it? His eyelashes, too, they're the same color. His fingers. The side of his waist. and What does this mean, am I gay? Bisexual?

He remembered Oliver Wood, and the rush that he had gotten after a winning game when he had hugged Harry. Had that been more that just the high of catching the Snitch?

He fled from these inquiries, afraid of them, afraid of answers. He forced his mind to run through several lists of potions ingredients, and cleared his mind of emotion while doing so for Occlumency, before at last submitting to sleep.

***

Harry's Hogsmeade trip the next day was full of silent mirth. It began when he met a bag-laden Draco in front of the Shrieking Shack at eleven o'clock. Draco admitted to being scared of ghosts; apparently there was one residing in Malfoy Manor that had had it in for Draco, leading him into the pond on foggy nights as a child, dropping heavy objects immediately in front of him and behind him as he walked down the corridors.

"The Bloody Baron scares me to death," he confided, tripping Harry when Harry looked too dazed from this pronouncement to retaliate.

Harry pretended to take all of the legends surrounding the Shrieking Shack seriously, quaking just as much as Draco as they slinked through a side door and up the stairs towards familiar territory. When they reached the rooms that Harry recognized, Draco gave out a yell of surprise at the torn-apart furniture, and Harry collapsed laughing. Draco regarded him peevishly, poking his stomach with the toe of his shoe. He realized then that Harry knew more than he had let on, and wouldn't leave the Shack before Harry had told him the whole story, which meant that (factoring in Draco's interruptions) it was nearly one in the afternoon before they were making their way back down the stairs and outside, a thirsty Harry with a thoughtful Draco in tow.

Harry wanted to go to the Three Broomsticks, but Draco dragged him away, telling him that there were far better places, and that the Three Broomsticks was outrageously priced.

"What do you care, you're rich," said Harry, annoyed, but he allowed Draco to lead him away to Camelot Café.

"Everyone goes to the Three Broomsticks, it's impossible to get any privacy in there," Draco said, relaxing into a cushion-clad chair across from Harry, who had already sat down.

"Who are you hiding from?" Harry asked him.

"Oh, everybody," Draco said loftily, and then ruined the effect by laughing.

"So, what do you think of the Shrieking Shack now that you know the story behind it all?" Harry dropped his voice a little; after all, this wasn't common knowledge.

"I think Snape has perfect reason to hold a grudge against you," said Draco wickedly.

"Oh, come off it," but Harry smiled.

The waiter came and took their order, Harry insisting that they order their drinks and their meal all at once ("You weren't the one who was telling a two hour story, that was hungry work!"). Draco got sparkling water and a small quiche. Harry got a hamburger and a soda pop. Draco rolled his eyes. Harry kicked him under the table. Draco said, "It's a good thing there aren't any big pillows around," under his breath. Harry stuck out his tongue.

They sat in a happy silence for a few moments following this exchange, and then the waiter returned with their drinks.

"Are you Harry Potter?" he asked them as he set down the glasses.

"I think so," Harry replied with an edge.

"Oh..." the waiter faltered at Harry's cutting tone, and then left.

"Harry!" Draco admonished. "He was cute!"

Harry choked on his drink in an attempt to laugh. "Are you trying to get me to squirt soda out of my nose?"

"That's disgusting."

"Thank you."

They regarded each other in amusement.

"I hate being Harry Potter," Harry said finally.

"Why? It makes for some great pick up lines... 'Hi, my name's Harry, and I'm the savior of the wizarding world. Want to get a coffee somewhere?' Or how about, 'Hello, I'm Harry, and I killed the most evil wizard ever known to mankind. Twice.' Yes, that one's better, definitely better. "

Harry laughed, but forged on. "No, but really. I've been fighting Voldemort so long that I don't remember who else I am. 'Savior of the Wizarding World' indeed. That's all I can remember how to do, how to be. I don't think I'm strictly me, anymore."

"Oh, poor baby." Harry aimed a mock punch at Draco, who ducked. "Well, you didn't always know you were famous, right? What did you do before that? Who were you?"

Harry looked skeptical. "Well, I told you I lived in a cupboard, right?"

"Yup, got that."

"So, I mean, I was more like a can of soup than a person. It wasn't exactly a whole lot of fun."

Draco made sympathizing sounds in his throat, studying Harry critically. "Well," he said at last, "You are rather cylindrical."

***

Harry and Draco laughed about the pranks Draco had pulled last night until their food came, and then Draco amused himself by watching Harry eat clumsily, and Harry couldn't improve himself because he was too fascinated by the way Draco was able, with concise decisions, to make eating his meal look like performing a ballet. They talked about Hermione's engagement ("What on earth does she see in him?" "You're right, I myself am repulsed by the idea of a dark and athletic man who is devoted to me and steadily becoming rich on his Quidditch abilities." "Shut up, Malfoy.") and Ron and Luna ("They're both insane." "Couldn't agree more." "Or maybe blind." "Oh, that's nice.") and Goyle and Millicent Bulstrode ("Yuck.").

Draco laughed at the picture they made, gossiping madly over their lunches. Harry joined in, and they had a moment of easiness, sheer joy at being together. Then it broke, Harry suddenly getting a painful image in his head of Sirius and Lupin chatting casually before the Christmas of his fifth year, and Draco remembering how many times he had seen Harry and Ron laugh companionably together just so. I'll never measure up to Ron in Harry's eyes, he thought suddenly, and with distressful timing Harry said that he needed to go, he had told Ron he would meet him to go over the Stabilius charm before dinner. Draco forced a smile and wouldn't let Harry accept the bill-

"Look, we can just both pay for ourselves then, you ass-"

"No, I don't care if you have a little money in the bank saved up, I have two estates and a vault full of jewelry!"

--and then they parted ways. This time it was Harry who called Draco back, stuttering for a second before suggesting that they go over some Potions work together after their afternoon class on Monday. Draco agreed, and suggested the table by the big windows in the library.

"It's continually reserved for Slytherins, haven't you noticed? And seniority counts, and I'm likely the only seventh year Slytherin who frequents the library-" this was followed by a snort of acknowledgment from Harry "-so we can have it to ourselves. It's around the corner from the main area," he reassured Harry. "We can talk more loudly there than in the rest of the library."

"It sounds perfect," Harry conceded, and a little of their balance was restored.

***

Sunday disappeared in a flurry of activity on Draco's part: he did all of the homework he could scrounge up in the morning, and then dashed down to the Room of Requirement to paint all afternoon. He was still working on the self-portrait, which had started as a simple idea and evolved to a full scale oil masterpiece. He couldn't do anything simple. He couldn't do anything small or halfway.

He tried to make the eyes the way he saw his own eyes, but they only ended up looking flat and like they were in the mirror. So he did it from memory, from what he thought he looked like. This time it bore no resemblance to his reflection at all.

Draco sighed and ran a fingernail down through the paint. Interesting, he thought when he saw the grooves produced. He took his nails to the eyes of the painting, and scratched almost blindly what he thought eyes should feel like, how he thought they should be shaped. They didn't really look like eyes anymore. But they were a lot closer than they had been previously.

Draco enjoyed the textured look the eyes were given, so he applied this method of painting to the mouth as well. The mouth. His mouth. He vaguely remembered when he was little, four perhaps, and he had had that governess who let him use finger-paint; he had gotten it all over his clothes. That was quite possibly the last time he had painted until this room, this easel. The pads of his fingers were coated with peaches and blacks.

***

Harry spent the day with Hermione and Ron, who at first pestered him for details about his day with Draco but finally decided it wasn't worth the effort, as they couldn't get anything worth knowing out of him.

"Merlin, I wish he were straight," Hermione sighed.

"Hermione! You're engaged!" Ron and Harry were flabbergasted.

"Yes, but he's so dreamy..." Ron laughed, and then stopped laughing when he saw she was serious.

"Er, you know you're talking about Draco Malfoy. This is the guy that has tormented you since our very first year."

"Ron, you know he's different now, he's had a change of heart, otherwise you wouldn't let Harry near him."

"Harry isn't about to fall head over heels in love with the guy! I don't think..." Harry had the grace to look embarrassed about this. Well, I'm not, one side of his mind argued. Right, you just keep telling yourself that, chimed in his other side. He grimaced faintly.

"Look, Hermione, you're making him sick. Let's just do our homework."

"Who are you and what have you done with Ron?"

***

Harry spent double Charms on Monday contemplating the words 'change of heart'. Then he spent the afternoon's Potions class contemplating the words 'biased against Gryffindors'. He stumbled over to the designated table in the Library still muttering, occasionally saying a word loud enough to be heard; several second years caught 'Snape' and 'unfair' and 'dangerous explosives'. He was entirely wrapped up in his mutterings, so he was spared from noticing the shocked glances he was receiving from people who knew that this table was Property of the Slytherins, No One Else May Touch.

Draco observed how the murmurs didn't touch him admiringly, not realizing that they simply were unnoticed. He had to plunk his stuff down by Harry's ear to get a reaction-"OW!"-and then he had to apologize about Harry's smarting ear to get away alive.

They remained happily immersed in Potions review for the better part of two hours, although Harry would never put the words 'happily' and 'Potions' so near to each other aloud. Draco finally concluded that they were both ready for the quiz next class, and Harry agreed. They wrapped up their writing supplies in silence, Harry commenting in amusement about Draco's Muggle writing tools and Draco sending him a death glare in return. Finally they sat looking at each other from across the table, Draco running his eyes over the curves of Harry's messy hair and Harry confused at being the object of Draco's speculations.

"When do you want to meet up next?" Harry asked, mainly to break the silence.

"Oh, I dunno," said Draco, not really registering what he was saying.

"Do you... do you still use the Room of Requirement, ever?"

Draco jerked into awareness at this question. "Yeah," he replied warily, "I guess I do. Why?"

"I just kind of missed meeting there, is all," Harry shrugged. "You can ask for whatever you want to do, it's very convenient."

"You mean you're just lazy," Draco corrected him.

"Oh, shut up, you," said Harry, smiling despite himself.

"Well..." Draco decided to take a chance; later that night he would wonder why on earth he had said anything so stupid. He shouldn't have revealed this, as soon as you tell someone about your secret pleasures they lessen, and so on. But he didn't have time to think that all now, and so he said: "I'll probably be in the Room tomorrow night. If you don't have Quidditch-"

"No Quidditch 'til Wednesday," Harry said, the smile still firmly in place.

"Then, if you want-"

"Okay."

Draco felt a smile curling around his own lips, so he left the library in a hurry. Whatever had happened to the calm and collected Draco? Where had this foolish happiness come from? He distrusted it, and resisted admitting how much he was savouring it.

***

Draco went to the Room of Requirement right after Astronomy ended on Tuesday, and was soon lost enough in his painting that he didn't even realize Harry had entered. He figured it out only when Harry was right behind him, head tilted to look at the painting, warm breath brushing Draco's neck. Draco shivered, and that didn't make sense at all, because his breath was so warm, why should it make him shiver? He turned slowly around, enjoying their proximity for a moment, and the heat gathering in his stomach from this closeness, before bringing his paintbrush up to Harry's nose and dabbing it with blue. Harry yelped, his study of Draco's eyes interrupted, and stumbled backward. Luckily, or perhaps intentionally, the Room had provided a pillow just where he fell.

Draco's eyes laughed at him, and he flushed. "What was that for?"

Draco lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. "Thought you might look better this way?"

Harry grinned despite himself. "So how about it? Do I?"

Draco's head tilted critically, as if Harry was a painting himself. "I can't decide," he said finally. "You take a look." He flicked his wand towards Harry and the mirror he had been using followed suit.

Harry stared at his own reflection. He had always thought himself rather plain, but now with Draco in the room, Draco and his elegantly cut clothing, Draco and his perfect mane of hair, he felt downright dissatisfied with what he saw.

"I don't think anything you could do could improve me," Harry said in a self-deprecating tone.

"Oh, I don't know about that." Draco laughed. Harry raised his eyebrows.

"Best fill up your change-purse. One of these days we are buying you a whole new wardrobe."

"You can't be serious."

"You have no idea."

Harry paced back to the pillows against the wall. He motioned that Draco continue painting, and Draco, feeling highly self conscious, did so. He felt hyper-aware of his body, imagining that Harry's eyes were everywhere at once, but every time he looked over his shoulder, Harry's scrutiny was directed at the half-finished painting in front of him. Steeling himself, he forced his mind to concentrate, and summoned the mirror back over for another look.

Harry focused his gaze on the picture in front of him. He had a hard time trying to figure out what he was supposed to be looking at, Draco or the picture. The picture was beautiful, but Draco himself was much more dynamic. He was wearing a clinging long-sleeved shirt that betrayed the shifts of his shoulder blades as he painted, and a pair of faded blue jeans. Harry wouldn't have picked Draco as the most likely to be wearing jeans, but there was the proof in front of him, and nice proof it was indeed.

Focus on his hands, Harry directed himself, but that wasn't the smartest idea he had ever thought of, because Draco's hands were small and delicate and pale and precise, and he wondered what the skin felt like on the pads of his fingers, did Draco have the same Quidditch callouses that he did? And he wondered about the palms, were they the same as the backs of the hands, what would they feel like against his face -

All right, focus on his paintbrush, Harry thought desperately, but this didn't work out as well as he had hoped either. Draco Malfoy the painter. Draco the painter. Draco Malfoy and his enormous paintbrush. I completely did not just think that. Arg! Except that last must have been aloud, because Draco was turning and coming closer, a faint line of worry between his brows.

"Are you okay? What happened? Voldemort decided to return again?"

"I'm fine." He suddenly couldn't trust himself to say more than that. But Draco looked like he needed a full explanation, and Harry suddenly felt tired, more tired than he had ever felt before. "It's nothing. You wouldn't understand."

"Why can't I understand? Didn't defeat Voldemort four years in a row, and finally beat him in battle? Didn't make friends with the poor boy on the first day of school? Didn't decide to champion the cause of Mudbloods even though I had only lived in the wizarding community for a couple of years? Is that it?"

"You don't know what it's like to be me, to do all that! And you'll never know, you never will."

Draco now held a wounded look deep in his eyes, but his chin was up. "I'm not you, Harry. I'll never be you. Nobody will ever be you. You have to understand that."

"And I'm telling you, you're bloody well lucky!" Harry was on his feet now. "You think it's a lark, being me? How many deaths are on my head, Draco? My parents, because of the damn prophecy. My godfather, because I'm too stupid to follow the advice of those who are older and wiser than me. Dumbledore, Percy, Hooch, Tonks-"

"You think you're the only one with a little darkness in your past?" Draco flared up, his brows coming down over his eyes. "Have you ever cast the Cruciatus Curse, Harry? Oh, don't tell me you have, because you haven't. You haven't really cast it, because you don't really want to hurt anybody. You don't know what that feels like, do you? Wanting to hurt somebody, not because you hate them, or what they've done, but because you honestly want them to be in pain. Don't give me your tragic little hero story and think you can make out like nobody had it as bad or worse than you did. You aren't the only one who was raised without love, Harry. You aren't the only one who has seen people die."

Harry had backed up until his back was pressed against the wall. His eyes were wide, and he was flushed with anger. He kept reaching his hand to push his glasses up his sweaty nose. "I suppose you think it's worse to have cast the Cruciatus than to have had it cast on you, then?"

Draco looked at him coldly. "Well, having experienced both, I would have to say yes."

Harry shook his head. Draco clenched and unclenched his fingers. Harry stalked towards the door.

"You don't know anything, Harry," Draco shot at his back. "You don't even know what you want from me." Harry's only reply was the click of the closing door.

***

Draco was shuddering, shivering, quivering with fury. His thoughts wouldn't stop, wouldn't organize. He told them stop, stop, but they just whirled and whirled and they wouldn't listen to him. Nobody would listen to him. Even his own thoughts wouldn't listen to him. He wouldn't even listen to himself.

He twirled his fingers at the closed door, at Harry, at the thought of Harry. The thought of Harry. It made him touch his lips. He couldn't stop touching his lips. And he couldn't stop thinking.

***

Harry stalked, he paced, no he stomped, because it was Hogwarts' fault after all, it was Hogwarts' fault for giving him this and yet not letting him touch it. He told that floor with percussive beatings of his feet just what he thought of it. It was giving him thoughts that weren't his own, or was it stopping him from thinking? Maybe I'm just confused, he thought and immediately discarded it, like so many used tissues, like scrap paper, like drawings that turned out to be completely wrong from how they had been imagined.

'You don't even know what you want from me,' Draco had said, and Harry couldn't forget that Draco's whole body had shouted it at him, relentless in its eventual honesty. How honest had they been with each other? They had laughed. Harry thought of himself now and knew that it wasn't all and everything. He wasn't laughing. He wasn't a laugh. He wanted to turn and run and tell this to Draco, that Harry wasn't about laughter, Harry bloody Potter wasn't about saving, he was about being saved. But Draco's name burned in his mind like a bloody brand, and he realized that his body wasn't connected to his mind anymore. It was acting on its own. It was dancing away from him.

Alarmed, he told it to stop, to turn. But either it knew more than his mind, or less, or perhaps both, and it wouldn't turn to go back, it wouldn't face Draco. He was in the portrait hole now, in the common room. There was Hermione, and she was so much happier now than she had been in weeks, in months. Harry wondered why he hadn't noticed this, why this had seemed insignificant beside the gossip of her position, and he was standing next to her.

"You're so happy, Hermione," Harry wonderingly, breathing it out, he could still talk at least.

"Yes," she said simply, and her eyes shone. Harry marveled. This was what being in love meant, he realized. Being able to be simple and complex and completely yourself still all at the same time. There was an intricate detail to Hermione and who she was, what she was feeling behind her eyes. But she could still answer simple questions with simple words.

