Realigned

And then he had demonstrated that to Harry, and in the early hours of the morning they had stood, silently, at the window of the Astronomy Tower, holding hands and looking at the faint, faraway stars high above.

Harry was perched, lost in memories, on the window seat of the Seventh Year Gryffindor Boys' dormitories, looking out onto the grey waters of the lake. Thin, watery sunlight filtered through the clouds and the light mist that hung over the castle grounds. The window had frosted over in the night, and the ice was now melting, running down in tiny, disturbing rivulets. Outside, there was no sign of life. A drab day was dawning.

The dormitory itself was still; it had not yet revived in the not-quite-light that belonged to this part of the morning. Harry thought that the whole room seemed void, somehow, with nothing except for the noiseless sound of breathing and the whispery toss of sheets behind the wine-red curtains that partitioned off each boy's private space. Neville, Seamus, Dean, Ron--the names ran through Harry's mind like a slow train on well-oiled tracks. Ron.

Harry tried to think of a choice that he had made because the consequences of the alternative were too awful to bear, but failed miserably. His mind remained blank; he suddenly realised how much he wanted to fly. He was sick and tired of this stagnation. Restlessly, he slid off the window seat and made for his trunk, where he kept his broomstick.

A bird outside the window chirped once, sending ripples of morning across the stillness of the room. The hangings around the bed beside his twitched sleepily, and a tousled head poked through. Ron's bleary voice called out, "Harry? You awake?"

"Ron." Harry nodded briefly, and swiftly retrieved his Invisibility Cloak and his Firebolt from the trunk at the foot of his bed. "I was just going out."

He took a step back, then turned around, and the door clicked shut firmly behind him.

*

The Owlery was free from students, though it was filled with the sleepy clicking of beaks and rustling of feathers as the owls settled down for the day. The unexpected light tap of footsteps sounded outside, causing a momentary hush, and seconds later the door swung open. Draco stepped in, crossing the room to stand before the large window through which owls were flying at intervals of decreasing frequency, some bearing light parcels or welcome letters from home. He rested his elbows on the high windowsill and cupped his face in his palms, gazing unseeingly out over the dark trees of the Forbidden Forest.

*

The invigorating rush of the wind as it whipped his hair back intoxicated him. He soared upwards, free at last from the fetters that had bound him to the earth, swooping and spiralling in the air not as if he was riding on a broomstick, but rather as if the broomstick were a very part of him. He loved this--this unconstrained feeling of release the moment he left the ground, this soothing of tangled emotions as he defied gravity. Nothing could be more important than this, for the moment--

--until he saw Ron Weasley, standing in the shadow of a huge fir tree and looking up at him with a mixture of sympathy and irritation on his face.

His heart sank as he realised that it would be useless to pretend that he hadn't seen Ron; Ron seemed determined to talk to him, and he knew he wouldn't be able to avoid it.

*

Draco stroked the elegant eagle owl as it landed before him, depositing a cream-coloured envelope on the windowsill. It submitted to his caress for a while, then gave him a look that said, I'm off to get some sleep now, before taking off.

He reached for the envelope. How odd--the handwriting was his father's, not his mother's, as he had been expecting. With a reluctant curiosity, he turned it over and slipped his finger under the seal.

*

Ron waited for Harry to land before stepping out of the fir's shadow. "Harry," he said, "I think it's time for a chat."

Harry nodded resignedly. He glanced sideways at Ron, and to his surprise there was --Harry thought--intense, intense sadness on his best friend's face.

"Ron? What's up?"

But Ron only shoved his hands into his pockets and turned his face away as they walked together towards the line of firs and spruces that bordered the lake. Their footfalls sounded lightly on the dewy ground, and birds sang shrilly in the distance, but other than that, all was quiet. After a while, Ron slowed down and spoke. "Harry." He stopped and swallowed. "Harry, I don't know how to say this; need Hermione for this kind of thing, but she wanted me to talk to you, so I s'pose I should just say it anyway. We--that is, me and Hermione--know that you're--know that you're very upset about Malfoy."

Harry made an indignant noise in his throat, but Ron went on before he got a chance to say anything. "And we understand that you want your own space. But--" and here he turned to face Harry, "that's no reason to keep pushing us away, the way you do when either of us tries to talk to you about anything except schoolwork. Don't shake your head; you know you do. We're your friends, Harry, and--"

"I know, Ron," Harry interrupted him, almost gently. He kicked a pebble with his shoe. "I don't think either of you understands, though--"

"What do you think we're trying to do, then?" Ron burst out, suddenly. "We want to understand, we want to help you, all the time you're just pushing us away--" He was shaking. "Do you know how much we worry about you? Stop being so bloody selfish for once; if you won't listen to Malfoy, at least listen to us!"

An uncomfortable silence fell. By now, they were standing at the shore of the lake, wavelets nibbling unobtrusively at their shoes. The lake itself stretched uninvitingly ahead before them, gleaming dully in the grey morning light. There was no sign of the giant squid. Ron bent, moodily, and picked up a stone. He flung it into the lake, where it sank with a faint plop. He bent down again and retrieved another. It sank, as well. Irritated, he dropped to his knees and began searching the pebbly ground for one that suited his purposes, tugging up stray tufts of weedy grass as he did so.

"Here," Harry's voice said, from somewhere above him. "This might be a better stone for skipping. If you're skipping stones, that is."