"Why can you be so happy?" he asked her then, and he hadn't exactly intended for that accusing tone, but out it came, and Hermione absorbed it, like she was taking in the firelight and the background noise in the room and still staying calm and complete.

"Why are you not, then, Harry?" was her reply to him. Cutting because it was kind. What was that song? Cruel to be Kind. Except, Harry thought, it was probably the other way around here. Kind to be Cruel.

"I don't know," he said, not quite honestly, but she believed him. She hugged him, and it was a small relief.

It was dark outside; how long had he sat watching Draco before they had fought? He hugged Hermione back, tightly, enjoying her warmth. Would Draco be warm? Right now he would probably be ice, or fire. Harry was a little muddled over how this could be true. Weren't they the opposite?

"What are opposites, Hermione?"

"The same thing, Harry," Hermione replied, almost as if she was reading his mind.

"What do you mean? How can that be true?"

"One wouldn't exist without the other."

Harry disentangled himself and gave her an attempt at a smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Harry. I hope you figure it out, whatever it is." Harry shook his head, half in disbelief over how perceptive she could be, half in denial that anything could be worked out, before heading up to his bed. Ron was doing a Transfigurations essay on his bed, and he asked Harry distractedly whether he had done it yet.

"Bugger Transfigurations," was Harry's reply. He staggered into the bathroom, still pulling on nightclothes, reached to pull his glasses off his nose before washing his face. They weren't there.

"Fucking Malfoy!"

"Who is?"

"Shut up, Ron."

***

Draco was dead and the wind was howling outside. He thought about this, detached, musing that the wind, perhaps, by some twist of fate, (the gods! God! God was laughing) was echoing his state of mind. The wind was him. He caught himself. I'm beginning to sound like some kind of monk. He turned back to his painting.

The painting-Draco was smiling. Half-smiling, it was true, but it made Draco sick to look at it. He flew at it, and then daintily pulled it out of the clasps on the easel. He was mad, but his painting was precious. He turned it against the wall, leaning it paint-side in. He'd finish it some other time.

Draco clipped another blank canvas onto the easel. His hands were shaking. He made them stop. He stared at the white. It was so blank. He needed to fill it. He moved toward his mess of paint tubes and brushes. He looked at them.

Green was the first to go; there was no way he would let such a horrible color touch his pieces. And Harry's eyes were green. Then away went his orange; he didn't want to be like Weasley. Like Weasley was to Harry. He didn't. He bet Harry and Weasley never fought like this. He didn't!

Next was black. Raven, said the tube. It disgusted him. Raven. What a way to describe black. Or people with black hair; raven-haired. Over-used. Cliché.

Into the trash pail went red and yellow, Gryffindor colors.

He looked at the blue, and thought Picasso. Blue Period.

Draco laughed, but mirthlessly.

He threw away the blue.

Left in his pile was a dark slate grey and his white. Not sure if it was even worth it to try to paint with no color, he pushed the paint from the tubes onto his oval palette. He picked his brushes: a few large bristly ones, and one tiny detail brush. He picked up a sponge he had noticed before, just for the heck of it. And then a plastic knife that he had assumed was for mixing colors. He was bad, he always just used his brushes to mix.

The detail brush was too imprecise. The big bristles weren't large enough. The sponge couldn't go where he directed it. The plastic knife worked. Draco was satisfied. A grim sort of feeling, a better state of mind than his aimlessness of before, but no warmth in his hands or his stomach, or, he suspected, his eyes. He didn't look. The mirror was against the wall next to the self-portrait. It held truths that Draco didn't want to know. He attacked the painting. He killed it, and brought it to life. He remembered Fawkes, the Headmaster's phoenix.

Fawkes had died right along with Dumbledore. He remembered Harry's face, his pleading. Harry had wanted Fawkes back. He had clung desperately to the hope that the bird would be reborn, that a part of Dumbledore would live on in this manner. He had cried, but his tears were just normal, human tears. They couldn't heal all injury, they couldn't bring life back. They were just water.

The snow pelted against the windows. The wind was pounding. The walls were screaming.

***

"Hermione's happy," Harry told Ron when he came back into the room.

"I know," said Ron, still distracted.

"Really happy."

"Yeah. You okay, mate?"

"Fine." Harry looked away from Ron's eyes, which were seeking his own. "Are you? Are you happy? Of course you are."

"Yes, I am," Ron sounded bewildered.

"And I. Am I happy?"

"You are, aren't you? Harry?"

"I don't know, Ron. What's happy?"

"Don't ask me something like that. Ask Hermione. She knows how to answer questions."

"She could explain your answer, sure. But I really just want to understand what you say."

"I'll try." Ron ran his fingers through his hair. "It's this... being glad you're here. Right where you are. No real reason for being glad, just being glad. And... catching snowflakes in your mouth while you're in the air, on your broom. It's singing along to a song on the wireless even though you know you sound absolutely terrible. Does that help?"

"Yeah, it does. It really does."

"Good." Ron leaned back as if that was that. Harry tried to think it was. He got under his covers. He went to sleep. He woke up. He wasn't happier. That wasn't that.

***

Harry was skipping his own Quidditch practice for the first time all year. He told Ron he was sick, he was going to go to the infirmary to check if he had a fever. Ron looked worried. Hermione looked suspicious. Harry tried to looked ill.

He doubled back down the corridor that led to Madame Pomfrey, heading towards the Gryffindor dorms. He slipped up to his room without anyone really noticing him there, and once he got there he didn't want to be there anymore. Harry grabbed his invisibility cloak like a lifeline. He needed to escape from his body. When he was invisible he was just himself. Not Harry Potter, not the Boy Who Lived, not even a gangly youth with green eyes and clumsy feet. Just himself. He breathed easier as the cloak fell over him.

Harry left the room with no destination in mind, and yet he wasn't surprised when he ended up in front of the Room of Requirement and the door was already there when he looked for it, there was no need for the thrice-crossing. The door clicked open and shut without much noise; Harry counted on the total immersion he had seen in Draco yesterday, and it served him well. He padded past the painter, sliding into a place against the hard floor and the hard wall, hardly breathing.

Draco's hair was completely ungelled-it fell over his face like a cloud, and Harry wondered how he could see through the misty tendrils. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, his mouth slightly open, his tongue between his teeth. Harry smiled when he saw the soft pink of the tongue, he smiled when he saw the paint caked under the bitten fingernails, he smiled when he saw the grey blotches on the black silk of Draco's shirt.

He took up his place as the silent observer with no reservations. He matched his breaths to Draco's own to avoid discovery. This was the Draco he wanted to see, the Draco who wasn't presenting a façade to the outside world. He wanted to know whether Draco's face was different when nobody was watching. He wanted to know. Breathe in, breathe out. It was six o'clock, he discovered from his watch.

He spent the hour from six to seven watching Draco's mouth. He loved the way it responded to Draco's exertions on the canvas, breaking open in excitement as his hands became a flurry of movement. He predicted when the bottom lip would be caught by the teeth, when an uncertain look passed through Draco'e eyes and he stepped back and away from his painting. He imagined the corners. He imagined running his thumb over the corners. He watched the corners hungrily, before moving on.

He spent from seven to eight entranced by Draco's hands. They were mostly hidden by the square of the canvas, in which case Harry would settle for elegant wrists, smooth and skinny and revealed by the treacherous silk shirt. And then Draco would draw his hands back to himself to get more paint, or twirl the end of his tiny brush, or scrape paint shavings from his knife, or simply to observe what he had created for a moment. Then Draco's right hand would fall to his side and swing gently before coming to a rest, and his left would tug thoughtfully at his left earlobe. The heels of his hands were swiped with white and grey and a small amount of residual color from another day.

Harry loved the heels of Draco's hands.

Harry wondered why Draco was painting with only whites and greys. He wanted to see the painting; he hadn't gotten a proper look when he had come in, too caught up in making no sound. He was afraid, however, of disturbing Draco with any additional movement. He planned to wait until Draco had left before leaving himself.

Around eight Harry was occupied by projecting his mind into Draco's body, trying to decide what he would think and feel from this beautiful encasement. He imagined that Draco's sneering voice was his own, and wondered if Draco ever sang. He imagined washing and brushing that blond shock of hair every morning-it fell almost to Draco's shoulders-and traced a stone in the wall next to him, over and over, with his finger.

He imagined doing whatever he wanted to Draco. He imagined what he wanted. He imagined starlight, and then erased that. Overdone. He imagined the ocean, and that was wrong, too. Finally he just imagined Draco, and even though Draco was right there, right in front of him, this Draco was smiling coquettishly at him, and then reaching up to twine fingers around Harry's neck.

I am falling in love with him, and the thought didn't shock him as much as he thought it might. Actually it felt kind of warm, in a unfamiliar, uncharted way.

He was staring into Draco's face, imagining those lips whispering nothings to him, completely oblivious of the time, when Draco went and left.

Harry wanted to call him back, had to stop himself from doing this.

That's who he is. That sensitive stretch of paint. He is a miracle-worker: the Boy Who Gave Me Sight. No, just a miracle. Both.

Ron and Hermione didn't press the matter of his 'sickness' when he returned to the Gryffindor tower at nine thirty and they recognized in his face what was present in their own. They smiled at each other, having just today wished that Harry would find something to make him happy-they had both been concerned by Harry's demeanor the night before. After Harry disappeared up the steps, Hermione leaned over to Ron and said, "See? It was a lovers' spat last night. And now Harry has made it better. Or," she amended, remembering the vaguely unfulfilled look on Harry's face and the lack of just-been-kissed symptoms, "He sees hopes of it getting better now."

Ron had to agree.

"And Draco's so cute, too," Hermione continued.

Ron fell off his chair.

***

Draco felt better after another night of paint. Maybe not better, he thought, maybe just so worn out that I'm forgetting to feel badly. He felt silly for thinking that Harry would come to mean something to him anyway, now. They didn't have anything in common in Harry's eyes. They way that Harry saw it, he realized, was that he was the reformed villain, and Harry was the gallant knight, saving him. Draco didn't want to be saved. The way Draco saw it, he was just about as saved as he could handle, and Harry trying to get him to be all-around good was just as unwelcome as those evangelists who knock on your door and try to help you find Jesus. Their way.

He was as saved as he could take.

He did miss Harry's voice, though. Why did he have to go and get attached to something silly like that? He couldn't just have Harry's voice separate from Harry himself. To have Harry's voice, he needed to have Harry, Harry who wanted to tell him that he didn't understand horror, Harry who wanted to tell him that he didn't understand pain. He was doomed.

***

Harry was in a cocoon of blankets, a nest of blankets. He made his blankets into his outer layer, holding in all of his warmth. He wished he could take back those hasty words. He wished he could delete them like he had deleted the contents of Dudley's hard drive when he was eight. Except without the violent repercussions. He wished he could take it all back, but he sort of didn't, because that was part of him too, angry and impulsive and stupid. That was a part of what he said and how he acted, and Draco had to see that.

Harry breathed into his hands and rubbed them together. He wished winter was over; it had past the point of the fluffy feeling of being surrounded by snow. Now he felt entombed by it, how it was almost painful to fly in the cutting wind. Hedwig chose that moment to claw up a racket against the tightly closed window.

Springing upright, he spilled his pillows and sheets onto the floor. Hedwig favored him with an affectionate nip before flying straight back to the owlry-owls got cold, too, he supposed. The official writing on the envelope made his stomach flutter, but not in excitement. He knew what this was. He had gotten about ten of these after his last Quidditch match. It was a proposal from a Quidditch team. France, he saw this time. After he had denied several of England's teams, the agents from the other countries had swooped in immediately. He hated receiving these. I want to be an Auror, he told himself, penning a rejection and sticking it under his school books so he could send it in the morning. I want to be an Auror.

Seamus and Dean came in together, laughing, as he was getting back into bed. Dean fixed Harry with a doubtful stare before asking if he was feeling any better. Dean was a beater this year.

"Much better," Harry assured him guiltily. "Pomfrey gave me something or other that worked within the hour, but Ron looked like he was having too much fun to interrupt." This was only as guess, but evidently a good one, from the answering grin on Dean's face.

"Man must have been born on the Quidditch field," Dean said.

Seamus tugged impatiently on his wrist, and Dean waved a goodbye to Harry, and they left not two minutes after they had come in. This puzzled Harry until he realized they must have expected an empty dorm room. Then he blushed.

Ron came in a short while later, bringing Harry back from the very edge of sleep. He glanced at Ron grumpily before rolling over.

"Pleasant tonight, aren't you?"

"Nyech shlah," Harry said brightly.

"Alright, I can take a hint. 'Night."

"Fwarumph."

***

It was the next morning when Harry caught Draco's eye in Care of Magical Creatures and Draco gave him nothing, not warmth, not even a frozen stare, that Harry realized that coming to a conclusion in his mind wasn't quite the end of things. There was still a minor thing called reality that must be dealt with. Damn. He tried to forget the blank look in Draco's face, studying the back of Draco's head, his hair currently gathered in a small ponytail. Hermione nudged him out of his reverie, pointing frantically at their lackpaw, a large catlike creature with six legs and impressive teeth. Harry suspected they were a result of one of Hagrid's breeding experiments, much nicer looking than the skrewts, but unfortunately far more mobile. Ron was shredding lettuce like his life depended on it. Which, in retrospect, it might.

"Hagrid said they were herbivores, right Harry? Hermione? Right?" Ron was now throwing fistfuls of lettuce pieces between himself and the lackpaw like confetti. This didn't seem to be doing much good. Harry laughed uneasily and stepped behind Hermione.

When he looked over, he found that Draco's lackpaw was curled up, quite obviously sleeping, as Draco stroked the massive creature. Seamus Finnigan, his partner, was watching from what he had deemed to be a safe distance.

Harry looked at his lackpaw with detached interest, removed from the frightened scrambling of Ron and the titters of Hermione. The amber eyes caught his own, and Ron breathed easier now that it's attention was focused elsewhere.

Harry walked toward it, bold, disregarding the cautious stances the rest of the class was taking. "You feel like you're under a microscope, don't you, boy?" he murmured, hoping that he had gotten the gender correct. "Just because of what you are. You don't understand why we all think you're so amazing, do you? You just think it's normal. It's who you are." He absently began to scratch the lackpaw's head between its ears, not noticing Hermione's anxious eyes upon him. The animal's tail, which had been twitching agitatedly, calmed to practically no movement, only an occasional swish.

He felt a stranger in his body for staggered moments, and it distracted him. He couldn't remember why he had felt so at home for all of his life. What connection was there between this force in him, this thinking power, and the casing in which he was clad? Trapped?

Harry watched Draco out of the corners of his eyes. He wagered that Draco never felt out of place in his body. He wagered that anyone who looked like Draco did felt constantly at peace with his appearance.

***

Draco worried at his shirt cuff with one hand, still stroking his lackpaw with the other. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. Wincing at the chapped state it was in, he thought longingly of his vanilla lip balm. His hand departed his shirt cuff for his front pockets in his school trousers, and then his back. No, of course not, he thought when he found nothing but a few clean tissues, bitter enough to be angry at a tube of lip balm. Seamus made as if to move closer to the lackpaw, seeing how docile it was under Draco's ministrations, but Draco warned him off again with his eyes.

He let his hand fall to the ground and make tiny mounds of snow. The cold bit into his hand razor-sharp, but he paid no attention to what his senses were screaming at him. He chose, rather, to ignore his body. The lackpaw seemed comfortable in the snow; A descendant of a snow leopard, perhaps, Draco decided. Its fur was rough, but not unpleasant to touch. He buried his fingers of both hands in it, finally giving in to the chill.

The next night was the match against Hufflepuff, and Harry was caught in a frenzy of Quidditch activity, a drugging pep rally beforehand while Ron coached them all on tactics last minute and Harry assured them that they'd done it before, they could do it again. Then the match, all white from occasional snow flurries and hard to make out what everyone else was doing on the field. Harry focused on finding the Snitch, remembering his first game as captain, early in the year before Quidditch had to be halted because of the danger of being alone in the air for practices. He had been so caught up in the movements of the Quaffle that he had been as close as he could remember to losing because the other Seeker caught the Snitch first, plain and simple. Padma had given him a look to frost his innards when he stole a victory from her hands, but he had been to relieved to notice. He had barely gotten in front of her in time.

This time he saw the Snitch first, an easy victory. Then there was butterbeer and food and a party into the early hours of the morning, and Ron already making pictures of maneuvers to try on the Slytherins during the Final, and not much thinking until he collapsed into bed about whether Draco had gone to the game or had just painted. Tomorrow was Saturday but not a Hogsmeade weekend, and he wondered would Draco be painting all day? What time should I check for him? and What will I tell Ron?

***

Draco had indeed gone to the game, bundled up in black mittens, a black scarf, a black hat, and a black puffy winter coat. He had spent more time staring at the lake's surface than actually following the game, however, and was depending utterly on Finnigan's commentary. When the game was finished, he couldn't tell if it had been minutes or hours. He trekked back into his dorm, using his sketch pencils to experiment with shadowing on eyes. The Grey Painting, as he had come to refer to it in his mind, had evolved into a sort of self portrait as well. A portrait of himself with no color. A portrait of the way he felt now. He ruminated on the encounters he had had in the past three days. He had grown increasingly cutting, causing a burst of tears on Pansy's part, curses on Blaise's part, and an actual admonishment from Snape.

He needed to paint again, he hungered for it. He was past the point of caring whether his roommates saw him painting, and almost started to make himself a miniature palette before realizing he didn't have any canvas or parchment that was thick enough to stay flat with the addition of paints. He growled out his frustration at Goyle, who was sitting on his bed with a cheap romance novel in his hands. Goyle looked at him with a mixture of fear and revulsion before returning to his reading.

Draco turned to sleep in an effort to get through the night, but the dream lady was elusive, and he couldn't snatch at her vestments long enough to stay in a deep slumber. He tossed fitfully all through the night.

***

The following morning he was up before the sun, the morning sneaking in in whites and greys; and him, sneaking out of his bedroom, wearing whites and greys. All he owned was either black or white, and it was all expensive, so though he preferred darker clothing he decided to opt for lighter tones after the paint splotches wouldn't come all the way out of his silk shirt of several days ago. His pants were grey twill, and his shirt a thick sweater. His shoes were still reassuringly black, and he tried to sap comfort from their familiar color.

He was pacing back and forth before the Room before he knew it, not even needing to focus his thoughts since his mind was calling out for paint without his permission anyway.

Draco had brought his penciled eyes from last night, and when he compared them to the bedecked easel, he felt a glimmer of inspiration. If he shifted the direction of the light like so...

He almost didn't hear Harry come in. Draco's senses were sharper around Harry; it had always been like that. Lately he had been able to feel when Harry's eyes were upon him, and he had felt like this the other night as he painted. He had thought perhaps he was imagining it, put it down to wishful thinking. But now here was the proof walking past him. A disillusionment charm, he supposed. Or an invisibility cloak, though Potter didn't seem the type to splurge on something trivial like that. He understood how he could have missed an entrance before; he almost couldn't hear the footfalls even now, when he was listening for them. He let Harry get nice and settled in his corner before dropping his paintbrush and walking casually over to the shelves that ran from the left wall to the wall with the windows.

He made it look almost accidental, as if he was searching for a book and couldn't find it. Harry's breath sharpened and gasped as he drew closer, lending information about his exact location to Draco for the moment when he reached down and brushed his hand against what he supposed would be the back of Harry's neck. His hand came in contact with smooth cloth, and he snatched it off, triumphant.

"An invisibility cloak, Potter? So that's what your head was doing in Hogsmeade those years back. And here I was thinking it was a disillusionment charm done wrong. It's beautiful," Draco said, meaning the words, but not attaching any feeling to them.

Harry stood up slowly, still trembling. "I only meant to-"

"Missed looking at me?"

Harry gulped. Is that a bad thing? he wondered before pressing on. "If you'll only let me explain-"

"I don't want to hear any of your explanations, Harry!" Draco's face hardly changed, but Harry detected a shattered look in his eyes, or maybe that was just the effect of the mirror exploding in the background? Perhaps both.

Draco didn't even spare the destroyed mirror a glance, although inside his mind he was reprimanding himself: You haven't broken something like that since you were five. Get a hold over yourself, Draco.

"If you'll only listen to me!" But it was useless, Draco didn't want to know what Harry had to say. He was ushering Harry out of the room, not exactly gently. Harry resorted to desperate measures, spinning away from Draco's hands and planting his feet firmly on the floor.

"Listen. I know what I want from you," he pleaded in Draco's direction, trying to catch his gaze.

Draco flinched, though, and Harry almost did as well, hearing what that must have sounded like to Draco. He opened his mouth to fix it, but Draco was already speaking.

"You are so arrogant! You think you can discard me, and then change your mind again? Do you think I'm just a porcelain doll? You're completely daft, Harry," and then his voice broke and he couldn't say any more.

"No, no, no, that's not what I meant at all!"

"Then what did you mean? Stop tripping around it, Harry, I can't bear this any longer. Give me the truth. Please," he added, softly, so that Harry almost didn't hear it.

Harry walked over to where Draco was standing, a hand still on the handle of the open door. He closed the door and grabbed Draco's hand, and was temporarily thrown by the feel of Draco's fingers against his own. They were warm, and smooth, and-

"Draco-" he begun, and couldn't for the life of him think of anything to say next, anything true that wouldn't wrench his heart from his chest to utter. Draco's expression had changed entirely; Harry didn't recognize the way he was looking now. His eyes were cast down, at his hand clasped by Harry's own. Then he brought his head up, and for a minute Harry thought he might have seen Draco's eyes glistening. It was soon gone, however, and Harry later thought he must have made it up. Draco didn't cry.

Somehow the changed look in Draco's eyes gave Harry the courage to do what he did next. Slowly, achingly slowly, he drew Draco over to the wall and down onto a cushion which Draco hadn't noticed when he came in. Damn Room, he thought dazedly, changing around us. Harry sat down next to Draco, and then hesitantly turned to face him and brought his hand to Draco's cheek, then away to take his glasses off, then back to Draco's face.

This can't be happening, was Draco's thought before Harry leaned in close enough for Draco's over-exerted brain to pick up on the fact that it was, indeed, happening.

Draco's eyes were wide, so he narrowed them to normalcy. He was hyper-aware of everything; the cold wall against his back and Harry's body heat warming him, but most of all of Harry's right hand hovering over his left side, alighting on his arm before taking flight again, coming to rest for good against his waist. He felt

felt like something delicate

breaking-

--or in the making

And he closed his eyes, and then opened them again, uncertain when Harry's lips did not touch his own. He quested for them then, bringing up his paint-stained hands to outline Harry's features, imagining a trail of gold being left behind, a guide for weary travelers, a guide for him. Draco smiled at Harry, the complexity of his person being slowly reduced to a pinpoint of laughter and pain that Draco disregarded, preferring, for once, the truth of where he was and what he was doing.

Harry was elated at Draco's heartbeat running ragged against his own, at Draco's hands coming up to caress and then cradle his face. He sighed softly, contentedly, brushed his nose tentatively against Draco's, wondering at Draco's mouth, pink and oh-

their lips came together at last -

--and soft, Harry thought in wonder, before all coherent thought was ripped away. Draco leaned into the kiss, his eyelids fluttering shut once more, and then broke away, panting lightly.

"Harry, are you sure you know-"

But Harry brought his lips once more to Draco's, sealing Draco's words inside of him, or perhaps consuming Draco's fears with his tenderness. Draco's hands left Harry's face for the small of Harry's back, ventured into the haven of warmth inside of Harry's sweater, and Harry gasped, opened his mouth against Draco's.

Draco seized this opportunity to delve more deeply into Harry, running his tongue teasingly along Harry's lower lip and then diving inside. Harry let out a moan and brought his left hand up to circle Draco's shoulders, flicking his tongue against Draco's, savoring the warm intrusion. He slung his legs over Draco's lap in a desperate desire to be closer to him, pressing their torsos together, delighting in the heat and tingle this created for him. Draco was now doing dizzying things with his teeth: worrying at Harry's bottom lip, nipping lightly at his top, and then his cheekbone, and Harry gasped at the loss of Draco's mouth but the gain of air, gasped as Draco gently and softly licked the circle under Harry's right eye, and the line of his cheekbone, and groaned as Draco's mouth left his face in favor of his neck.

All Harry could do was moan, never having experienced anything so sweet and gentle and yet so arousing.

Draco was intoxicated by the stretch of skin in front of him, Harry's chin tilted up cooperatively, deciding that it would take him all of the rest of his life to map it out properly, with his tongue. He lapped around Harry's throat, and then trailed down to the gap in his collarbone. From here he ventured up towards Harry's ear and then stopped before he reached it, sucking lightly and then biting, then darting his tongue out again to circle the mark his teeth left. He was admiring his work, and the puddle of musical moans into which Harry had dissolved, lavishing upon Harry's neck occasional bits of teeth and mouth, when he was startled by Harry's hands. They buried themselves in Draco's hair, pulling his head up firmly so his mouth could once again collide with Harry's own.

And how different was this kiss, the heat, the need, and Harry claiming Draco's mouth, swiping his tongue over the roof of Draco's mouth and then circling it around Draco's own. Draco heard a low, throaty moan, and discovered, startled, that it was his own. Harry moaned in answer, coming up for air before returning to the kiss.

Draco was lost for a while in the heady feelings the kiss swamped him in; he felt heat surge through his body, felt the tug of Harry's hands in his hair, thought every once in a while a disbelieving offering to the gods for giving him this completion. And then he realized that was what it was: completion. For the first few minutes he had been so distracted by the intense pleasure he hadn't realized how deeply the kiss was touching him. Now he raked his fingers up Harry's back, gasped Harry's name into Harry's mouth.

"Something's starting, Harry," he managed to say, forcing his lips from Harry's.

"I like it," Harry replied gruffly before devouring Draco's mouth once more.

"Mmm," Draco purred into Harry's mouth, turning his body entirely into Harry's, gasping in surprise and pleasure when Harry's legs rearranged themselves so that they were straddling Draco's body.

Draco shuddered as their hips ground together, as he bathed in waves of pleasure. He brought his mouth back down to Harry's neck, and Harry let him depart, running his fingers through Draco's hair and then over the back of Draco's neck, into the neck of Draco's shirt. Draco arched up against his hands, and Harry laughed, a low laugh that turned into a cry when Draco bit down on Harry's shoulder.

"Teach you to laugh," Draco murmured smugly, pushing the shoulder of Harry's sweater aside to bath the area with his tongue, lap at the lean curve with his lips. He started again when he felt Harry's lips on his own neck, and then relaxed, and then tensed again as Harry cautiously bit down softly. He almost wept when Harry pulled away again, and then brought his face up when he heard Harry's words.

"I've never done this before." Harry sounded nervous and endearing and sexy and sultry and innocent. Draco grinned at him, his face so near.

"You're doing beautifully, then," he said, and ran his tongue quickly against the full length of Harry's mouth. He smiled as he pulled away, at the half-lidded green eyes gazing back at him, at the flush creeping across Harry's cheeks.

"You don't mean to say you've never kissed anyone?"

"That's not what I meant!" Harry looked embarrassed. "I've kissed girls-"

"Ah," said Draco, and nibbled on Harry's chin, which effectively made Harry's words unrecognizable. He drew away to observe Harry's expression again, and it was so beautiful he almost felt the need to shield his eyes. Heart-rending, he thought in awe, recalling how angry he had been at this very person just an hour ago.

Now it was impossible to be angry, with Harry's chin resting on his shoulder, and Harry's fingers still tangled in Draco's sweater, and Harry's breath ghosting against the ends of his hair. He felt heat in every place they touched: their hands, their chests, their hips.

"This is what you wanted to tell me?" Draco said when he had regained control of his voice.

"Pretty much," Harry admitted, loosening his grip on Draco's sweater so he could bring his hands up to tiptoe across Draco's jaw line. Draco gasped at his touch, and then relaxed when Harry re-slung one of his arms around Draco's shoulders. He was still holding tightly to Harry, and he let his fingers wander around the bare skin of Harry's back, exploring his vertebrae, his shoulder blades, trying not to tug Harry's sweater too far up and expose his back to the chill air.

Harry tilted his head so that his cheek was against Draco's shoulder, nuzzled the side of Draco's neck. Draco snuggled into this embrace, enjoying every gasp and held breath that he could draw out of Harry's with his fingers. Harry's back was so smooth. He drew patterns with his fingers, moving them one at a time and then swirling them all at once. Harry arched into him, and darted his tongue out to touch Draco's neck. Draco felt swamped in sensation, wonderful but frightening. When he had been with Blaise the kisses had been full of trial and error, enjoyable, sure, but never as passionate and searching as what he was now experiencing.

Harry was euphoric, his thoughts jumbling about, clamoring to be heard. He let them come, all the while studying the few freckles on Draco's neck: one was right under his earlobe, the other on the dark of his chin. Harry tasted the one under Draco's ear while he thought I've never felt like this, so good-it was never like this with Ginny. Draco's fingers paused on his back and Harry smirked. Sensitive spot, eh? He continued up to Draco's ear, shifting around for better access, teasing the rim with his tongue and teeth before hesitantly suckling on the lobe.

"Harry-" Draco cried in surprise and delight. Harry shivered at the way Draco's voice caressed his name, turning it into an aria, sounding as intricate as an orchestra.

"Yes, Draco?"

"That feels-so good-"

"What about like this?" And Harry gave his lobe a bit of tooth.

Draco could hardly make himself breathe.

***

When Harry left the Room of Requirement some time later, with a dreamy smile on his face and smudges of white on his cheeks and neck, it was with the promise of a meeting tomorrow, on the Quidditch pitch. He grinned at the portraits on the walls, which looked at him, mystified, and then gossiped in low voices when he had passed. He beamed at each suit of armor, although he almost fell over in surprise when one of them saluted him in return. He beamed at Dean and Seamus, who were quite obviously holding hands in the folds of their robes, and heading towards the kitchens. He beamed at Terry Boot, who scowled at him. That put him off for a minute, but not long enough to prevent him from beaming at Ron and Hermione when he reached the common room, sitting together and poring over a multitude of star charts.

Ron looked at Harry so desperately that Harry risked the wrath of Hermione, cutting into their homework session.

"Hey Ron, do you want to practice some Quidditch?" It couldn't have been much later than two in the afternoon. Ron, looking utterly grateful, begged out of the Astronomy assignment, fetching coat and winter accessories while Hermione watched him depart, disgruntled.

"Har-ry," she whined, but smiled to show that she didn't really mean it. "He's hopeless at Astronomy anyway," she confided before Ron came back, flushed, items of winter clothing shoved haphazardly onto his body. He thrust a pair of gloves and a hat at Harry, saying that he couldn't find Harry's winter coat.

"I think I left it in the changing rooms," Harry said, trying to mentally retrace his steps. Ron dragged him away from Hermione, as if afraid she would suck him back into the horror of homework if he hung around too long. Hermione shook her head at them fondly, betting that Harry was glad his coat had a high collar. It looked as though he and Draco had come to a new level of understanding.

***

Draco found himself unable to concentrate on his Grey Picture, nor his previous self-portrait when he retrieved it from its place against the wall. He went back to his common room after carefully arranging his shirt in hopes it would cover up anything that would give him away too terribly, and tucked it back into his pants where it had come loose. His hair was a lost cause; maybe his roommates would think he had been outside?

He kept making wrong turns in an entirely embarrassing fashion, when a particularly vivid memory would strike him. Draco found it easiest to pause and lean, gasping for air, against the wall, at least until he was back in control of himself.

When he reached the dungeons and the Slytherin common room, he drew out one subject's homework after the next, finding them all dull and incapable of retaining his attention. Great. Potter's turned me into a bloody spaz, he thought as he found himself answering his Transfigurations questions in the following manner:

1. Why is it best to be cautious when attempting to transfigure something in a storm?

This is because when you when you are transfiguring something, the area around you charges up becomes charged resulting in a charged area that attracts lightning and lightning may be attracted to it so you should be careful.

Bugger! he thought, fairly fascinated, before erasing his answer and stuffing the assignment back into his book bag. Completely useless. He finally opted for a seat on one of the leather armchairs by the fireplace, sketching idly, not really watching what he was doing.

Flying with Harry tomorrow, he thought to himself, let's see if his old Firebolt can out-fly my Firebolt 900 when there aren't any distractions, shall we? But these thoughts took second place in his brain, preceded by images of Harry's hair streaking behind him, Harry's face set determinedly as he sought the Snitch, Harry's back straight and his hands clenched and his eyes flashing-

He went early to bed that night, exhausted by the images dancing in his head. That night, for the first in weeks, he remembered his dreams the next morning. Harry had been there, nuzzling his neck, and then he had turned into his mother, who was cooing and flattening his hair. His mother had run off, white dressing gown trailing behind her, and he had followed, only to come face to face with-

--an alarm clock that read 8:00 in calligraphy, letting out a few trills of harp music before launching into a sonata.

Oh, I'm awake now, Draco realized, swatting at the clock, muttering the Finite charm to shut it off. His pillow was over his head before he remembered about the flying, and the need for breakfast, and the Boy Who Lived...

Cursing at himself, he stumbled past the elegantly draped beds of his snoring roommates, climbed in and out of the shower with about thirty seconds for shampoo and soap in between, and then promptly got all sweaty again by pulling on his warmer Quidditch clothes. Bugger.

***

" 'Curiouser and curiouser'," Hermione quoted to herself as she watched the normally late-sleeping boy known to the world as Harry Potter push his scrambled eggs around the perimeter of his plate.

"Those eggs were the product of slave-labor, eat up," she told him, earning a grimace for her efforts.

"Are you ever going to give up on this 'Spew' thing?"

It was a sign of her caving will that she didn't correct the people who called it 'Spew' anymore. "No," she said defiantly, but Harry suspected she was just keeping up appearances. "Where are you going at this hour, anyway?"

"A little extra Quidditch practice," Harry replied. Hey, it's true, he protested against his disapproving conscience.

"Boys," Hermione said, rolling her eyes, but she seemed to accept this explanation without doubts.

Harry downed the rest of his orange juice and then abandoned his chewed-upon plate of eggs, waving a sleepy good-bye to Hermione. She watched him in amusement, not failing to notice that Draco got up after him soon after. He probably thinks I have no idea, she laughed to herself, spearing another sausage.

***

Harry and Draco met in the air, each feeling a little awkward and unable to tell if the other was blushing or simply pink-cheeked from the cold. Draco broke the tension with an easy hello, and Harry, relieved, did a loop around Draco with his broom before hovering beside him in the air.

"What do you want to do?" Harry called, raising his voice despite their proximity; the wind was fierce.

"I brought along a practice Snitch," Draco replied, drawing it out of his pocket. Harry, interested, inspected it. He had never seen a Snitch like it before; during practices he always used the real thing.

"How does it work?"

"Let me show you." Harry passed the Snitch back over to Draco, who felt around the tiny ball as if looking for a small button. Apparently finding what he was looking for, he showed Harry a tiny dial with numbers etched into it.

"What do the numbers stand for?"

"Levels of difficulty. Zero's kind of boring, don't you think?"

Harry laughed, looking at the motionless Snitch in Draco's hands. "Yup, I'd have to agree there."