And Ron stood up, glanced down at his friend and saw in his eyes the sincerity of an unworded apology and the desire to redress all the hurt that he had caused.

"Thanks," he replied.

*

The envelope slipped, unheeded, from his grasp, leaving him clutching the letter so hard that tiny creases appeared on the paper. Draco, his mother's words sounded in distantly in his mind like a dry, dead echo, your father uses me to manipulate you; watch what you do and think before you do it.

But no, surely his father wouldn't lie about this. The letter was too terse, too brief; if his father had wanted to lie, he would have done it differently. If this was a lie, it was unconvincing. But if it was the truth--

Draco shivered, suddenly. It can't be true, he thought flatly, and turned away from the window to go down to breakfast. But the letter he nevertheless folded up and pushed into his pocket, and his eyes were devoid of any trace of emotion, as if a part of him had shut down.

*

Ron had gone to the Great Hall for breakfast, but Harry, not being hungry, had decided to visit Hedwig instead. So after depositing his cloak and broomstick in his dormitory, he made his way towards the Owlery. Hedwig, however, was not there (he reminded himself that she was probably delivering a letter for Ron, since Pig was deemed too delicate for the weather)--and as he turned to leave, a pale envelope lying among the feathers and droppings on the floor caught his eye. Out of habit, he picked it up and flipped it over to see if there was an addressee. And sure enough, in the exact centre were written words in handwriting that was so like Draco's, and yet so unmistakeably different:

Draco Malfoy

Malfoy. Or Draco; it didn't matter. Everything seemed to lead back to him, didn't it? Even when Ron had talked to him, Harry, earlier, it had mostly been about their Slytherin counterpart. Harry sighed despondently. Ron had told him to stop being so bloody selfish--he smiled wryly; Hermione was spot on about Ron's tactlessness--and he was right, Harry now realised in retrospect.

Not that he was remotely approving of what Draco had done. Perhaps Draco did indeed have a reason to, or perhaps he was indeed compelled to, choose Voldemort. But that still meant that he had betrayed one of his most solemn promises to Harry--without even forewarning him--and it put him against Harry and all that he stood for; black to my white was the term he'd used when explaining his feelings to Ron. If you won't listen to Malfoy, at least listen to us. What had Hermione and Ron said? Sometimes the consequences are too awful to bear.

A wave of guilt washed over Harry. I bet Malfoy's decided to make you choose between him and this, Ron had said, indicating the whole of Gryffindor with a sweep of his arm. Now Harry realised the irony of the whole situation. For hadn't he been the one forcing Draco to choose--to choose between Harry and all that he had ever grown up with?

You can't have both, the voice of reason told him, irritatingly. But Draco had always been the kind of person to want to have his cake and eat it; everyone was like that, really. Harry gripped the envelope convulsively, staring at the aristocratic writing. He owed it to Draco to listen to him, at the very least. He couldn't just dismiss their two years together the way he'd tried to; they surely were worth more than that.

And at the same time, as he descended the Owlery stairs, the bitter aftertaste of knowing that his lover had sworn allegiance to the one who had taken the lives of his parents refused to wash away.

*

Draco entered the Great Hall to find that it was mostly empty, due to the day being Saturday; typically, students would get up later than usual. Gratefully, he slid into his usual seat at the Slytherin table and reached for the tureen of porridge. To his surprise, however, Snape, on seeing him, immediately left the teacher's table and walked over. All at once a nagging feeling of foreboding surfaced; Snape never talked to students, if he could help it. Despite all efforts to direct his thoughts towards his porridge, his wayward hand inched its way into his pocket.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

"Draco." Snape's dry, cold voice sounded unusually hesitant and compassionate. "Draco, my deepest condolences. Your mother was--" Here he broke off, whether from lack of words or to observe his reaction, Draco couldn't tell.

Draco pushed his chair back from the table (it scraped jarringly on the floor) and stood up, maintaining his composure as best as he could. "Thank you, sir." He was expressionless. "I think I'll go back to the Slytherin common room now."

It was just as well; students were beginning to saunter in to breakfast in twos and threes, and Draco had no wish to converse with any of them. He left, walking briskly towards the opening that led down to the dungeons--but to Ron, waiting for Hermione at the Gryffindor table across the hall, it looked as though he was fleeing.

*

Harry found Draco in the Potions dungeon. He'd tried the Quidditch pitch, and the lake, and had even skulked a while outside the Slytherin common room--all the places that Draco often frequented, in his leisure time. Finally, pushing the heavy door to the dungeon open, he saw Draco poring over a huge, ancient Potions text, the index finger of his left hand marking the paragraph that he was reading. Behind him, a small cauldron bubbled menacingly, emitting thin evanescent wisps of dark-blue smoke from time to time.

Strange. Draco only came here to brew Potions when he wanted to distract himself from something; this Harry knew from past experiences. Generally, it could be inferred that the more complex and evil-looking the potion, the greater his need to distract himself. And this potion looked like something that Hermione herself would be more than proud of, not that Harry could imagine her brewing something that looked this, well, dangerous.

Harry inwardly cursed himself for coming upon Draco at this inopportune time, but he didn't really want to turn back now. So he cleared his throat loudly to let that Draco know that he was there. "Draco?"

Draco's head snapped up from the book; for a moment, he had the panicked look of a hunted creature. Harry didn't have time to be sure of this, though, because the next moment he had relaxed his stance, and the familiar condescending look that he reserved for Harry alone had fallen into place. "Since when were we on first-name terms, Potter?"

Harry felt a stab of pain shoot through him; he felt he'd asked for it, however, so he ignored the barbed arrow. "Well then. Malfoy. I found this in the Owlery--I think it's yours." And he extended the envelope bearing Lucius Malfoy's elegant script.

Wordlessly, Draco reached over the Potions book to take the envelope from Harry. He pulled the letter out of his pocket, slid it in without opening it, and then shoved it out of sight, in between the pages of the thick book. He glanced up coldly at Harry, who was still standing there. "Anything else?"

Evidently, he expected Harry to say no. But Harry remained there, unmoving; he seemed to be oblivious and impervious to everything. He looked as though he was trying to decide how best to say something. "Potter." Draco's eyes strayed to the clock in the corner of the dungeon. "You've got exactly four minutes to say what you've come here to say, because in four minutes' time this potion is going to be ready for the next stage of preparation."

To his surprise, Harry did not retaliate, and instead seated himself on the nearest bench. He looked down at the dungeon floor, and Draco was about to tell him acidly that he doubted that there was much inspiration there when he suddenly spoke. "Malfoy," he began, still nervously avoiding Draco's piercing gaze, "I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for--that I didn't listen to you when you wanted to explain, and that--that--" He stopped.

Draco laughed dryly. "That what, Potter? That we can go back to being where we were before all this started?"

Harry flushed. "No," he said quietly, "that's not what I meant." He raised his head and looked straight into Draco's storm-grey eyes. "I don't think things between us can ever be the same again. I just meant that I want to hear what you wanted to tell me, at the very start." His gaze dropped down to his feet, and he scuffed the floor. "To listen to you, since I judged you too hastily."

"And so you want to judge me again?" Draco turned abruptly away from Harry and ladled up some of the blue potion, letting it trickle slowly back into the cauldron. He picked up a beaker filled with a strange greenish liquid and poured it in. Immediately the potion hissed and began to bubble even more ferociously. He glanced at the clock and jotted down the time in the margin of his book, and then looked up at Harry, hostile.

Harry was looking at him pleadingly. He seemed to only half-aware of what he was saying. "Just tell me, Draco"--he was so soft that the bubbling of the potion nearly drowned him out, "tell me why you went back on your word. Tell me why you pledged allegiance to the one whom I'm sworn to stand against."

Draco banged his fist down on the table so hard that the beakers rattled and the liquid inside them sloshed against the walls. "It's always about you, isn't it!" he half-shouted, glaring at Harry. He mimicked Harry's voice, "Oh, Voldemort's killed my parents, so you can't join him. Voldemort's against all I stand for, so I won't let you join him, and I don't care what reason you give me!" He looked around, almost feral, and picked up the beaker that had been filled with the green liquid. He flung it hard against the dungeon wall; it shattered impressively; the few remaining drops of the liquid seeped out and hissed as they came into contact with the floor. "Well, it's not always about you! Sometimes it's about other people, too! And I don't mean myself, either." His breath was coming in ragged gasps. "Do you know what they did to my mother?" Without waiting for Harry's inevitable shake of his head, he went on, "First my father performed Cruciatus on her. Then Voldemort. Then they Imperius-ed me and made me do it. And then they said that if I didn't join them I'd see this repeated every day, until I had to give in. What did you expect me to do, dammit? Smile at them and say, no way, I've already pledged myself to Harry fucking Potter?"

Harry had backed away into the dungeon wall; it could have been a primal fear of Draco in that state, or horror at Draco's unembellished telling of Voldemort's cruelty. But Draco, heedless and blind to Harry's reaction, hadn't stopped. "And now she's gone and committed suicide" -he extricated the cream-coloured envelope from between the pages of his Potions text and waved it fiercely at Harry-- "because she doesn't want to let them use her to make me--"

He caught himself, mid-sentence, and forced the façade of indifference back onto his face. He slid the envelope back between two anonymous pages of his book, out of sight. "I hate those bastards," he said, calmly. Then he looked at Harry.

"Get out, Potter."

But Harry stood still, transfixed by the sight of the pale, fair-haired boy before him with the flushed cheeks and ragged breathing.

Draco picked up another beaker, this one filled with a white, powdery substance. He tilted it to let the powder slide evenly into the cauldron, tapping the upturned bottom to make sure that all the powder went in. His hands did not shake.

"I said, get out."

*

Leaves bade farewell to their summer branches, leaving them bare and friendless. Everything looked lonely in the dreary November weather. June leaves that had fallen earlier had been swept up and forgotten ages ago, or else lay on the ground like exhausted fugitives, rotting away and too nondescript to call any attention to themselves. Green had turned to red-and-gold, which had then turned to a muddy, trampled brown. When the first snow of winter came, the colours would be buried peacefully at last under a thick grave of white.

Who liked winter? Ron and Hermione certainly did not, and neither did most Gryffindors; its only redeeming quality, in their eyes, was the way in which snow allowed for spectacular fights and romps out on the Hogwarts grounds. The Quidditch players, in general, were not terribly fond of winter, because the cold and the uncooperative weather got in the way of their training sessions. Draco did not like indoors-winter; it made the dungeons colder than usual and the water was never quite what he called warm. He did, however, like outdoors-winter, because of its solitude and because of the fact that few other Slytherins--a circle that excluded Pansy and Vincent and Gregory--liked it. Harry liked winter as well--but unlike Draco he appreciated the winter that belonged to both indoors and outdoors. Usually, he preferred indoors-winter (it was a Gryffindor thing--roaring fireplaces, roasted chestnuts, Christmas and so forth); this year, however, he had become strangely fond of outdoors-winter, because it reflected his general mood and therefore provided a very conducive environment for thinking.