"So let's try One." Draco spun the knob until he heard a click, and the Snitch rose out of his hand to hover in between them for a few seconds, and then casually zoomed towards the stands. Harry's broom leapt forward as Harry focused on the Snitch, catching it quickly and without many theatrics.

"Bravo," Draco drawled from where he was still sitting on his broom, evidently having decided to let Harry go by himself after such easy prey. Harry stuck out his tongue playfully.

"I'm going to set it to Two. You want to catch it this time?"

"No, you go on, knock yourself out." Harry acquiesced, catching the Snitch repeatedly on levels Two, Three, and Four. Finally, when he set it to Five, Draco leaned forward on his Firebolt, braking just to the left of Harry. "I'll race you for this one."

And so the games began: Harry caught it on levels Five, Six, and Eight, Draco on Seven and Nine. After spending twenty minutes searching separately for the thing on level Ten and then ten minutes working together, they agreed to leave it on Nine for the rest of the time. Now the level of competition rose rather than the speed of the Snitch. Harry proved just as able to fight dirty as Draco, reaching under Draco's seeking hand to tickle his armpit at the crucial last moment for one of his more elegant tactics, and sending Draco spinning away with a knock and twist of his broom for one of the less subtle. Draco rose to the challenge, pulling hair, flipping Harry upside-down, and during one neck-and-neck chase, leaning over to lick the base of Harry's neck.

This resulted in a decreased amount of interest in the Snitch, to say the least. Harry managed to get in front of Draco, tilting his face up for a heat-filled kiss, sending jolts of pleasure to the tips of his fingers and the tips of his toes. They sunk down to the ground, entwined together, finally tumbling off their brooms in favor of the cold hard ground where the snow had melted away but there was no great heat. Draco and Harry made their own heat, Harry flipping Draco around and then climbing on top of him, pressing the whole length of his winter-clad body against Draco's, feeling an answering pressure on Draco's part. Their tongues warred over whose mouth they should dance in; Draco won out, or Harry let him, perhaps, trembling as every inch of his mouth was explored as Draco held his face steady with his leather-gloved fingers.

Draco broke away, finally, to laugh at the Snitch, which had stopped running away from them and was hovering next to Harry's foot, actually looking quite sulky.

"If we're seen..." Harry began shakily, starting to clamber up, until Draco pulled him back down beside him and claimed the top.

"You really don't care all that much, do you?" Draco asked teasingly, grinding his hips into Harry's, feeling an answering hardness there that let on much more than Harry's panted response:

"I-if-do you-oh-"

"That's what I thought." Draco got up, though, and brushed himself off, wondering what state the back of his pants was in. He tried to brush any dirt off discreetly, but Harry saw, and laughingly took over, excusing himself with, "We don't want anyone to see a dirty Malfoy. It would simply ruin your reputation."

Draco nodded agreeably, not registering at all what Harry was saying, but enjoying the feel of his hands softly brushing against his rear.

Harry gently kissed Draco's cheek, then his chin, and then finally his mouth, a searing kiss that they shared with eyes open and caressing just as much as lips and tongues. Draco lost himself, tender explorations his only prerogative, taken up by the mouth and hands of Harry Potter.

When they separated, there was something like possessiveness in Harry's eyes, and it chimed through Draco like a bell, like a tremor in the ground, like a fickle burst of rain. He looked at Harry, lost for words, letting himself be guided into the broom shed to store away their brooms and then into the castle to store away themselves. Gryffindor and Slytherin. The house names felt bitter in Draco's mind, he tasted sourness on his tongue.

Harry was talking about the Potions class this upcoming Tuesday, something about the pancreas of a toad and whether or not it was used in potions that were involved with changing physical appearances. Draco nodded and shook his head in the appropriate places, still somewhat spinning from the flight and the kisses that had followed, confused by the settings in which he had battled Harry years before and the contrasting warmth in Harry's voice as he rattled on.

He felt as if some momentary happiness was passing, and the darkness was closing in once more. I've been blind, Draco thought of his clandestine encounters with Harry. We have no future together. He doesn't even know who I am. When Harry stopped talking and Draco didn't know what he was supposed to do, nod or shake his head, agree or disagree, he realized that Draco wasn't listening to a word he was saying.

"Are you feeling okay?" he worried, chewing his lip and reaching up to where his glasses rested on his nose, scratching the spot.

"I actually feel sort of lightheaded," Draco replied, and Harry sent him immediately towards his room.

"You should lay down, you might be getting the flu or something," and Draco couldn't help but be endeared by the genuine anxiety on Harry's face.

"I'll be fine, I just need to rest, I think," Draco assured him.

"When can we meet again?"

And against his better judgment, Draco couldn't resist setting a time to meet this boy, this beautiful boy whose eyebrows were drawn down by worry, whose lips were tugging into a frown at the unnatural color on Draco's face. "Want to come by tomorrow evening? The password's 'Flying Carpet'," Draco said, and then wished he hadn't when he realized what a Gryffindor could do with this information.

His doubts receded, however, when he saw the light that shone from Harry's eyes at this trusting move. Draco had said it simply because he wanted to be in a familiar place when they talked again, because he knew they were going to have to talk, and he hadn't given it a second thought. Not until after I said it, at any rate, he reminded himself.

"I'd love to," said Harry, and it was irretrievably done.

"Around eight, then," Draco said, and Harry mumbled agreement. He sounded nervous, and Draco understood why when Harry moved into a kiss, brushing his lips lightly against Draco's, sparks lighting through Draco's veins, and then more firmly, the sparks becoming fires, before drawing away.

"Bye, then," said Draco, choking back a foolish smile.

"Bye," said Harry in return, making no such effort.

***

Monday's classes were annoying for Harry. He had rushed through his homework, and wasn't entirely prepared for the day's lessons. Professor Grubbly-Plank fixed him with an accusing eye when he didn't know the difference between a defensive incantation and a basic shield charm.

"It's the strength involved," she answered for him, describing the magnitude of curses an incantation could protect against, but how it required about as much strength as the average person acquired from a morning's cup of coffee.

"Good for the coffee bean industry, then," Ron muttered, smirking, and Harry nodded distractedly. Hermione shushed them, her hands never leaving their frantic scribbling. Ron yawned. "Don't you know it all already, Hermione?"

"Yes, but taking notes is a good way of studying," she hissed at him. "And be quiet."

Ron shut up. Hermione's tone brought back memories of hexes she had thrown at Death Eaters during attacks in the war. Kind of scary, Harry thought, yawning as well.

Lunch was a rushed affair, because Hermione dragged Harry to the library with her to look up more information on shield charms. Ron begged out of this mission, veering off to the Ravenclaw table to sit with Luna, and Harry looked desperately around for Draco, hoping he could do the same, but couldn't find him at the Slytherin table.

By the time he was stumbling down to the Slytherin common room, his muttered 'Flying Carpet' was even full of sarcasm. He willfully ignored all of the stares he was receiving, instead asking Goyle coolly which way to Draco's dorm. Goyle looked to be in shock, answering only with a grunt and a pointed finger. Then again, that was pretty normal for Goyle.

Harry collapsed into one of the high-backed wooded chairs opposite of the bed where Draco was sitting, sketching.

"What're you working on?" Harry tried to dig up a last reserve of energy.

"Ah... nothing much," Draco mumbled, shoving his sketch pad under his pillow.

"Okay." Harry lapsed into silence, studying the room he found himself in. It was fully of mahogany and dark green velvets. On the whole, it looked rather expensive and overdone. It would have been more striking were there not mounds of dirty clothes on the floor next to and strewn across one of the beds. Goyle's, Harry assumed.

Draco stretched, and looked at Harry. He wasn't sure how this was going to go, what was going to happen next. He refrained from making the first move.

Eventually, Harry grew uncomfortable with the silence. "So... you said we needed to talk? Maybe?" He looked confused at the lack of response on Draco's part.

Draco just studied him for a few seconds, before asking abruptly, "Who do you think I am?"

Harry regarded him nervously. "What do you mean?"

"Just answer the question."

"Right..." Harry mulled this over. "Well, you're beautiful. You're... a Slytherin." You're not afraid to use underhanded means to get what you want. "You're ambitious. Clever. And you have a wicked way with insults."

Draco smirked. "You should know."

Harry laughed. "Yeah. But that's just another layer, though." The one beneath your skin-deep beauty, before coming to what's beautiful besides your appearance. "It's, er, your defense. It blocks people from becoming too close to you when you don't feel secure reaching out. It's the public you, not the you... not the one I know."

Draco's lips had begun to take a cynical twist, but Harry didn't notice. "Go on."

"And inside," Harry continued at Draco's urging, "You want to do the right thing? Or just not the wrong thing?" He stopped short at the unmistakable disgust etched through Draco's features.

"You would think that. You see good in everybody."

"And you make that sound like a bad thing."

"You don't think it's bad to see what isn't there? Kind of crazy, at the very least," Draco supplied with a dry laugh.

Harry's heart was beginning to do acrobatics. "Then why are you here? On our side? Why did you join the D.A.?"

"Why not?" Draco accompanied this with a casual shrug.

"Is that your only reason?" Harry felt himself get slightly angry-his cheeks heated defiantly.

"Can you think of a better one?" Draco's tone was flippant.

"How about, 'I felt bad for tormenting people who don't deserve it, and I realized that torturing Muggles wasn't really that high and mighty'?" Harry's voice began to take on a hard edge. Draco sat up on his bed in response, his hair falling into his face. He flicked it aside.

"You never question it, do you? Any of it? How can you label one troop as the 'bad guys' and the other good, and just violently oppose them? How does that make you any better than the Death Eaters, who persecute Muggles and Mudbloods just because of who they are?"

"The Order never started anything! It was only for defense! If we didn't do anything, they would have killed us!"

"That's not what I meant, Potter." Harry's blood chilled at the use of his last name. "Open your mind, just for one second. Try to see what I mean. How can you make a judgment about good and evil like that? What gives you the right to define evil? Or," and Draco laughed again, more hollowly this time, "what makes you think there is a good at all?"

"What makes you think there's an evil?" Harry shot back.

Draco smirked. "Exactly my point." He inspected his fingernails.

"You mean you really don't believe there is an evil?"

Harry looked at Draco, and Draco shook his head. Once. Twice.

"Let me tell you a story, Harry." Harry rolled his eyes at the cheesiness of this comment, but let Draco continue. "When I was eight, I got pneumonia. For days upon days, all I could see or feel was the bed underneath me and the light alternately streaming from my window or from my beside lamp. When I finally came back to myself, I lay in the half-light of my room lit only by flickering candles, and I thought I could see the light flicker. Black to white. Black-white. Black-white. Dark-light. I was so certain. But when I closed my eyes for a few minutes, trying to clear them, I realized that what I was seeing was only the inside of my eyelids when I blinked."

There was silence for a few minute. "So?" said Harry finally, unwilling to believe that this was the extent of what Draco had wanted to tell him.

"Think, Harry," Draco replied. "I thought I saw the world in black and white. But all I was really seeing were my own illusions."

"That is really, truly, and incredibly depressing," Harry commented, leaning back into his chair. "Profound, though. Have you ever thought of writing stories? You could call your first collection "Malfoy's Fables", and the same moral could be printed at the end of every story: Shit happens."

"Think you're funny, Potter?" Draco drawled. A smile momentarily touched his lips, however.

"Haha. I appreciate your little story, but it's really only a metaphor. What makes you so certain that there isn't really a good or an evil?"

"Which am I?" Draco asked him, a question for a question.

"You're-"

"I'm not sure I want you to answer that."

"I insist. You're neither." Draco looked up at him. "I mean, you're good. Everyone's good."

"Or everyone had some good in them?"

"Yeah, that's what I meant." Harry looked relieved that Draco was apparently beginning to understand his point.

"Which leads to the fact that everyone's good."

"Yes... no."

"Which is it?" Harry didn't answer. "Isn't it said that everyone had a bit of the devil in them, too?" Harry remained silent. "So that would mean that everyone is inherently evil. And while you're following up this whole devil concept, why not just go with the Bible explanation of it all? We're bad. We're sinners. We must repent. Alack."

Harry was beginning to look desperate. His worldview was being shredded, methodically, by the slender form reclining on the four-poster opposite him.

"Well, some people are evil, though."

"Examples?"

"I dunno. Hitler, Stalin. Voldemort."

"So they're born that way."

"Right."

"They're evil from birth."

"Exactly."

"There's nothing they can do about it. It's part of their character." Draco paused for confirmation, but Harry was beginning to think this was going to turn around and bite him as well. And then it did. "So shouldn't we pity them, then? They had no conscience. They're mad, screwed up, incurable. Why try to kill them? Don't they deserve our concern, according to your arguments?"

"I don't know! Obviously you think my ideas are out-dated and stupid." Harry was frustrated. "Why not just tell me what you're getting at, rather then leading me up to it slowly? The wait is killing me," he ended sarcastically.

"But I don't know either, Harry." Draco's voice was softer. "It's a comforting view for you, the good, the virtuous, and the evil-doers that you have to fight. Even though it's harsh and demanding, it's ultimately worth its costs. But what about for me? I'm the charity case that Dumbledore took on, the idiot boy who was brainwashed by his father and then finally got a clue when he realized that his father didn't give a fuck about him. I'm the one that nobody's ever going to really like, if they understand me, or really understand, if they like me. Bleak, isn't it?"

Harry was taken aback. "Why can't you be that person? The reformed ice king? Go ahead, make friends with some Hufflepuffs. Trash Cornelius Fudge over your dinner. Do a respectable job that doesn't require string-pulling and arm-wrenching."

"That isn't who I am, though, Harry." Draco's voice held a pleading note. "I'm not able to do that about face, not because I can't, but because that's not who I am, it would be pretending. I still lie and cheat and I don't believe in the ultimate right and wrong!"

"What are you doing here, then?"

Draco closed his eyes and thought for a moment. "I just know I didn't belong where my father wanted me. I didn't belong on the floor, kissing hems and taking orders. Far too dirty down there, anyhow," he tried to joke, failing miserably.

"Where do you belong?" Harry and Draco stared at each other, before Harry, gathering up his courage in two big handfuls, trod across the room to position himself next to Draco on the bed. Draco unconsciously scooted over to make room for him, and Harry pressed his side against Draco's, took Draco's left hand in his right, squeezed.

With a small sigh, Draco turned onto his side, bringing his lips to Harry's. They met for a long, lingering kiss, tongues sliding in and out of mouths, heat accompanied with light moans.

"Could you-" Harry kissed the back of Draco's hand "-ever think-" and then the crook of his elbow "-of belonging with me?"

"Not to you?" said Draco, half teasing, half serious.

"Never to me. Unless I belonged to you right back." Draco shivered at these words, revelling in how when he was close to Harry, all of his doubts about whether he had chosen the right world fell away.

"I don't think I have much of a choice," Draco admitted.

"What do you mean? Of course you do. You could have anyone in this school, even Hermione!"

"Ew. Don't ever say that again. I meant-" he gave Harry a long look, "-that I've never felt like this with anyone else. Oh, man, that sounded clichéd."

Harry's face creased into a smile. "Oh." He ran his tongue gently over Draco's jaw.

Draco moaned, and then tried to hold tightly to coherent thought. "Do you understand what I mean about the play of light and dark?" He didn't want to end up with a total idiot. Harry surprised him, though.

"Of course, you dolt. You meant-" Harry paused to give him a quick, sweet peck on the mouth. "You meant that humans have romanticized the world into a realm of good and bad, just to justify what they do. The 'good' people feel justified fighting the 'bad' ones, and the 'bad' people get a ridiculous high from playing God with a bunch of little people, and then feel important when they are labeled as Dark and so live up to the image. We've created a God upon whose anger we call when waging some sort of crusade, and a devil to blame evil upon. And then we have fun warring about whose God is the right one, too; bunch of bloody imbeciles, we are."

"You really think that?" Harry was insulted by the depth of amazement in Draco's voice.

"No, upon reflection, I think that despite the logic of your words, Voldemort was bad, and you..." Harry leaned in for a long kiss. "You are good," he breathed.

"Flattered." Draco rolled his eyes. Harry was hopeless. "You know the line is 'You taste good', not 'You are good'."

"Do you taste good?" Harry grinned wickedly. "Let me get another lick."

The kiss that followed was heady and urgent. Draco felt as if they had talked enough, it was time to give up entirely, and Harry whole-heartedly agreed. After all, this was far more fun than talking. They heard the door-knob turn, however, and sprung apart hastily, Harry getting his foot caught in Draco's sheets before finally settling back in his wooden chair, red-tinged and breathing heavily.

"I'll just... go, then," Harry said after exchanging an odd set of looks with Goyle, who settled himself on his bed (not the one with the clothes-one that had a stuffed rabbit leaning against a pillow; Harry repressed a snicker). Goyle seemed to focus on ignoring them completely.

"Right." Draco was giving Goyle distracted glances, wondering what he suspected. He wasn't sure if he wanted this-relationship?-to be all over Slytherin yet. Scratch that, he wasn't sure if he ever wanted this relationship to be all over Slytherin.

"So long." Harry left awkwardly, unable to resist a last glance at Draco's bed. My God, I was just in Draco's bed. What would Ron think?

***

Draco worked steadily on homework after Harry left, firmly not thinking about how Harry had grasped the gist of his thoughts and stated it all just as thoroughly as he had, with much less consideration. He was also not thinking about what he wished he and Harry had been doing in his bed, and the way his hand was tingling where Harry's lips had brushed it, and the taste of Harry's mouth still left on his tongue. Apples, and tea, he thought, before remembering that he wasn't thinking about that. Bother.

***

Harry was intercepted by Hermione in the common room, who had had enough of this sneaking around nonsense, Harry thinking that Hermione and Ron had no idea what he was up to (really, a vast under-estimation of her perceptiveness) and so met him with the following greeting:

"Off kissing Malfoy again?"