*

Albus Dumbledore's eyes twinkled sadly behind his half-moon spectacles as he regarded the boy seated in front of him. "I am afraid, Mr Malfoy, that although it would be greatly heartening to have you join us in this struggle against Voldemort, the reason that you give for wanting to join is one that I cannot accept." He held up a hand, forestalling Draco's protests. "I am not, in any way, suggesting that you follow in your father's footsteps. I do, however, recommend that you take some time to think this issue over very carefully before deciding on your course of action."

Draco struggled not to fidget. "Professor, I don't understand. Could you explain again why it is not possible for me to join the Light?"

"Because, Mr Malfoy, your motives are rooted in revenge." For a moment, it seemed to Draco that the usual twinkle in his eyes had disappeared, and had been replaced by a deep well of... well, a deep well of something (something very similar to regret and suffering, but perhaps without the bitterness). "Revenge for your mother, and revenge for yourself. And these motives can only be to the detriment of the Light--and of yourself."

Draco nodded once, in acknowledgement--not acceptance--of Dumbledore's words. He released his vice-like grip on the edge of his chair and stood in one fluid motion, flexing his fingers to get his blood back into circulation. He sidestepped the chair neatly and retraced his steps across the floor of Dumbledore's office.

As he reached for the ornate handle of the door, a thought struck him and he turned around. "One last thing, Professor. Isn't Harry Potter part of the Light because he, too, seeks revenge on the Dark Lord" -his lip curled ever so slightly--"for the death of his parents?"

Dumbledore sighed and put his fingertips together. "A relevant question, Mr Malfoy." For a moment, the only audible sound was the whirring of some strange contraption behind Dumbledore's desk, and the rustle of feathers as Fawkes shifted restlessly on his perch. Then Dumbledore continued, "The darkness of the human soul can never be completely conquered; you are right there. However, although Mr Potter does indeed seek revenge for their deaths, his primary aim is rather to protect those whom he loves. He seeks to prevent Voldemort from inflicting a similar pain and loss on the rest of the wizarding world."

Dumbledore watched the door click shut as Draco left, and sighed again.

*

Green eyes haunted by sleepless nights watched the last leaf of the season shudder in the chilly breeze and leave its branch. It fluttered down tiredly and the eyes followed it until it touched the bare ground, as if they were seeing the movement, and not the leaf.

If anyone had asked Harry what he was doing, he would have said, "Nothing." -tonelessly, colourlessly, and in a way very much fitting to the weather. If anyone had asked Ron what Harry was doing, he would have shrugged protectively and said, "Getting over things." And if anyone had asked Hermione what Harry was doing, she would have fidgeted nervously with her quill and said, "I don't know," but that would not have masked the fact that she did know more than she was letting on, and was concerned.

But no Gryffindor Seventh Years asked this to any of them; Ron's and Hermione's protective stances forbade any questioning. If they had been observing Harry carefully enough, they would have seen him cast an occasional grateful glance in their direction, but it was impossible to watch him all the time. As for students of other years and other houses--to them Harry was still Harry Potter the Boy who Lived, or Harry the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain and Seeker who gave inspiring pep-talks and played a brilliant game of Quidditch, or Harry Potter the Seventh Year whose arch-rival was Slytherin's Draco Malfoy.

If anyone had asked Draco Malfoy what Harry was doing, he would have looked bored, and replied, "Why would I care?" -but inside, he'd have known that Harry was suffering from insomnia. And he'd have known the reason.

The sky was overcast with angry grey clouds that held the promise of snow. Harry stood up and reached out to steady himself against the dust-brown wood of the broomstick shed. It was time to go back to the unwelcome warmth and cosiness of the Gryffindor common room. As he trudged up the stone steps to the huge doors of the Entrance Hall, his thoughts drifted to Draco. He wasn't sure where they'd been before that, actually; they seemed to be doing that a lot nowadays--drifting, that was. So. Draco. He shrugged and acquiesced to the ramblings of his mind.

Draco would have liked this weather.

Life was unfair, Harry thought, although this thought was hardly a revelation. He stepped into the Entrance Hall and stood there, savouring the warmth from the heating charms. Filch made a brief appearance, telling him not to trail his muddy footprints all over the newly-polished floor. You had to try to see all sides of a situation without knowing how many sides there were. And when you realised that oh, here's another side you missed! -when you realised that, it might be too late to do anything about it.

He climbed up the staircase slowly, dragging his feet. Then again, was it fair to say that life was unfair? Life just was, after all. Games couldn't be unfair, but referees could. Bother. He was getting confused. All's fair in love or war. Shakespeare, was it? Goodness, where on earth had that come from? Hermione must be rubbing off on him. But if Shakespeare was right, then... then neither he nor Draco was out of play yet.

And he couldn't give up just right now, anyway. He'd wronged Draco, and he had to somehow right that wrong, in time--in time for what, he couldn't say, but he knew he'd have to do it soon.

Harry found himself in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady. "Tiddlywinks," he said, and entered.

Outside the castle, snow was beginning to fall.

*

He saw her and he heard her scream and he tried to run forward, towards her, but strong arms were roughly holding him back--and then the screaming stopped, and started again, and it was dark and he could only see shadowy silhouettes, and he struggled futilely--

And he knew what was happening, almost instinctively, but he couldn't think straight, couldn't react, couldn't do anything to stop the screaming or stop the pain--

Then suddenly everything went blissfully blank and he heard the screaming start again, somewhere (funny, he hadn't realised it had stopped), but now it was a necessary, normal background noise and it meant everything was all right and nothing was happening and he was fine--

No! It's not fine; a sudden moment of sharp, painful clarity; coming in flashes now, black-white-black-white and he was dizzy with pain and with something else, and then he was falling, falling, falling into a blind horror and realisation--

He crumpled brokenly onto the floor when they let him go, and he refused to look at her; What have I done?

And then they made him choose, and he chose to stop her suffering.

And now she was dead, and he had rejected one and been rejected by the other. Ghastly reality had realigned itself; the day dawned new and hopeless.

*

Autumn had long faded into winter. Christmas was a couple of weeks away.

Harry entered the Gryffindor common room late one evening, washed in the warm afterglow that came from a rigorous Quidditch practice in winter weather. Ron's face lit up briefly on seeing him look almost happy, but his smile vanished as quickly as had come; Quidditch seemed to be the only activity that could actually engage Harry nowadays. He turned to Hermione. "Shall we?"

Hermione nodded. "When he comes down."

Ron peered over Hermione's shoulder. "What're you doing, 'Mione?"

"Nothing much. Some prefect stuff."

"Ugh," said Ron, subsiding.

They waited in companionable silence. Students drifted slowly out of the common room, starting, as usual, with the First Years and then moving up. Soon, only the Sixth and Seventh Years were scattered around. The fire burned low; Seamus got up from his seat near it to poke it. It sprang up indignantly with fresh energy. Ron glanced up from his growing list of progressively more tragic Divination predictions and waved Seamus over.

"Hey Ron, you going up any time soon?"

"No... waiting for Harry, actually. You?"

"Going up now; it's getting late." He yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Want me to tell him you're here?"

"That'd be good. Thanks."

Seamus nodded briefly, and a note of concern entered his voice. "Talk to him, won't you? He's... well, I reckon you'd know better than me." He glanced up the staircase. "G'night, then. And you, Hermione."

A lonely chorus of two goodnights followed him up the stairs.

Ron glanced at his watch impatiently and stifled a yawn. "What's happened to him? He always comes down to work after Quidditch practice... and he doesn't take that long to bathe..."

Just then, Harry appeared at the top of the staircase.

"There you are, Harry!" Hermione's voice was falsely bright. "We were just wondering when you'd come down!"

"Sorry," said Harry, coming over to join them with a stack of books and several rolls of parchment. "I got sidetracked, thinking about things... Ron, can I borrow a quill?"

Ron handed him the quill he was holding, and eyed the pile of books distastefully. "What's that for?"

"What, the quill?" Harry looked confused for a moment. "Oh, the books. Backlog of homework." He grimaced, and Hermione cast a sharp glance at him.

"Exactly, Harry. I think it's time we talked." She gestured for him to have a seat. "You've been so distracted lately. You're not even concentrating during Snape's lessons, and your grades are slipping, and you're not eating properly--"

"Speaking of food," Ron fished a packet of Chocolate Frogs out of his pocket, "Anyone hungry?"

Hermione looked at him sternly, as if telling him that this was most certainly not the time for Chocolate Frogs. Ron looked mortified, and Harry bit back a laugh. Hermione relented, smiling slightly.

"Okay, okay, just trying to diffuse tension." Ron set the packet down on the table before him and reached into it for a Frog. "Want one, Harry?"

Out of sheer habit, Harry extracted one from the packet. "Thanks." He glanced wearily from Ron to Hermione. "It's about Malfoy, I suppose?"

"It's about you, Harry." Ron went straight to the point. "We--we just wanted to tell you that"--he stared pensively into the fire for a moment, and then glanced to Hermione for support; she nodded at him encouragingly and he twiddled his thumbs, looked at the wall opposite and finally at Harry--"that whatever happens, you don't have to go it alone. 'Cause we're here for you."

Hermione chimed in, "You've told us what's happened between you and Malfoy. Harry, it's been three weeks and you don't seem to be getting over it at all... you're still so distracted and so listless and so--so dead..." Her voice trailed off and she reached towards him, as if she needed reassurance that he really was there. Ron saw, and scooted over, hesitantly slipping an arm around her shoulders.

Harry couldn't bear looking at the worried faces of his best friends, and moreover their words had dredged up thoughts that he had been trying to avoid. He put his head in his hands. When he spoke, his voice came out muffled. "'Mione, Ron... I--I'm so sorry. The thing is that--I'm sure things can't be over yet. I can't let go, because they--they just can't. I know it, somehow. Have you seen him recently, Hermione? At your prefect meetings or whatever it is that you prefects do when you're together? Or even in Potions? He looks awful. And--and I know why he looks like that and I know it's partly my fault and I want to be there to hold him and tell him that everything'll be all right, somehow, in the end--and I want to make it all right for him, because he deserves that much from me--he never really--never really--" The next few words were too muffled for Ron and Hermione to decipher, and Harry's voice slowly faded away. Then he added, softly, "And he won't let me. I understand why, of course, but it hurts all the same." He raised his head slightly and turned away; his dark profile was sharp against the cheerful orange flames burning in the hearth. Ron and Hermione saw his mouth form his next words: "And I need him, too."