Harry turned a brilliant shade of red, before slinking up the winding staircase to his bed, for all the world looking like a dog with his tail between his legs, caught in the act of doing something naughty.

Hermione, shaking with silent laughter, returned to the table she was sharing with Ron, and her latest letter to Viktor.

"Really, Hermione, that wasn't nice," Ron reprimanded her, but the effect was greatly diminished by the chortles that escaped his mouth every so often.

"He needed it," she said, still chuckling, before returning to sucking her quill tip anxiously, trying to think of a work that rhymed with Seeker. "Beaker? Meeker?"

"You've both gone barking mad," but Ron's heart wasn't in it. He was immersed in his new, revised edition of Quidditch Through the Ages, and didn't see Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan disappear up into the dorm after Harry.

"Is it true, Harry?" Seamus cried eagerly, bursting into the bedroom. "Are you really-"

"Gay?" asked Dean, at the same moment Seamus said, "Dating Malfoy?"

"Yeah, I suppose," Harry said, nothing able to faze him after that encounter with Hermione in the common room.

"Well, if you have any questions about, you know, anything, feel free to ask us," Dean said with a laugh.

"Dean!" Seamus swatted at him.

"Um. Thanks guys," Harry said a bit uncomfortably.

"Yeah. Well. That's just... really great," Seamus said.

"It would be better if I was dating Malfoy."

"Dean!"

"Er." This was Harry.

"Well, he is very good looking!"

"DEAN!" Seamus grabbed his wrist. "Come on, darling, we're going now. Sorry Harry," he called over his back. "Horny little thing, you," Harry heard as they closed the door. "Going to have to do something about that..."

"Oh..."

Harry shook his head and walked off to brush his teeth. It had been a long day.

***

The next day Harry had to call off Quidditch practice, due to a drenching rain that didn't show any signs of letting up. By late afternoon he was in desperate need of a good fly, and almost felt like risking terrible things happening to his well-polished broomstick because of the combined sleet and cold. Ron, noticing the longing look on Harry's face as he gazed out the window, warned him against it.

"Fred ruined a brand new broomstick after Christmas once. Had to spend six months' pocket money on new polish spells. He couldn't wait to ride it, even though it was practically hailing..."

But Harry, stubborn as always, had compromised on going outside minus the broomstick.

"Really, what good is that going to do," said an exasperated Ron. "You can't practice Seeking without a broomstick!"

Harry paid him no heed. Fifteen minutes later, Ron and Hermione watched from a window in the Gryffindor tower as Harry's figure made its way into the downpour.

"He's going to catch his death," Hermione said.

"He's off his head already," Ron countered.

They were still watching him ten minutes later when the Fat Lady appeared in one of the common room's paintings to announce that there was someone outside the portrait looking for Harry.

"I'll get it," Hermione said.

When she opened the portrait hole to a very impatient-looking Draco, she practically closed it right back up before remembering the state of things recently. Instead, she settled for a polite 'What can I do for you?'

"I'd like to see Harry," Draco responded. "Is he here?"

Hermione made a face. "He's outside."

"What?"

"I know. Maybe you can talk some sense into him," she added doubtfully.

"I'll try."

Another fifteen minutes later, a second figure joined the first on the Quidditch pitch.

"I wish I could hear what they're saying," Hermione sighed. "This is like a plane trip without a pair of headphones." Ron looked confused. "Never mind."

***

Down on the ground, Draco marched over to where the deranged Harry Potter was dancing around and waving his fists.

"What the hell are you doing, idiot?" He yelled to try to be heard over the rain. Harry apparently hadn't heard him. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING, POTTER?"

Harry turned around at last, and had the grace to blush. "I'm, er, yelling at the rain," he replied.

"WHAT?"

"YELLING AT THE DAMN THUNDERSTORM!"

"Oh." Draco considered for a few seconds.

***

"What on earth is he doing?" Ron asked finally, when neither Harry or Draco looked to be returning to the castle.

"Oh, Merlin," cried Hermione disbelievingly, and Ron re-directed his attention at the scene below. Malfoy appeared to have joined Harry in the crazed dance in the rain.

"They're both clinically insane," he exclaimed, fascinated. "Brilliant."

***

"Fucking thunderstorm!" Draco shouted experimentally. His hundred and fifty Galleon shirt was soaked through and sticking to his chest. At least I probably look sexy, he thought and grinned.

"NOT BAD, MALFOY!" Harry encouraged him. "TRY A BIT LOUDER!"

"SON OF A BITCH!" Draco screamed, stomping his feet like a child and flailing his arms. He laughed, and rain water dripped into his mouth.

"BLOODY DOWNPOUR! I WANTED TO FLYYY!" Harry agreed, twirling foolishly.

Draco caught his hand and drew him into a mock waltz. Harry almost fell over laughing. Rain ran over Draco's nose, his palms, shook free from his hair every time he turned his head suddenly. Harry ran a hand through his own sopping mop of hair, grinning as he teased it to stick up every which way.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK, DRACO?" He asked, modeling his hairstyle with a mock pose before the rain flattened it somewhat.

"YOU LOOK LIKE A FOOL!"

"SAME TO YOU, PRAT!"

Overall, Draco thought it was quality time spent.

***

Nothing could prepare Draco for the note he received after Arithmancy, during lunch.

'Ron and me and Hermione are studying for our Charms test after our next class in the library. Come! And bring your notes,' was scribbled as an afterthought. Draco stuffed the note in his satchel of books, gesturing to Hedwig that he had no written reply. She hooted farewell as she took off, and Draco felt gratified.

He aimed a grin at the Gryffindor table in reply to the invitation, and Harry gave him a thumbs-up in response. Draco chuckled. What a Gryffindor form of body language. Slytherins never resorted to such crude methods... He watched as Goyle gave Millicent two thumbs-up as he departed the main hall. I'd like to revise that statement: Any Slytherin with a speck of pride never resorts to such crude symbols. He sneered at Millicent, and then caught himself. That feels like the old days, when they still listened to me. I swear, that Malfoy sneer is practically trademarked.

***

Harry continued to watch Draco out of the corner of his eye, smiling to himself when he caught Draco sneering at Millicent. Just like the old days... I swear that Malfoy sneer is practically trademarked. He shared this sentiment with Ron, who snorted in agreement.

***

After their final classes (Occlumency for Harry, Arithmancy for Hermione, and a free period for Ron), they all met up in the library. To their astonishment, Draco was saving the Slytherin table for them, books strewn in a casual way over the areas where he thought they would sit. Hermione grinned, cleared herself a space, and plopped down at once. Ron and Harry took a little longer; Ron decided on a chair next to Hermione and far from Draco, Harry on one that was immediately to the right of Draco. Draco scooped up his books and shoved them unceremoniously into his book bag, leaving out only his Charms textbook and notes.

"So," he asked lazily, "where do we begin?"

"No trademark sneer for us?" Ron asked dubiously, unable to rid himself of the habit of throwing insults at Draco. Harry shot daggers with his eyes, but Draco just laughed.

"You know, I had that exact thought earlier," he said, and the ice was broken.

Hermione launched into her lecture on what she thought they needed to know for the test the next day. Harry and Ron quickly tuned her out, but Draco listened respectfully and then added a few ideas of his own. It rapidly turned into a Hermione-Draco and Harry-Ron study session, Harry and Ron going over the basics of what to expect essay-wise and Draco and Hermione babbling about the finer points of wand movement and how best to control it (from the wrist, from the shoulder, a combination of both?). When Ron and Harry had finished, they watched Hermione and Draco, who had scooted closer together, from their opposite sides of the table. Ron looked sickened at how minute the details they were going over had become. Harry was too busy looking at Draco's gesturing hands to be sickened by what they were saying.

Draco and Hermione's enthusiasm slowly petered out, as they each noticed their audience of Harry and Ron, Ron with his mouth open in horror and Harry with a slightly over-heated look on his cheeks. There was silence for a short while, and then Ron said, bluntly, "When did you decide to switch sides?"

Harry looked aghast at Ron's lack of tact, Hermione just amused. Draco, apparently, was trying to humor Harry by getting along with his friends, so he tried to answer Ron's question.

"I'm not sure it was really a conscious decision. It was more of an instinct, after something big in me happened. It wasn't really that I decided to join Dumbledore so much as I decided not to join Voldemort, and Dumbledore's protection was needed for me to be safe from any consequences."

"Oh, nice," Ron interjected, and Hermione shushed him.

"It happened at a specific moment, though," Draco recalled, ignoring Ron. "This revulsion of the Death Eaters. It was when my father escaped from Azkaban in the summer after fifth year. I was. It was lonely, in the Manor," he veered away from the topic. "I thought maybe when Father came back, we could go flying, or play chess, like we used to. I thought he would be happy to see me. But when he came home, with Voldemort preceding him like an ominous foretelling, I guess I embarrassed him." Draco felt his face grow hot at the memory. Anger or embarrassment, Harry couldn't tell.

"I hugged him, and started complaining about how long he had been away. I told him I missed him. A sign of weakness, I suppose, and in front of his master." Draco paused, and his audience of three waited, wide-eyed. "So he slapped me."

Harry's toes were cold, and he could hear something crashing in his ears. It was like to waves, and the time he had been at the beach, before Aunt Petunia had started leaving him with crazy Mrs. Figg. They had paid him no attention, not even noticing when he got up and walked away. He walked maybe a kilometer and back. There had been this one part of the beach where there were beautiful monarch butterflies, in all colors, he had seen red and blue and gold. And they were trying to stay aloft, beating their ornate wings as hard as they could, but there was a wind up, and they were steadily being pushed back into the water. And when they got tired they must have just fallen into the waves.

"That night I owled Dumbledore and told him I'd give him the names of everyone I knew who was connected with Voldemort, and anything else he wanted besides, if I could come to Hogwarts for the rest of the summer. I received a bottle cap and a note informing me it was a port-key in reply, barely an hour later. He didn't even ask for the information first, or how much I knew." Draco's tone became wondering. "He didn't ask me anything until two weeks after I arrived at the castle. I had been sleeping in my regular bed in the Slytherin dorms and helping Professor Snape with a couple of projects he was working on.

"Snape had told me the night before that Dumbledore was returning to Hogwarts, so I rather expected the summons to his office I received that morning. He was so kind about it all. He forgave me instantly. I'll never forget that."

Hermione and Ron had looks of awe on their faces from this story, but Harry's mind was churning. He felt envious of Draco and his clear-cut view of Dumbledore. Harry regretted not ever making his peace with Dumbledore, but that didn't mean that he had forgiven him. He doubted that he ever would.

Hermione had recovered enough in a few moments to nod and pat Draco on the shoulder. Ron gave him a sullen, "Sorry, mate," realizing perhaps for the first time that Draco's life hadn't been all glamour, and certainly wasn't now.

"So what about you three? Now that I've spilled my big secrets to you, about my weakness and my foolishness, shouldn't you tell me some things that I don't know?"

Harry felt his heart go out to Draco for the bitter tone in the other boy's voice when he was describing himself, but he didn't know how to put this into words. He let Ron launch into a frenzied retelling of all of their hushed-up adventures.

"Well, first year we got past those obstacles to the Philosopher's Stone, but mostly everyone knows about that. Then second year we figured out the thing with the basilisk, and Harry fought Tom Riddle, but that wasn't really all us, there was Fawkes and the Sorting Hat and all. Third year we met Sirius the first time-"

"I already know about that, Harry told me," Draco interjected smoothly.

"Right then. Fourth year is pretty public too, what with the interview that the Quibbler printed." Ron took a moment to look proud at what they had accomplished with the help of his girlfriend's father. "And fifth year-" he faltered, glancing at Harry.

"I made a fool out of myself and got my godfather killed," Harry finished tiredly.

"I guess so," Ron said awkwardly. "But it wasn't your fault. Snape should have told you why you needed those lessons so badly, and shouldn't have stopped teaching you. Dumbledore..." and here was another sore spot. Dumbledore's involvement with that year's events. Harry sighed. Would any of this ever be over?

"Yeah, I guess I know everything important," Draco admitted, looking at his watch.

"Well." Ron had to acknowledge that this study session hadn't really gone that badly. "You certainly didn't end up as the worst off of the death devouring."

"No," Draco agreed. "And I never understood where they got that name, either. Death Eaters. Makes them sound like cannibalistic fruitcakes."

Ron laughed. Hermione started to pack up after popping around the corner to glance at the clock on the wall above the Madame Pince's desk. Ron, Harry, and Draco followed suit. Ron and Hermione, interpreting Harry's looks correctly, departed a bit before Harry and Draco, leaving them walking alone together down the halls until they came to the spot where they needed to go separate ways.

"Thanks for indulging me," Harry said happily.

"Yeah, whatever." Draco grinned.

"So that was all an act?"

"Well, I really have to work to be able to stand talking to the Weasel. He continues to stick his feet in his mouth at every possible opportunity."

"I guess I know what you mean." Harry laughed softly. "So... I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Want to come to down to the dungeons after Slytherin practice tomorrow?"

"Love to." Harry touched Draco's cheek softly, and then headed away, blushing.

***

The thought of Draco's bed was in the back of Harry's mind all through the Charms test and the Care of Magical Creatures class. He spent much of the time focused on not imagining Draco's body pressed against his, Draco arching up between his legs, Draco's warm, bare chest under his fingertips. Definitely not imagining that. Nope.

Draco's bed was in the front of Draco's mind: he had put clean sheets on this morning, deep green to match his green and black coverlet. The nice set had been a gift from his mother, before his Mother had moved to Italy after his father's final arrest... But he had happier things on his mind than his family affairs. Things like Harry's welcoming mouth opening up beneath him, moaning into him, moaning his name. Things like Harry's rough hands running over his cheeks, over his back, down his sides. Things like just how wonderful a bed was, how delightful were the actions for which it could be used.

He remembered his short sexual encounters with Blaise. They had been hurried and awkward, both boys unsure about exactly what went where and when. He smirked thinking about how he was probably the first boy Harry had ever kissed, and how he could teach Harry all about what boys can do together. It was worth it to be with that git Blaise just so that I have experience for Harry, he reckoned.

Quidditch practice was a botched affair involving every member of the team playing horribly, enough so that nobody noticed how distracted Draco was.

And then he was in his room, waiting apprehensively for Harry to arrive. Maybe Harry changed his mind, he thought. Maybe he realized the intentions I have for tonight. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he's hurt. Maybe he got detention. Maybe-

And then Harry was throwing open the door, pushing Draco back onto his bed, throwing his glasses aside and pressing their mouths together. He sought entry desperately, and Draco responded with as much fervor. They devoured each other, tasting and teasing, cold hands running over warm bodies, Harry straddling Draco's hips and Draco using this position to draw musical sounds from Harry's delightful lips. Draco wrestled with his brain, forced himself out of the bed. Harry protested, mewling so provocatively that Draco almost forgot what he was doing, but he managed to make it over to the door and cast a few locking charms on the handle.

"I hope that keeps them out for a good long while," Draco said, half-smiling, as Harry's eyes lit with recognition of what Draco was doing. Then Draco climbed back on top of him, and Harry found thought to be vastly over-rated. Who needs it? was his last coherent one, before his mind was just as reduced to panting and groaning as his mouth was.

Draco made fast work of the buttons of Harry's shirt, throwing it off the side of the bed where his and Harry's cloaks were already piled. He ran his fingertips lightly over the muscles he found, creamy skin and a light dust of freckles every here and there.

Harry tugged at Draco's shirt, and Draco shrugged out of it, discarding it in favor of the caress of Harry's hands. He enjoyed the feel of Harry's hands against him for a moment before returning to his task of drawing sounds from Harry's lips. He began at the top of Harry's throat, licking and sucking, and Harry threw his head back into Draco's pillow. Then he drew a line with the tip of his tongue from Harry's chin to the middle of his chest, receiving a hot gasp in response. Draco nibbled at Harry's chest, and then kissed his way over to Harry's right nipple, breathing on it teasingly first.

"Draco, please," Harry begged without knowing really what he was saying, and Draco felt like being nice, so he obliged.

Draco could feel the shivers run through Harry's body underneath his as he touched his lips softly to Harry's nipple, dashing his tongue out once or twice, and then raking it lightly with his teeth.

"Draco!"

Draco gave in completely, sucking whole-heartedly on the tender nub of flesh. Harry thrashed underneath him, and Draco paused to grin up at him.

"Little demon," Harry gasped when he realized the mouth was gone.

But then Draco's mouth descended without warning to his left nipple, and Harry felt himself hardening inside his pants as Draco sucked expertly, hard and then relenting to a light teasing with his tongue, before ruthlessly hard again.

Harry dragged Draco's head up until it was level with his own, tongue meeting tongue outside of their mouths for a daring kiss, experimental, laced with sparks. Draco ground their hips together again, and Harry decided enough was enough.

"Pants. Off," he said to Draco, who, miraculously, obeyed. Perhaps it was because Draco was having this thought as well. Harry struggled his way out of his own pants, and then his body exploded with feeling as he felt Draco's naked body press urgently against his own.

"I don't know-"

"It's all right. Just let me."

"Draco-that feels..."

"Yes, Harry?"

"Oh, God, Draco," Harry exclaimed as Draco's mouth administered to more needy places than his nipples.

"Do you like it?"

"God, do I-like it-I can't-"

"What?"

"You feel-"

"Harry-"

"Ah!"

"Harry, I-"

"Oh my god-"

"Like this?"

"Don't stop!"

"Harry-"

"Draco-"

And silence.

***

Harry became aware of Draco tenderly licking the crevasses of his collarbone.

"Draco."

"Come back to earth?"