No one said anything for a while, and they gradually became aware that the common room was deserted. A stray book or two littered the small tables that were scattered here and there, and a crumpled piece of parchment lay on a rug near the fire: someone had evidently intended to throw it into the fireplace, but had missed.

Hermione was the first to speak. "Harry," she said slowly, "I'll be seeing Malfoy tomorrow; I'll try to get him to talk to me... it might help."

"Seeing him for what?" Ron interjected a bit too quickly, and tightened his grip around her. "And how could anyone get him to talk to them, anyway?"

"Prefect stuff, Ron, don't be silly. And you can get him to talk by provoking him, just that when you try, you end up losing your head." She smiled wryly at him.

Ron relaxed; Hermione started stacking her books into a neat pile. "Goodness, it's late. I'd better be going now. Don't sleep too late either, the both of you." She cast one last compassionate glance at Harry, then she was gone.

Ron stared at her retreating back. "'Mione..." he said, "don't think there ever was anyone like her, do you?" Catching sight of Harry's face, he patted Harry on his shoulder. "Chin up, Harry. Malfoy definitely wants you back; there's no way he's going to give up on something this good."

*

It was warm under the covers; warm and peaceful and still, and for a transient moment he felt cocooned and safe. Deep red hangings--the colour of old wine, or roses--were pulled back and tied at each corner of the four-poster, and cool moonlight drifted hazily into the room, pooling on smooth surfaces and seeping past strange shapes that cast friendly shadows elsewhere. His eyes flickered quietly from the clouded night sky beyond the windowpane to the other four lonely beds in the room; almost everyone, it seemed, had gone home for Christmas, and he was glad of that.

With as little movement as possible, he pulled the covers further up around his shoulders. It was hard, for him, to find time and place to feel as -as protected, he concluded, as he did now. He let his eyes flutter shut and relaxed into the sound of light, steady breathing and the feel of warm breath on his neck. Perhaps in response to this, the sleeping boy next to him drew his arm imperceptibly tighter around him, folding his vulnerability into a soft embrace.

And then he couldn't remember anything more, but when he woke into Harry's arms the next morning, there was a strange fleeting recollection of having been sheltered, of having been held--of having been loved.

No. No, no, no. Draco turned over and buried his face in his pillow, trying to ignore the warm breath and callused hands that ghosted over him. He needed to think, and he could not think if these memories insisted on dredging themselves up from hidden corners of his mind.

Harry. He could go to Harry, and Harry would protect him and hold him and love him and he would be able to let himself become vulnerable again.

No, he couldn't. Harry had been the one who had hurt him so much; the one who had made him choose, and who had then blindly condemned him for his choice. Harry had been the first one to reject him. Draco squeezed his eyes tightly shut (although he was already face down on his pillow) and struggled mentally with that invisible adversary that was demanding that he go to Harry now. Absolutely not. If Harry wanted him back, he'd have to come and find him. Draco wouldn't go back so easily. He clenched his fists tightly and pummelled his pillow. If that's the way you want to take it, then go ahead! And when you start to want me back, you can just remember that you were the one who told me that you didn't want to see me anymore. That it was your interpretation of this whole thing and your refusal to listen to me that landed us in this mess here!

No, it was Harry's fault, and he should be the one to take the first step--to come back to Draco. He needed him, Draco could see that. And if Draco were lucky, Harry would break before he did.

*

He saw him in the corridor, with Weasley and Granger.

"You look terrible, Potter," he drawled scornfully, slowly raking his eye up and down the other boy's body. "If this is the state of Gryffindor's Quidditch Captain, I doubt your team will present a challenge to even Hufflepuff."

There was a tired silence; no immediate reaction like he'd expected. Then--

"Why do you care, Malfoy?"

Shadows flickered silently beneath the flaming torches that lined the corridor. For a long while, it seemed, Draco was unable to wrench his eyes away from the dark-haired boy opposite him. Weasley and Granger were vague figures in the background, unimportant.

"I don't know." Finally he shrugged, checking the mounting tension as some of his fluid grace returned. "Maybe because I'm the Slytherin Captain, myself."

As he turned to go, Granger stepped forward. "Malfoy, I need to talk to you about the discipline record of a couple of the Slytherin Third Years. Ron, Harry, why don't you go on first?" She smiled at them, but it was a smile that brooked no argument.

Once they were out of earshot, he turned to her. "Who did you have in mind?"

"Baddock and Pritchard. Several teachers have lodged complaints against them. I was wondering if you could speak to them, or at least alert Professor Snape so that he can take action."

"Speak to them? I think threatening them is more in line, really. This is Slytherin, you know."

Hermione wrinkled her nose but said nothing.

"Granger, there's another reason why you wanted to speak to me, isn't there?"

"It's Harry," she replied, without preamble.

He frowned slightly, and his expression closed up even more than before. "What about him?" he asked tightly.

"Malfoy, you can see for yourself what's happening to him. It's happening to you, too, don't you realise? The difference is that you take the pains to hide it and he doesn't--"

"I don't need you to tell me about myself," he snapped, harshly. "Or about Potter, for that matter. You're right, I do realise. And I also realise that Potter was the one who told me to get out of his sight. I'm merely doing my best to acquiesce to his wishes."

"Stop being deliberately obtuse! Or are you really too blind to see that he needs you just as much as you need him?"

He caught her arm; he had a very strong grip, she realised. "That's the first time anyone's called me 'obtuse', Granger," he said evenly. Then he let go of her and resumed walking, and it was as if he hadn't said anything at all. "My feelings are my own to deal with; thank you for your concern." He increased his pace, leaving her behind. "You might want to remind Potter that it was he who said that things between us would never be the same again."

*

December had crept unobtrusively over the castle, claiming it with frost and snow and cloudy grey. Ron and Hermione no longer went on their little excursions round the lake, preferring instead to remain in the warmth of the Gryffindor common room, where the fire blazed cheerfully and someone had decorated the window frames with holly and mistletoe. The other Gryffindors smiled indulgently, and discreetly gave them their own private space.

Christmas was even closer now, and most of the Gryffindors had abandoned their books in favour of Christmas revelry. They crowded the common room in the evenings, drawing closer to the fireplace as the night wore on, nibbling on pastries that a couple of resourceful Fifth-or-Sixth Years had raided from the kitchen (such cheap thrills having long lost their appeal for the Seventh Years), and listening to Seamus crack jokes or tell stories, both of which he was very good at. A particularly mischievous Sixth Year (it could have been Ginny Weasley) had somehow managed to magic a Christmas tree, found, for some unknown reason, in an unused corridor near the North Tower, through the portrait hole, and it was now standing triumphantly in the centre of the common room, obstructing everyone's view but contributing greatly to the festive atmosphere.

Harry, however, did not actively participate in the Gryffindor Christmas festivities. He would sometimes sit amongst the outermost circle of Seamus' audience, enjoying the laughter and the warmth and the general camaraderie with the shadow of a smile on his face. At other times he would be found in a secluded (as far as it was possible in Gryffindor) corner of the common room, quill in hand and parchment in front of him, but staring distractedly out of the window at the dreary world outside. Most often, however, he was not to be seen at all, and at such times Ron would go up to their dormitory and come down again, seek out Hermione, and tell her that Harry's Invisibility Cloak wasn't in his trunk, and neither was his Marauder's Map.

And in the early hours of the morning, when the common room had emptied, Harry would finally slip through the doorway of his dormitory and pull off his Invisibility Cloak--his roommates knew about it by then, though the secret had never left their room--and join them in whatever they were doing; usually, playing Exploding Snap or listening to Seamus tell his (slightly more lewd, now that he had an all-male seventeen-year-old audience) stories. Sometimes, if the others looked at him too concernedly for too long, Harry would tell an Irish joke; one that was calculated to send Seamus good-naturedly off on one of his lectures on "Why the Irish are Superior", which would inevitably have the whole dorm rolling on the floor in gales of laughter. Then when the laughter had subsided somewhat, Dean would decide that it was time for them all to go to bed, and they would crawl into their four-posters and release the hangings, shutting themselves in their own private space.

And when Seamus and Dean got up the next morning (or rather, later in the morning), groggily resolving never to sleep so late again (of course, all such resolutions were forgotten a few hours later), they would cast quick glances at the hangings that were still drawn tightly around Harry's bed and look at Ron, who would be coming out of the bathroom, and Ron would shake his head and say, "He's dealing with it. It'll be over by Christmas." Then Seamus and Dean would nod, unsatisfied but unwilling to probe any further. And when Neville got up and cast his timid glance at Harry's bed, Ron would say the same thing.

Once all their dorm-mates had finished with the bathroom, Ron would rouse Harry, and they'd go down for breakfast together. It was particularly painful for Ron, for, Dean excepted, Harry was usually the first up in the mornings, and he was usually the one who threw a pillow at Ron (or, when drastic action was required, a bucket of water) to wake him up.

And one morning, his dorm-mates' concerned looks and Ron's protective stance grew too much for Harry, so he resolved to find Draco as soon as possible and look for that elusive sense of closure.

*

A tiny piece of parchment, folded and creased nervously, fluttered its way towards Draco, who instinctively reached out and closed his fingers over it. He smoothed it out as he opened it. Entrance Hall, midnight, it read simply.

Draco looked up, scanning the not-so-crowded corridor (now that the Christmas holidays had started) for green eyes and black hair. Moments later, he caught sight of Harry, trailing slightly beyond Ron and Hermione, and staring at him inscrutably. A strange, faraway look crossed Draco's features, as though he were lost in a memory, then it was replaced almost immediately by a disdainful nod. Harry's face fell imperceptibly, but Draco had looked away and did not notice.

Harry had said, I don't think things between us can ever be the same again. But that was before he'd heard Draco's explanation. What did Harry want, now? Might things be different?

Draco knew it was his choice whether he wanted to find out.

*

Five minutes to midnight, Draco got up in a very feline manner from his regular armchair near the Slytherin fireplace. Silently, he left the common room, drawing his cloak tighter around him once its chilly warmth had been left behind. His fair hair gleamed briefly as he passed under the wavering flames in the torch brackets that lit the corridors, but other than that, his invisibility was almost wraith-like.

Soon, he was in the Entrance Hall.

The doors leading out to the grounds were closed against the winter cold, and solid shadows rested heavily against the dark walls. A draft had crept in through the crack at the bottom of the door and was now dancing uncomfortably about his feet. "Lumos," he whispered, and the tip of his wand glowed golden; shadows retreated from their outposts and shrank away into the darkness.

"Malfoy." Harry pulled off his Invisibility Cloak and stepped into the wandlight.

"Potter."