"Hah." Harry closed his eyes to concentrate on the feeling, and then opened them again, remembering that he wanted to say something to Draco. "That is the most amazing-"

"You don't have to thank me, Harry." Draco looked mildly insulted.

"I just wanted you to know. I've never done anything like this. With a boy, I mean." Harry blushed.

"So you and Ginny-"

"Yeah."

They lay quietly for a few seconds.

"Did you and Blaise ever-"

"Yes."

"I sort of figured," Harry reassured him, smiling. "You're amazing," He added softly, twirling a lock of Draco's hair around his finger.

Draco leaned over and kissed Harry's lips.

"Mmm."

"...I love your hair."

Draco chuckled. "Everyone says that."

Harry looked abashed, but carried on. "When did you stop gelling it?"

"Sometime during the war. Hair gel shortages, you know. I gave it up for the cause."

Harry laughed. "Draco-?"

"Yes?"

Harry planted a kiss on the side of Draco's neck, and then on his hip. Draco trembled slightly. "Do you want..."

"Only if you do."

"Okay... like that?"

Draco couldn't find words to answer. Harry figured this was a good sign.

***

Draco nuzzled into Harry's shoulder and promptly fell asleep. Harry smiled at the picture he made, hair drifting over his face and the pillow, hands slung one over the side of the bed and the other on Harry's chest. He slowly lifted the hand from his chest and lay it against the pillow, and then covered Draco with the sheets and coverlet.

It was harder to pull his clothes on silently and to find his discarded glasses, but he managed it without waking Draco up. A look at the classy clock next to Draco's bed told him it was time for him to return to his House, if he didn't want too many questions. A look at the mirror and the state of his hair told him the questions were unavoidable. He tried to flatten it with his hands, but to no avail.

He stuffed Draco's clothes into the trunk inscribed 'Malfoy' - he figured it was a pretty safe bet it was the right one. The locking spells came off easily from the inside. Draco's housemates gave him frustratingly knowing looks as he left, and he avoided Blaise's eyes entirely. Merlin.

He hurried up to Gryffindor tower, only to be greeted by a grinning Fat Lady.

" 'Nargles'," he said, but the Fat Lady was reluctant to open.

"Were you with that pretty blond boy who came looking for you the other day?"

Harry admitted that he had been. The Fat Lady tittered. "You have good taste. He was gorgeous."

Harry entered the common room slightly scarred. The Fat Lady thought that Draco was gorgeous. Wonderful. What was more, now the portraits all knew that he was involved with Draco. He knocked into Ginny, entirely lost in thought, and helped her pick up her things, flustered.

"Sorry, Gin," he apologized, but she breezed past him without a word. Sheesh. But nothing could destroy his good mood, not even a bawling Neville with half of a toad in his hands. He stood appalled for several moments before guiltily ducking away from that scene, escaping up the stairs into his dorm.

Ron looked up from where he was already perched on his bed.

"Have a good time with Draco?"

Harry could only give him a foolish grin.

"Ew."

"Thanks for being so supportive."

"I try!" Ron said defensively. "Just... I don't want to know any details. Okay?"

"Good deal. I don't want to tell them."

"Good." Ron looked inexplicably relieved. Harry was disturbed. Why did Ron think he wanted to talk about this with him? Did Ron ever tell him about what he did with Luna?

"Did you see Neville?"

"Yes. Poor Trevor. What happened?"

"I think it was a Weasley Wizard Wheeze." Ron looked scared. Harry almost laughed at the idea of a vengeful Neville swooping down on Ron in the middle of the night, declaring, 'Your brothers killed my toad!', but managed to put on a sympathetic face.

"Eurgh. That's terrible." Ron nodded. "What's Hermione up to?"

"Don't know. I think she's reading... something new that she got in the mail. It looked like it was a wizarding novel from far away, but from close up they didn't have any robes on, just wands and Muggle clothes. Muggles have the weirdest ideas about magic."

"Why is she reading about fake magic when she has the real thing to play with whenever she likes?"

"Doesn't make any sense to me, either. She said something about it giving her new ideas. I asked her how Muggles could have ideas about magic that we didn't have when they didn't even know it really existed, and she gave me one of her 'I'm much smarter than you' looks and said a lot of big words that I think roughly translated to 'Sod off'."

Harry was pulling his homework out of his book bag and making noncomittal noises. They worked quietly for a few minutes, the silence only broken when one would ask the other a question about their homework. Harry finished around midnight, and pulled the curtains shut around his bed.

Ron finished soon after, and they sat in the dark listening to each other breathe.

"What are you thinking about?" Harry asked when he still couldn't hear Ron snoring.

"Oh, things," Ron said helpfully.

"What sorts of things," Harry said.

"What I'm going to do after school ends," Ron admitted. Harry woke up a little bit more. This was new.

"And? What do you see yourself doing?"

"Well, I've been approached about being an Unmentionable."

Harry sat straight up in bed. "WHAT?"

"You know, in the ministry, the ones who-"

"I know about Unmentionables, Ron. Why didn't you say anything?" Harry sounded exasperated.

"I didn't know if that was what I really wanted, and I thought-"

"You didn't think that maybe you could talk it over with me? And Hermione? That we might actually have some thoughts on the matter?"

"Oh, that's right rich, coming from you, Harry," Ron returned.

"What are you talking about?"

"When have you ever discussed with us what you're doing after school's out?"

"I want to be an Auror, you know that."

"That's not what I mean, Harry. We know what you think you want to do. You've never really discussed it with us, though," Ron explained.

"What I think I want to do?"

"Well, since you seem so happy about the prospect!"

"What do you know about it?"

"Oh, never mind." Ron was at the end of his patience. "Let's just go to sleep."

"Right. G'night, Ron." Harry sounded disgruntled.

"Night, Harry. Sleep well."

They sat in the dark a good while longer before slipping into dreams. Harry envied Draco his swift drop off into sleep. It seemed to take him longer and longer, these days.

Draco. Harry fell to thinking about the events of the night, and it was a good thing that it was too dark for Ron to see Harry's blush. He fell asleep thinking about Draco, and dreamed that he was standing in a big, white room, and Draco was sitting in the other end. Dream Harry took a pen out of his pocket, one of the fancy, expensive ones that Dudley would ceremonially receive and break every birthday, and began to write on the walls. It started with his Potions assignment, the main difference between sleeping draughts and poisons. His dream self didn't even have to think about the answers, his pen practically flying over the walls, writing a smooth and well-thought-out essay.

Then he broke into writing notes to Ron, as if he could ball up the wall and send it across the room to a Ron who wasn't even there. Next Hermione, and then a letter to Sirius, the kind he hadn't written in ages, full of secret words that would look normal to most people's eyes but were full of meaning for Sirius. He felt a solitary tear slip down his dream self's cheeks as he wrote, but he didn't stop to analyze it, and eventually his face dried.

Harry had covered every inch of the walls with writing, gently moving Draco out of the way so that he could fill the space behind his back, when a bucket of paint appeared next to Draco's feet. Harry's pen disappeared, and Draco dipped a paintbrush into the white paint and calmly began to paint over the entire mess.

Harry watched with horror, and then sorrow, and then just resignation as Draco erased the brilliant Potions essay and the trivial and exclusive notes to Ron and Hermione, the earthly attachment that Harry had had to Sirius. When Draco was done, he quietly set the paintbrush down on the floor and walked over to stand by Harry. He slipped his hand into Harry's hand, and the two of them stood and looked at the empty walls for a long time.

***

Draco woke up to the sun streaming in the charmed windows, and judging from the nature of the charm, it was the light of midday almost. He looked accusingly at his alarm which had failed to go off, and the realized that it was his day with free time in the morning before lunch.

His dorm was empty, and he was naked under his covers.

He panicked.

Why the hell am I naked?

Then he remembered, slowly, and a lazy smile crossed his face. Harry. He showered distractedly, and then returned to his room to dress. He pulled on one black sock and one grey, saw what he was doing and removed them, and then had to search his whole trunk for a single pair that matched. All socks should be Avada Kedavra-ed, he thought angrily. Why is it that you always only lose half of every pair? Why can't you lose several whole pairs, and retain several whole pairs? Why am I even thinking about something so stupid?

He rather suspected the house-elves were stealing his socks. One in particular, that one who had worked in his father's office before coming to work at Hogwarts. He had never heard the story of how he came to work here rather than at the Manor; he suspected all the other house-elves were rotting away in closets in Wiltshire, desperately awaiting someone to serve.

He suspected it had something to do with Harry Potter. Things often did.

***

Draco was humming as he went to lunch, or he was humming for approximately two minutes, before he met Professor Snape in the hall who looked so shocked to see Draco Malfoy humming that he ran into a closed door. Then he stopped humming. He didn't want to harm any more of the teachers. Except maybe Hagrid; that giant brute had it in for him.

He took a seat in the very middle of the Slytherin table for the first time in weeks, and this time people didn't get up to move away from him. Draco took that as a good sign, and it was even better when he realized that the platter in front of him held French toast.

"Breakfast!" he said joyfully, then refrained from saying anything more at the risk of losing his reputation for sullen silences. If he got too easy to approach, Slytherins might start talking to him again. Why is that a bad thing? he mused, forgetting his earlier logic. Oh, right. Because they are all a bunch of back-stabbing slobbering idiots. I forgot. So much for any chances of having some friends of my own. He looked hopefully towards the Ravenclaw table. I always thought Terry Boot looked nice. Merlin, I'm reduced to making friends in my Seventh Year! That stopped that train of thought rather quickly.

My fucking father. If it wasn't for him I might have some actual friends by now. He spent the rest of lunch stabbing his French toast with his fork. Pansy kept gazing at him anxiously, but he ignored her. Stupid girl probably still thinks I'm going to marry her, he snorted. I wish she'd leave me alone.

***

Harry decided caution was for Hufflepuffs. After all, Gryffindors were brave, right? Or stupid, it could be argued. He pushed that voice to the back of his mind. Brave, he told himself forcefully. Brave. Bravebravebravebrave-

"Morning, Malfoy. Or afternoon, to be precise."

Draco looked up from his plate in a state of total shock. On the inside, of course. Outwardly he smirked. "What's it to you, Potter?"

"I was only wondering if you slept well."

Draco shivered at this comment, before drawling a retort that he knew Harry would pick up on the subtleties of: "Wonderfully. But being with you is far more interesting, in the long run." He attached a sneer to his face that would make it look like he was the epitome of sarcasm.

Harry played along. "Same to you, Malfoy." He grinned, eyes dancing, and tossed a newspaper clipping in front of Draco's face. "Just thought I'd show you what the Snitch looks like, in case you were confused. After all, you haven't had much of an opportunity to view it close up."

Draco's housemates awaited his scathing reply with relish, but Draco only smiled in genuine amusement over his shoulder at Harry before turning to study the picture. "Thoughtful of you. Bloody Gryffindor."

Harry laughed and went back to his own table. Once he had left, the Slytherins turned in disappointment back to their breakfasts.

Draco studied the picture of the Romanian Seeker catching the Snitch that was from Sunday's sports section of the Prophet. What was the hidden meaning? Did Harry want to go flying again? His question was answered when he turned the picture over and found a scribbled message on the reverse side.

Missed you this morning. Meet me in the Room of Requirement tonight. Bring your paints, if you want. Harry

Draco stuffed the note into a pocket on the inside of his robe, his eyes growing weary of the replay of the final moments of the game going on over and over in the picture. I hope the git remembers I have practice tonight, he grumbled silently. I'm not going to tell him. Fine with me if he waits around a few hours. Teach him a lesson in humility. Bloody Boy Who Lived.

But for all the protests against this meeting, he tucked into his toast with renewed vigor.

***

When Draco entered the Room after his practice and exhaustedly slung himself over a chair next to Harry around a small table the Room had created, he noted that Harry had been here for a while already. How long, he couldn't say, but he was working feverishly on his homework, and he had a big stack of finished rolls of parchment to the left of the one he was currently working on.

"Wotcher, Harry," he said quietly, and Harry's startled gaze came up to meet his own.

"'Lo," Harry replied, his eyes unfocused from too much studying.

"What are you working on?"

"Occlumency essay. I think Snape gave me an impossible subject to write it about on purpose." His tone was despairing, and Draco became interested despite himself.

"What's the topic?"

"The process of using a Legilimens. Except, see, it's not in any of the books in the Library except for ones from the restricted section, and he didn't give me a note-"

"Did you ask for one?"

"I, uh, didn't have time." Harry got a sheepish look on his face.

"When was it assigned?"

Harry became very interested in the tip of his quill. "Last Monday."

"And you didn't have time? When did you start it?"

"Er. An hour ago?"

"Brilliant, Harry. So I'm taking it you don't know what using the Legilimens feels like from personal experience, either?" Draco was tapping his foot.

"Well, I kind of used it on Snape once or twice in fifth year, but never since then. And that was a long time ago-"

"--and you want to forget whatever you saw inside Snape's mind," Draco finished knowingly, and Harry decided he was privy to much too much information.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"Oh, dunno," Draco said blandly.

"Come on." Harry snorted. "You know more than you're letting on."

"Maybe I do. Why, what's this about? Not just some sordid love affair with the Rat or something?" Harry looked highly disturbed at this suggestion, and quickly put it out of his mind.

"No, not exactly," he said hesitantly. "And its not really just what I saw with the Legilimens. He had this pensieve-"

"--and of course you were stupid enough to stick your head into it?"

"--and I fell into it, by accident," Harry continued, glaring. "And it was memories about, well, my father."

"Oh, the legendary James Potter. Never understood why he wasn't a Slytherin."

"What are you talking about?" Harry tried to look as if he had no idea that his father had ever done something mean in his life.

"Well, the way he tortured Snape? Mother was in school with them, you remember. She was always friends with Lily, actually. She said the two of them were always having to intercede with whatever bullying things your father was up to. He sounded pretty creative, actually," and there was almost an admiring tone in Draco's voice. Harry looked sickened.

"You don't mean you think what he did was in any way good?"

"No. He really was rotten for a while. But he was good with his curses. That's why he was so valuable to Dumbledore."

"Oh... I guess I see." Harry looked unconvinced.

"What's the matter?" Draco swept his eyes over Harry's face. "Oh, don't like the fact that your dad could be a real prat? He turned out all right in the end, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Harry mumbled.

"Nobody's perfect, Harry. You should know that of all people."

"I just always had this idea of what my father was like, what his relationship with my mum was like-"

"And it didn't involve bullying?"

"No," Harry rolled his eyes. "Of course not."

"No relationship is perfect, either, Harry."

Harry was a turmoil of emotions. Draco's soft voice and penetrating eyes were bringing back memories of last night, but his words were conflicting with Harry's ideals for what was true in life. "Why not? Isn't true love supposed to be about everything falling into place? Everything being easy?"

Draco laughed, and Harry glared. Draco quieted, and looked at Harry intently. His hands were twitching over his schoolwork, and his right foot was wedged in between his left and the leg of the chair. His pants were too long, and his shirt frayed like it had been shrunk using magic. Draco sighed. He was serious, wasn't he?

"Look, Harry. True love isn't about things being easy." Draco's eyes gained a dreamy look. His mouth, usually tensed and set, relaxed before he carried on, seemingly unaware of Harry's presence. "It's about things being hard as hell, and wanting to give up, go home, lie down and forget about it, but something stopping you, something prodding you on. That's true love. It isn't pretty. It isn't really about flowers or sonnets or rings. It's more like being put into as many situations that the world can force you into that make you want to leave, but sticking it out anyway. It isn't pretty, but it's something so beautiful and profound that it's worth working for. For your whole life."

Draco opened his eyes, which he had shut while he spoke, and saw that Harry was staring at him.

Some minutes later, Draco was tracing the grain of the wooden table with his pointer finger, and Harry finally felt the urge to speak. "What made him change the way he acted?"

"James?"

"Yeah."

"Who knows. Maybe it was because he found someone he really cared about, and she didn't want him to do nasty things."

"Is that what you really think?"

"No." Draco studied his hands, the backs, and then the palms. "That's not what I think. I don't think that people change just because other people want them to. That's not enough. You have to want it for yourself. You have to change for yourself."

"I'm not sure that people ever really do change," Harry said with stark honesty, and Draco caught his eye.

"Do you think I changed?" It was a low as a whisper, but Harry heard.

"No."

The word rang between them.

Draco stood up abruptly, staring over Harry's shoulder and out the window, but not seeing. "Then why do you-why did you-"

Harry pulled him back down into his chair, and ruffled a hand through his hair. "This was always you, Draco. There is so much of you. You still have the capacity to hurt me, and it's probably a much larger capacity than you ever had before. You had the ability to be kind, before. You had it inside of you. It just took you a few years to make that choice."

"So you think people never really change, but never really are only one thing. Talk about sitting on the fence." Draco's voice was a little warmer.

"I think that people are able to do much more than they realize. They are capable of so many things. But I don't think they can change themselves. They can only sort of rearrange what is already there."

"And what is already there? Both good and bad, again?"

Harry nodded mute assent.

"That's very clichéd, Harry."

"Clichés stem from truth, probably."

"Yeah, but they sound terrible in common use."

Harry laughed. "And that's what's important, right?"

"Right." Draco looked unruffled.

"So do you think people can change?"

"I don't know. If they can, why don't they?"

"Because it's difficult?" Harry's voice was soothing. Draco smiled at him.

"You're arguing the wrong side, Harry."

"I'm not so sure. I think they're just the same thing, put two different ways."

"One has everything inside of you with your endless choice as to what to make of it, and one everything outside of you with endless choice to change. That sounds a little different to me."

"Not to me," Harry said stubbornly.

"You're far too spiritual about this whole thing."

"And you just want to win because it justifies how horribly you act sometimes."

"Watch it, Harry. I'm not the only one who would find it an insult to hear the words 'like father, like son'."

"That was low." Harry exaggerated the hurt in his voice, sticking out his lower lip in a very pouty manner.

"Have you come to terms with being the Boy Whose Father Was Mean, then?"

"Shut up." But Harry meant it affectionately, and he leaned over to kiss Draco to illustrate this point. Draco was receptive, clinging to Harry, and Harry kissed him steadily and surely. Draco felt light-headed; the kiss was like a promise, a vow.

Somehow they ended up on the cushions the Room had so thoughtfully supplied, Draco whispering huskily into Harry's mouth about just what he would like for Harry to do to him on this stone floor, and Harry fuzzily attempting to remember why they had decided snogging in the Room was a bad idea.

"People... know about-mmm-the Room," he managed to get out.

"Don't care," Draco said impatiently, fumbling at the clasp on Harry's robes when not totally absorbed in the kissing.

"Could walk in," Harry said more forcefully this time, and then Draco's fingers found Harry's nipples, and he ceased worrying. It was a much more hurried business than that of the previous night, but neither Harry nor Draco complained.

When they were past the warm after-period of shrugging back into their clothes and giving each other satiated looks and semi-chaste kisses, Harry remembered what had prompted their discussion in the first place.

"What do you know about the Legilimens?"

Draco shook his head. "Not really that much. Used it once or twice to disorient someone during the war, but then decided it wasn't worth it for the energy needed. Fool thing can't be performed more than a couple times without having to take a good rejuvenating potion. I thought maybe..." he hesitated. Harry waited. "If you want, you could use it on me."

"I don't want to intrude on your privacy..."

Draco shrugged. "I trust you." These words, sounding rusty and unfamiliar from Draco, were almost enough to convince Harry.

"If you're sure-"

"I'm sure."

"Get ready, than." Harry assessed Draco cautiously. He reached out and put his hands on Draco's shoulders, before saying, "Three, two, one - Legilimens!"

***

It was dark. And then-

Harry couldn't figure out what he was seeing; the memory swirled in front of his eyes, everything double and different. He remembered when he had been inside Snape's mind, and seen everything from the sidelines. He concentrated on this memory, and his vision veered off toward the left, everything getting clearer.

Then he paused. What was his other option? He wanted to experience it the way he hadn't before, get a wider range of viewpoints to write his paper from. The images in front of him see-sawed, before spinning back to the right, everything snapping into place so suddenly it made Harry dizzy. Here he was, but he couldn't see Draco, and he couldn't move his head, or his eyes, or-the realization struck him.

Of course Snape would be the type to view all of his memories coldly from the outskirts of the picture, shoving back emotion. That's why he has so much bottled up anger, Harry thought, and wanted to snigger. But he couldn't. Because he was looking through Draco's eyes.

He was short, too. Draco must be young in this memory. He focused on Draco's senses, and it registered that he was looking at the face of a younger Lucius Malfoy. Lucius's voice was reaching him now, as well, and he concentrated on hearing the words.

"...knows better than to play with the cook's children again, don't you, Draco?"

Harry became aware of Draco's feelings, a knot in the back of his mind, untamed and child-like. Draco nodded his head sharply, and looked with hope from under his lashes at his mother's figure, straight-backed in an ornate chair, sipping a cup of what must be tea.

"You know what's best," Narcissa replied in a bored tone, not once looking at Draco. Harry felt his hopes sink-no, Draco's hopes, he corrected himself. Mustn't get mixed up-as he swung his head to look back at his father. Lucius, it seemed, was already losing interest in the boy as well, and child-Draco scrambled for a way to get back into his parents' conversation.

"What would you like me to do, Father?" was all he came up with, Harry surprised and delighted at his high-pitched voice and the way he could almost feel the words being formed, the way he could almost feel his fingers twisting nervously together.

Snap forward. Not far forward; Harry could feel the same general patterns in Draco's mind. He was atop a horse, and Harry was nauseous and felt like he would fall even while he knew that was ridiculous, this was Draco's memory, Draco evidently knew how to ride. He had nothing to worry about, shouted his logical side, even while his emotions denied this fact. Draco was moving easily along with the horse, they were on some kind of trail. Draco leaned forward to pat the horse's neck with a tiny hand. Harry marveled at its size, and the halfway sensations that the dappled horse hair sent up the arm that didn't quite belong to Harry. He was almost enjoying riding for a while, even while thinking wryly to himself that if he ever tried to get on a horse in his own body, he probably wouldn't live to tell the tale.

Then the scene changed again, and Harry was momentarily stunned, drawn inward again to the thoughts swirling in Draco's head rather than to the outward situation. Harry could feel how the emotions had changed since the last memory. How many years had he jumped forward? He could sense articulation in the eddies of Draco's trails of thought, and the feelings in the back of his head, the ones that almost felt as if they were his own, were more guarded, harder to identify. Masked.

His attention moved outward, and he felt the physicality of where he had come. He was on his back, Draco's father standing over him. Harry realized with shock that his face was tingling as if he had just been slapped.

"What did I do, Father?" Harry heard Draco ask, running cool fingers over the heat in his swollen cheek. His voice was alike to what it had been in second or third year, Harry supposed. The walled up emotions were struggling to escape, and Harry could make them out: fear, hurt, embarrassment.

Lucius Malfoy waved a small leather book in front of Draco's face, and Harry felt/heard Draco gasp, not knowing himself what the significance of this was.

"Father, I-"

"I will not have an abnormal son, Draco."

"Father!"

"Don't you know that homosexuality is a sin, Draco?" This was Draco's mother's voice, sweet and melodious even while being cold and unfeeling. Draco's eyes dropped, and Harry couldn't see anything but the thick oriental rug at his feet. Look up, Draco, look up, Harry thought impatiently, and Draco did, but Harry couldn't make out the images because they were swimming away again as the memory ended.

Harry was confused for a few moments by the new viewpoint he was experiencing, short and cold and why did he have fur? before he sailed into the air, and Harry remembered suddenly that this must be Draco's memory of being a ferret, and he wanted to laugh out loud for a second. Then he didn't, because he was back in contact with the icy cold floor, and Moody's voice was echoing in his ears, and there was pain, pain everywhere, pain so drowning he couldn't think, pain that made him go blind from the strength of it.

The relief upon hearing McGonagall's voice stopping this punishment was almost intolerable, and Draco was tall again, and stumbling upright, struggling not to let anything show, and Harry was struck by undeniable hatred for himself and Ron and Hermione-

--and he was standing on the Quidditch pitch, just having lost to Gryffindor again, and that little Weasley brat was unashamedly squealing with her friends, and the disappointment and anger made him shout out the first insulting thing he could think of, something about the Weasley's mother, he thought, and that seemed to provoke a reaction, so he tried it on Harry, and then he was on the ground again, always on the ground-

--and he was on fire, his nerves tingling as Blaise breathed softly against his neck, and then his mouth, his lips brushing over Draco's gently, returning with tongue this time-

Harry forced himself away from Draco, mortified. There were some things that he had no right to know what they felt like. He was quite certain that this was one of them.

His hard breathing mingled with Draco's was a staccato punctuation to the Room's silence, a rhythmic composition of more than expected experienced. Harry half sat, half fell into the chair he had sat in before, snatched his glasses off his face and covered his hands with his eyes in an effort to block out the images that were still replaying themselves in his mind. The only problem was that it wasn't his eyes that were doing the offending, it was his mind. He cracked his fingers apart and peered through them at Draco across the room.

Draco had collapsed into a big cushion against the far wall, and had his eyes closed as he steadily massaged his temples with his fingertips.

"Are you all right, Draco?" Harry croaked out, finding his voice unsteady and his lips cracked. He darted his tongue over them in an effort to soothe them.

"Just wonderful, Potter, thanks," Draco said, and Harry winced at the deliberate use of his last name.

"I can't choose what I see, you know that-"

"It's not a problem. Bet you're rather glad you saw some of that, experienced it along with me, huh? Maybe you're thinking I deserved a rotten childhood, I was rotten for quite some time myself-"

"No, Draco," Harry shook his head sharply.

"Then, perhaps, you're thinking 'That explains it'. Naturally I turned out like a prat! Look who I was learning from. Not my fault who I was. Ironic, that."

"Draco-"

"But what about you, Harry?" Draco dug at his name savagely. "Look who you grew up with. Not the best role models, those Muggles. Nasty lot. But you turned out okay, didn't you? No bullying or back-stabbing on your part. So what makes me so different? Is it just because I'm not a good, moral, decent sort of person like you are?" The list of adjectives was hurled at Harry as if they were curses falling from Draco's mouth.

"That's not what I-"

"What do you think, then, Harry, since you're so eager to tell me? But tell me the truth. I don't want to hear you lie to me."

"I-It's not about what you've done in the past, Draco. I don't care about that. I hate being judged for what I've done, what I can't change, what I had no control over. You think I'd do that to you?"

Draco stared. "So you think I've changed, so it doesn't matter."

"I told you, I'm not sure anyone ever changes," Harry said honestly.

Draco wasn't sure what to make of this. He wasn't sure what he wanted Harry to say. Did he want Harry to think that he had changed? That he was good now? Because he didn't feel any different, he couldn't put his finger on a single belief or practice that had changed, besides disillusionment about his father, and that was hardly sustainable as proof of some sort of spiritual conversion, was it?

But did he want Harry to think that he was still the same as he ever was? Did he even think that he was still the same as he had always been?

"What is that supposed to mean, Potter? Do you think I've not changed, then?"

"Some people have the whole world of capabilities inside them. You could be anyone, Draco, and pull it off. You could do anything."

"So, pretty much I can summarize that the following way: People have an endless capacity to change, so they do, or they don't, so they don't." Draco looked amused, and Harry thought that amusement was probably a good sign.

"Well, yeah," Harry admitted. "But it sounded much more noble and scholarly the way I put it, before."

"Oh, lovely. I thought I was supposed to be the vain one."

"You are vain, twat," Harry said, and to prove his point, he ruffled his hair to the point of no repair.

Once Draco got over his initial shock, he got a mock-menacing gleam in his eye, and dove toward Harry.

"Oi, Potty, you're going to pay for that," Draco intoned in a dark voice. He then proceeded to carry through with his threat, trapping Harry's hands above his head with his hand and alternately tickling Harry's underarms with the other and licking the bottom of Harry's chin leisurely. Harry alternated between hysterical laughter and frantic moans, and the result was that the Occlumency paper wasn't finished until the following morning's free period.

***

Harry was finding it easier and easier to track Draco down; if he had seen Draco during the day, he could predict what sort of thing Draco would be doing in a few hours. Mostly it was simple, because it was a look that Harry had had plenty of practice recognizing. It was the Malfoy Look, which, if it was an all-day matter, starting from the moment Draco woke up, consisted of tightened face muscles and curt sneers.

When Draco had the Malfoy Look, Harry knew that he needed to work off steam, there was something bottled up inside that Draco needed to take out on something, either the emptiness by method of paint or the horizon by method of broom.

Other days, Harry knew that Draco was going to retreat back to the Slytherin Common Room and do homework until the night had wasted itself away; sometimes this was sparked by the embarrassment of being without a ready answer to a question asked him in class, and some days it just seemed to be all that he was up to. Draco would have a blank look that warded people off just as effectively as the Malfoy Look, and his quill would move across his paper in class without its usual elegance, making up for what it was lacking in style with speed and with fury.

Some days, now, Harry knew without asking that he would be welcome in Draco's room. Occasionally this was as bluntly made clear as a new Slytherin password sprawled across a lazy sheet of parchment that would find him in God-knows-what way. But even when there wasn't a new password to betray Draco's intentions, they were quite obvious: the flaming looks from across the Dining Hall, the creeping touch up the side of his pants' seams during their partnership in Potions.

Harry was having a difficult time deciding whether Snape was completely oblivious to the fact that Draco and Harry enjoyed being paired together in Potions, or whether he just got off on seeing them together.

He wouldn't put it past that man.

Harry also couldn't decide what Draco's intentions were today. His glances at Harry during said Potions class were long and thoughtful, prying into whatever Harry was thinking, making Harry believe that Draco was perfectly aware when Harry was thinking about him. His hands were toying with the pencil he was using to take notes, twirling the pencil expertly through one set of fingers and then the other. He looked somber, but not morose, and not angry like he usually was when he got into a mood.

And Harry could see that it wasn't entirely fair to think patronizingly of Draco in a 'mood', as he was quite prone to moods himself. He supposed this would pass with time, or after enough kisses. The kissing seemed to be healing Draco as well as it was healing Harry - the Malfoy Look was much less common than it had been simply a week, two weeks, ago. Harry supposed that once it was barely making an appearance at all, Draco would have to go flying or pick up his paintbrush because he liked it, not because he needed it.

Merlin forbid.

So this was a new look. Perhaps it would be replacing the Malfoy Look. Harry wouldn't be sad to see the sneering go. He was rather attached to Draco's casual smirks, but his sneers always put Harry too much in mind of the way things used to be between them. His blood would run icy, and you would think that this would have a dampening affect of Harry's lust. But Harry had discovered that the best way to charm the sneers off of Draco's face was by leaving a mark of his own. He usually chose somewhere below the neck of Draco's shirt; he was positive that if he could see his lovebites on Draco's neck he would never get any work done again. He left the neck for times when they didn't have classes together. It was like denying himself sweets; it made him ever the more hungry when he could taste Draco's neck once again, but careful with his teeth, careful with his lips.

Tongue was the safest.

In the scientific pursuit of identifying the expression that had been playing over Draco's features all day, Harry discreetly tailed him outside after dinner and then to the lake, where Draco sat down, cross-legged, and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

Harry looked at him, bemused. He had never seen a student smoke before, and had been happy about this fact. It had been 'cool' for Dudley and his gang to smoke, and Harry supposed that if he had stayed in Muggle school, he might be smoking as well. It might be cool for him as well. But watching Draco puff lightly on the fag ceased to remind Harry at all of Dudley when he began to feel warmth in his stomach, liquid, golden. This should not be turning me on, Harry though desperately, even while he chuckled silently as Draco choked on the smoke. So he doesn't smoke often, then. Of course not, I would have tasted it on him, and this thought made Harry blush.

"How long are you going to stand there watching me, Potter?" Draco's voice filtered back to him, through the hazy line of smoke, Draco's head never turning from where he was admiring the view of the lake.

"A while longer, if you don't mind," Harry retorted, but contrary to his words, he walked the rest of the way to where Draco was sitting and slung himself down beside him.

"Want one?"

"No, thanks," Harry said, uneasy. "Since when do you smoke, anyway?"

"I don't know. My mother smokes," Draco offered him, not turning his head to meet Harry's questioning eyes.

"You know that they're irreversibly bad for you. Not even spells can heal what they do to your lungs."

"Really." Draco feigned interest, and Harry fell for it. "What do they do?"

"Well, they do something or other to the, uh, sacs in your lungs, I think. I know that every cigarette is five minutes off your life!" Harry threw this fact at him triumphantly, and then scowled. "I think."

"That's amazing." Harry picked up on the traces of sarcasm in Draco's voice this time, and realized he hadn't been serious. He blushed. "Killing you slowly."

"Softly," Harry corrected, and Draco looked at him inquiringly. "Killing Me Softly. It's, uh, Muggle music."

"Mmhmm."

Harry looked daggers at the cigarette in Draco's fingertips, filters conspiring to turn his lover's fingers yellow, nicotine designed to addict him, tobacco leeching away his lifespan. He hated it. He turned his gaze to the Slytherin boy, who was looking at the lake again, and perhaps the reflection of the sky, rather than the lake itself. It was an exceptionally calm night.

"You know," Harry said casually, after some pondering, "I think I can understand you smoking."

"Yeah?" Draco was feigning disinterest, this time.

"They say that smoking relieves stress." Draco didn't put out his cigarette, but he didn't light another one, and Harry later found the pack in the trash, only one cigarette gone. Well done, he congratulated himself. Now if only he doesn't dies as a victim of some kid whose family was killed by Lucius, he won't die of lung cancer. Perfect. He thought this without a trace of irony. Well, maybe a tiny trace.

***

Harry was at Malfoy Manor for the weekend. This in itself was so shocking that he wasn't able to respond to it, yet. Something to do with a bet with Ron involving the consumption of an invisibility cloak was nagging in the back of his mind, but he chose to ignore it rather than dig it up.

Harry was at Malfoy Manor. It was empty; the house elves disbanded by Draco's mother, who had always, to Draco's disgust, felt a pity for the things. Draco told Harry that he thought his mother was living in Venice now-all the notes he got from her were rather vague. Harry thought Draco sounded wistful but not overly sad, and wondered at how someone could let their mother go so easily. He had never really had a mother; Sirius had been a fatherly figure for a time, as had Dumbledore, but the closest he had to a mother was Mrs.Weasley, who hadn't been overly warm with him ever since he had broken it off with Ginny.

So Harry was at Malfoy Manor, and it was empty, or at least the manor house itself was. This wasn't where they were headed for the day, although Draco had indulged Harry's curiosity about the inside of the manor and taken him for a tour. Harry suspected he had only agreed to this so he could do a lot of haughty sneering while reciting facts about antiques and expensive paintings in a superior fashion. Harry hadn't minded, really, because Draco had seemed to be vulnerable against the dreary backdrop of his home, and Harry was willing to let him prattle on if it was what he wanted to do.

It was some time later that they reached their real destination, because the manor consisted of roughly a hundred different rooms. Harry had doubted this claim upon seeing only the outside of the house, but now he admitted it was true. There must have been some sort of spell on the place that expanded the inside in an impossible way.

Their real destination smelled. It was as beautiful as the rest of the estate, but in a more agreeable way: it was painted in rich colors and had designs carved into the doors. The rest of the manor was almost dusty, despite Draco's insistence that there were too many anti-dust spells, Harry must have allergies or something, and it all looked too expensive to touch. Even the furniture, which was annoying. This area was touchable, though, because it all looked made to be used. It was a stable, with bedrooms, Harry assumed, on the second floor, judging by the relaxed demeanor of the stable hands, the way they moved about like this was their home.

A pretty black mare was being exercised behind the stable by one of the lads, and the other was cleaning out the stall while the horse was out of it. Harry wrinkled his nose at this job; even though he was used to being dirty, the Dursleys had never had any large pets, so Harry was unaccustomed to the more vulgar aspects of cleaning up after them. The second stable hand straightened up smartly when he saw Draco, and launched into a worried monologue about their lack of pay and how Ms. Malfoy hadn't mentioned how long she would be away and they really needed to stock up on some basic supplies by now and they couldn't just let the horses go untended, could they?

Draco assured the boy that he would continue to be paid, and he relaxed and turned quite happily back to his duties while they worked out the smaller details. Harry wandered around the stable, paying the conversation between Draco and this boy no mind; there were four other horses besides the black mare, and they were all regarding him with expressions that could be tagged anything from nervous and aggressive to affectionate.

One was younger than the others; Harry couldn't remember the name for a young horse. Pup? he thought, amused at his own ignorance.

One was a large black male horse - Stallion, Harry thought triumphantly upon remembering the correct word. He was the most disturbed by Harry's presence. Harry passed him by quickly.

The third horse was a brown mare, but she was graying and round-bellied.

And the fourth horse - Oh, the fourth horse. This was obviously Draco's favorite, from the loving looks Draco kept sending it while negotiating with the stable boy. Harry could understand why. It was a mare, perhaps two or three years old, with a dappled coat and three white socks. She had a gentle and playful temperament, allowing Harry to stroke her forehead while he gazed at her in awe. She was beautiful. This was the reason that Draco had brought him. This mare was important to Draco, and Harry thought that this horse alone was a reason enough to learn how to ride.

***

Harry was riding, later, and rethinking his idea that it was worth it to learn how to ride. He already had a pattern of bruises working its way into his skin on his left side and on his rear. Draco laughed at him every time he fell, which escalated at one point into Harry bringing Draco down with him onto the ground. He was currently riding in the moody silence that followed this encounter: "Getting my new boots all dirty," Draco had sniffed, as Harry rolled his eyes and said in an exasperated tone, "They're riding boots, for Merlin's sake. What did you expect?"

It was nice in the silence, even though it was less than a comfortable one. They were on a trail through what seemed like endless grounds around the manor, with no point besides the flaunting of pure acreage. Harry was able to appreciate the aesthetic beauty of the scene unraveling around him, although he was less capable when it came to the black mare beneath him, who was all very pretty when cantering without Harry on her back, but once Harry was wedged uncomfortably on the saddle, her looks seemed to diminish.

Harry let his mind wander, freeing the reins slightly in hopes that the mare-Coalbright, did he say her name was?-would simply follow after Draco's more sophisticated steering methods. Draco, of course, was on the dappled mare. Tansy, Draco had reported when asked for her name. She was like rippling silk. She must have cost a fortune; not that that was a problem for the Malfoys.

Harry noticed a change in Draco's posture as they came towards an open area, and this shifting of muscle was all the warning he had for Draco's sudden dismount. Tansy was turned free; "There's a fence around the exterior. They come back after a few hours," Draco explained at the shocked look on Harry's face. "What do you take me for?" Harry refrained from answering this at great effort, allowing himself only a smirk. "Oh, shut up, you four-eyed git."

"I didn't say anything, did I?" Harry tentatively swung himself out of his saddle, and let go of the reins after dropping to the ground.

"No, but you thought it."

"Oh, a mind reader now, are we."

"Mm." Draco swiveled on his foot, looking across the clearing, a reminiscent look taking up residence in his features.

"What is it, where are we?" Harry looked about curiously as well, and so he was unprepared when Draco launched himself at him, wrapping both arms around Harry and pressing his lips firmly to Harry's own.

"Ohh-" Harry squeaked out, before opening his lips to the onslaught of Draco's tongue. And then, "Ohh-" to the warm feel of Draco's mouth open against his own, the hungry urgency of Draco's lips. Draco's fingers dug awkwardly into Harry's sides, and Harry felt the pain of the bruising mixing with the hot sensation swirling in his stomach as Draco nipped his lip, his tongue, nibbled on his nose. Harry swished his tongue over the corners of Draco's mouth, tasting the sweetness he couldn't place, something like pears, or the expensive wine Mrs. Weasley had let him try right after Voldemort's defeat, or maybe just bubblegum.

He broke away to pull off his glasses and fold them up, and then Draco sealed his lips to Harry's again, tasting Harry as surely as Harry had tasted Draco before. What do I taste of? Harry wondered. It was fiery, and it chased away the chill from the rainy mist that was clinging to the woods and grass. Draco led him down into that dew-soaked, rain-splattered grass, soaking Harry's jacket, but Harry didn't notice for the fingertips that Draco was lacing over Harry's face, his neck, down across his chest.

And Draco pulled away, as suddenly as he had come up to Harry.

"Prat!" Harry rebuffed him regretfully. "What was that for?"

"What do you see?"

"What?"

The words dragged out of Draco to hang unanswered in the damp air: "What do you see when you look at me?"

"I-" and then Harry left this train of thought in favor of undoing the buttons of Draco's shirt, peeling his jacket and shirt away from his bare skin. He swirled his tongue around Draco's nipple, full of newfound confidence when it came to touch.

"What?" Draco half said, half moaned.

"I just see you."

"Everyone says I look just like him!" Draco's voice was plaintive in this defense of the answer he didn't even want in the first place.

"What does that have to do with what I see?"

Draco started to laugh quietly, and it grew hysterical until Harry soothed him with a hand in his hair. "What the fuck do you mean, what does what I look like have to do with what I see?"

Harry shielded Draco's bare torso from the mist, climbing on top of him, grinding down with his pelvis to draw a few skittish gasps from Draco's mouth. He claimed Draco's mouth with his own, with his tongue, his teeth, and drew back again, breathing hard. He leaned over Draco's face, touching his forehead to Draco's, sighing against Draco's cheek.

He closed his eyes. "This is what I mean."

"What are you talking about?"

"I see you, Draco."

Draco grew hungry for Harry's skin, then, and pulled Harry's clothes off of him impatiently, and then spread his jacket and Harry's over them for some semblance of warmth. He drew spirals around Harry's navel, tickled Harry under his arms.

"Hey," Harry shouted out, giggling in a very un-manly fashion.

"You know you like it," Draco teased him, forgetting their conversation in favor of the conversation that mouths can partake in silently, but for a few groans. Harry grinned around Draco's mouth, pressing their bodies together to salvage as much heat as possible.

"It's cold," he complained, so Draco flipped them around and Harry felt the tickle of new grass and the dew and the few drops that had condensed of the mist that clung about through the holes in their clothes spread under him. That was intriguing, but what was above him was far, far better, because what was above him traced each bone of his ribcage with his tongue, flowered kisses on thighs that spread compliantly to Draco's attentions.

Heat flooded through Harry as Draco teased him mercilessly with his tongue, dancing around Harry and never resting where Harry really wanted his mouth to be.

"What are you-" was all Harry was able to gasp out, but it must have been enough, because Draco understood him and stopped altogether, drawing a moan of annoyance and sudden chill from Harry. Draco leaned elegantly over Harry's face, and smiled smugly.

"Don't stop!" Harry said, frustrated, and wound his arms around Draco, urging him back into closeness.

"I thought-" Draco breathed into Harry's mouth, lapping at his lip, nipping lightly at his tongue, and then drawing back again.

"What?"

"We could-maybe-" Fear crossed Draco's face fleetingly, and Harry wasn't sure whether he had imagined it, because then Draco leaned in for another kiss. This time Harry broke the kiss, however reluctantly, to ask again: "What?"

"Well... try something else." Draco's gaze danced over Harry's face, and his tongue drew a pattern up the side of Harry's jaw, making it increasingly difficult to think for him.

"Try-ummm-what exactly?"

Draco didn't say anything, moving down to kiss Harry's neck, over the fluttering pulse that proclaimed just how alive he felt at that moment.

"What, Draco?"

But then Harry thought perhaps he had his answer, because Draco's hand had worked its way down Harry's back, and his index finger was - oh.

Harry shrank away in alarm, and Draco leaned into him hard, kissed him. "We don't have to do anything that you don't want to," and Draco's fingers were back on Harry's face, smoothing Harry's eyebrows, stroking down his cheekbones and across Harry's lips, learning his face by touch. Harry's eyes became reflective, and then he closed them and Draco couldn't see what was going on in his head, and he licked at the corner of Harry's mouth comfortingly. Harry sent his tongue out to meet him, then, and they kissed, and then he drew Draco's right hand to his mouth with his own hands, looked Draco full in the eye, and sucked Draco's index finger into his mouth.

Draco moaned appreciatively, and then realized what Harry was doing, and agreeing to. "We really don't have to-"

"Shh," Harry whispered around Draco's finger, making it tingle with warm breath and vibration.

"Oh-oh, okay," Draco agreed that Harry was in his right mind about this as Harry ran his teeth over Draco's finger, drew a second into his mouth. Draco basked in this intimate attention for a moment before pulling his fingers out of Harry's mouth and sending them elsewhere, replacing them with his own mouth, needy and warm.

"I don't-know-mmm-"

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle-" Draco fumbled with the tangled coats, found a small tube.

"What is... oh." Harry squirmed. "Will you, how do you, well-" Harry turned over onto the cushion of clothing, all of the chill in this area gone by now. He turned his head to look at Draco and was met by Draco's questing mouth, and sighed in pleasure as Draco kissed his way over to Harry's ear and then down around his hairline, stopping to caress the nape of Harry's neck with his teeth.

It was slow, it was achingly slow. Harry was caught between fear at what was happening and the burning desire to push up into Draco.

It was heat. The heat swamped Harry like he was in need of fire, like he was a candle to be lit, like his body had been crying for this moment all of his life, dreaming and waking.

It was satiation. It felt complete. Harry couldn't think rationally enough to know that Draco would ever have to leave, that they would have to be apart again. He was too busy deciding with his hips and his moans that nothing would tear them apart.

It was more himself than he was. That made him confused. How could Draco make him Harry? When did Draco become Harry and Harry become Draco? When had Harry decided he even wanted to make the switch?

It was art, perfection, too many, so many things that had been said before and even though Harry wanted to drown in them, to show them all to everyone, the whole world, he felt he wouldn't have the breath or the capacity to tell anything to anyone ever again.

When Draco cried out and bit roughly into Harry's neck to stifle his pleasure, Harry decided what use was breath? Really, there were far more reasonable arguments for gasping, for small trembling kisses under ears.

When Draco withdrew and with trembling hands brought Harry to release, and Harry and Draco tumbled exhausted and fulfilled and shaking and chaotic and bashful at what they had just done onto the ground together, Harry thought for a moment he had seen a flash of grey horse. And then he realized it had just been a flash of grey wildness, a flash of grey beauty. Draco's eyes.

Harry watched as Draco's lids came gently down over the shining grey and then back up again. Draco flushed at Harry's close scrutiny, and Harry wondered what Draco saw in his own eyes. Emerald? That had been said before. Ginny had liked the word emerald-Harry sometimes thought, in the private recesses of his mind, that all of the Weasleys were drawn to words that had to do with wealth. Grass? That wasn't as commonly said, and Harry fit it into his own thoughts about Draco. Was he the steady ground upon which Draco danced in delight? How poetic.

No, Harry decided. Grass won't do either. Can't it just be the color of spring? Of cool scents enveloping Draco's senses? That pleased him, and he almost laughed as he thought of how Draco would look at him if he related this imagery. Insane, Harry mused. Insane.

But insane in that pleasant way where Draco was running his fingers up his back to his hair and then back down again, caressing his shoulder blades and circling around the vertebrae. Insane in that way were he was staring into Draco's face and breathing words into his ear, words that he couldn't himself hear, words that were coming out of him without asking his permission. Insane in that delightful and paradoxical way where he had never felt more real.

***

"You're such an idiot, Harry." Draco was picking his fingernails with his pencil point, watching as Harry slaved on an essay that was clearly much more complicated than the one that Snape had assigned to Draco.

"What now?" Harry laughed quietly.

Draco puled a letter from between two of his schoolbooks. "Just say yes, twat."

Harry leaned over to read what was written on the envelope, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "This is my mail!"

"I didn't steal it, the Weasel did," Draco said calmly, and Harry understood when he saw who it was from.

The Chudley Cannons.

"I can't-"

"I don't want to hear it. Don't try to tell me you aren't happiest when you're in the air. You're like me, and I've already accepted an offer from the Tornadoes," and Draco turned red, while Harry remembered that he had turned them down right after the holidays. "Just do it. Even Weasley agrees. Doesn't that say something?" Draco's lips twisted in disgust at agreeing with Ron over anything.

"Yeah, well," Harry stammered. "I guess-I mean-I don't know!"

"Think about it, at least."

"I-guess I will. Thanks." Harry managed a weak smile. Draco didn't bring it up again.

***

Draco dreamed, and remembered his dream. Draco dreamed about a beach, with foamy waves crashing as the only sound. Draco had a bunch of flowers in his hand, and one by one, he was casting them into the sand behind him. And he turned, once, to look back, and there was Harry, one by one picking them up. And singing, too, and Draco realized: of course! The waves weren't making that rhythm, the waves were silent. All sound was Harry.

Another flower drifted from his hands.

***

Draco was in the Room, as was Harry, and the Room was full of paint-smell and splatter. The paintbrush made soft slurping noises as it eased across canvas, and Harry could sit and watch. He could sit and watch and Draco didn't stop him, even though this was invasion of sweetest privacy. Harry could sit and watch for as long as he liked, and Draco never decided to leave while Harry was still watching, sometimes he stayed until two in the morning and Draco wouldn't leave, Draco would pull out more canvases, stretch and prime, Harry remembered the first time-

Draco was cursing and the canvas snapped out of its restraining nails before Harry suggested staples and Draco hadn't heard of staples, why should Harry be so surprised? And Harry laughing conjured up a staple gun even though there was probably some grade school teacher somewhere who was watching open-mouthed as a staple gun flew innocently out an open window and away from where it had resided on her desk-

Draco was always more reckless with the paintings on the canvas he had stretched for himself, like it was his own territory and it didn't matter if he screwed it up badly because it didn't have high expectations in the first place. The paintings on the canvas he had stretched for himself always were either on level with his best or worst paintings, the abandoned air of painting either paying off grandly or flopping completely.

Here was Draco with his canvas and his palette and the paintbrush that he opened himself so utterly to-was this him, Harry effing Potter, jealous of a paintbrush?-and so it was the most likely time for wild sex or arguments, and Harry never knew which would be the one to happen.

He should have known that bringing up Draco's father would be a bad way to go, but he didn't stop, even when Draco not-so-subtly hinted that he didn't want this to be a matter up for discussion. Harry watched as his eyes shuttered closed, could practically hear doors slamming. This was the look that Draco still got with Ron, and sometimes with Hermione, and always with McGonagall. This was the look that inspired desperate measures on Harry's part to draw the newer Draco back out into the world; this was the look that was closest to how he used to look.

"You aren't your father, you know," and now he had really done it, because Draco's whole face was occupied by the look, not just his eyes.

"You," Draco said with delicate precision, jabbing his skinny paintbrush in Harry's direction, "don't know a fucking thing about it."

"Maybe I would if you would tell me," Harry said, trying to keep rational, talk through it, not resort to punches or a kiss.

"You couldn't know. He didn't make you," and Draco's voice was laden with a strange mixture of bitterness and resignation.

"He didn't make you, either."

"Don't tell me what he didn't and didn't make. I know perfectly well how completely I'm his."

"Ah, so he made you. You're not his." Harry took Draco's wrist in his hand, drew him away from his paints. "You're mine."

"I'm not owned exclusively by anyone, Harry," Draco said with a dark smile.

"You said-"

"I don't mean he owns me. I mean that I can't escape him, because to a certain degree, he is me."

Harry thought about the discrimination he would always face in the light of his last name. "No, you can't escape who you are. But you aren't him."

"No?"

Harry looked down at Draco's hand, clenched tightly with knuckles white. "Look, Draco. It doesn't matter who made you. It doesn't matter who you look like, or sound like, or who you are fucking inheriting from." He restricted his anger, cut back on his voice before it raised all the way to a shout. "Look, he made you. You made that," and Harry gestured toward the painting suspended half finished on the easel. "And that one, and those..." Harry beckoned towards the collection of paintings drying against the wall. "But they're not you."

"They're just paintings, Harry, of course they aren't sodding well me."

"But they came to life, without asking your permission. And they'll live without you, now. Because everyone who sees them will see something different, so that their original purpose may be obvious only to the creator, and after a certain point not even relevant anymore."

"But it's their original purpose that counts," Draco mumbled into the sleeve of Harry's tired-looking sweater.

"No, it's not. Not if you don't force it."

"Fuck," said Draco, unwilling to let tears come, (or unable?) and he bit into the sleeve of Harry's sweater, tasted its smells with his tongue. Not enough washings, he decided objectively. But he didn't mind, because it tasted like Harry's skin, just not as forgiving. So he reached up to Harry's neck, and tasted him there, and he was here, alive, here, here-

"You're here, and I love you," Harry said in response to Draco, so that must have been aloud? And-loves him? Draco slid the shoulder of the sweater off of Harry to reach the ends of his collarbone and the angles of his shoulder meeting his arm, and tasted him there, amazed at the heat of the blood flowing unabashedly through Harry's body. Alive. Harry was here and alive and so alive, and "I see you," remember? and loved him.