Wary, neither of them said anything for a while. Finally, Harry sighed. "Malfoy, I know you don't want to be here right now, and I'm sorry about that. I--no, shut up a while and listen to me--I just needed to tell you something, I know it probably won't change anything, but I have to say it anyway, because, well... because." Draco raised an eyebrow, and Harry continued hastily, "You have to listen to it--please, or else I'll Petrify you until I finish talking or something--"

"I'll listen, Potter. There's no need to get so worked up about it." Draco crossed the Entrance Hall swiftly and threw open the doors, seating himself on the topmost step outside.

Harry didn't sit. He leaned against the stone doorframe, shivering slightly in the chilly breeze. He was standing slightly behind Draco. "Well--I guess there's a lot to say. There's so much that's happened between us in the past four months or so, and a lot of it that I regret." He paused; the night was soundless, though far from still. "I owe you an apology for all that I said to you back in September, Malfoy. You were right, you know, in the Potions dungeon. I--I shouldn't have judged you so hastily, and perhaps I shouldn't have judged you at all. Because I know, now, that you had your reasons, and it wasn't for me to say whether they were valid or not. And--and I had no right to dictate your priorities for you." His voice broke slightly; Draco almost didn't catch it.

There was a silence in which neither of them said anything. A gusty wind blew, and the pine needles on the fir trees rattled inaudibly. Harry waited for them to subside, then continued, "You probably don't want to know why I acted the way I did, when I first realised what had happened." He stopped hesitantly, not knowing whether or not to continue.

Fluidly, Draco stood up and climbed the remaining stair so that he was the same height as Harry. He looked straight into the other boy's eyes, forest green in the lack of light. "Tell me." His voice was insipid, strangely anticlimactic in the expectant hush that had fallen.

Harry flinched and looked away. "No. Never mind. You've heard it all already."

"Tell me."

Harry started, a violent movement in the calm night. The night breeze ruffled his hair slightly, and he half-turned, so that he wasn't facing Draco anymore, but was instead looking over the staircase railing at the shadowed grounds beyond. He looked at the silhouettes of the fir trees against the deep blue of the night sky, and followed their contours with his eyes, wondering how best to start. Gradually, he became vaguely aware of Draco's presence behind him, and with it came the reminder that the other boy was still waiting. So he began in quiet voice, reaching out blindly for words that would express what he wanted to say. "When Voldemort's the one who's taken away the people whom you think you'd have cared most for in your life--even if you never knew them--you get... well, you get scared that he'll do the same to anyone else who means anything at all to you." He paused, struggling to keep his breathing even and his voice level and emotionless. "And so you're always fearful of who he'll claim, and when he claims the one person that means the most to you, it's--somehow it's so hard to think rationally; all you can think about is how--how... I don't know, I can't say it." He shook his head despairingly. "I'm sorry."

He let his voice trail off into a silence that was punctuated only by the shudders and whispers of the fir trees and the almost inaudible sound of water lapping on the lakeshore. For a long while, the two of them remained still, and the night wore on. A strong gust of wind blew, suddenly, and the door to the castle behind them creaked. At last, Harry shrugged, breaking the tranquillity. "That's all there is to it. And I guess that's all I had to say, really." He turned back to Draco. Emerald-green met storm-grey and this time, he held Draco's gaze calmly. "Thank you, then. For listening. For everything." For a split second, he seemed about to reach out to draw Draco closer to him. But he checked the movement of his hand halfway, and it came to rest on Draco's shoulder instead. He glanced at it briefly, then returned his gaze to Draco's eyes. "Goodnight, Malfoy."

He withdrew his hand. Everything seemed slightly blurry and hazy to Draco; perhaps it was the time of the night, or the faint moonlight that came from the sickle moon swinging high above. From a distance, it seemed, footsteps echoed softly away on the stone floor of the Entrance Hall, growing fainter with every passing moment. And suddenly, with a burst of clarity that struck him harshly across his consciousness, Draco realised that Harry wasn't saying goodbye for the moment or for the night, but for always.

"Harry."

Harry was almost out of the Entrance Hall when he heard his name, soft as a whisper, but penetrating the night like a silver dagger. He froze mid-step, closing his eyes as a flood of emotions tore down their floodgates and ran wildly through his mind. And then almost-hurried footsteps rang, loud in the night silence, across the slate flooring, and a familiar warmth wrapped itself around him, and he leaned into Draco's embrace, relaxing as he had not done in weeks, and glad that this was not a mere dream, not something that would be dispelled in harsh daylight. He remained motionless in Draco's arms for several seconds, trying to slow down his rapid, gasping breathing. "I've missed you, damn you," he said, shakily.

Draco pulled away slightly, and led Harry out of the doors of the Entrance Hall to stand at the foot of the great stone staircase. A smiled teased the corners of his mouth. "I wanted to hear that," he began, but then he changed his mind. "Oh, forget it, Harry." He let out a deep breath. "I've missed you, too."

And later, they lay side by side on the damp ground, Harry on the right and Draco on the left, barely touching each other. As his hand found its way into Harry's, Draco said, simply, "I'm not with Voldemort, Harry. And I'm not with the Light either. I'm with you." More softly, he added, "And that should be good enough for Dumbledore."

Harry rolled over onto his back, so that he could gaze at the stars. "So I was right." He quirked an eyebrow at Draco. "Things between us will never be the same again."

Draco propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at Harry. He extricated his hand from Harry's and lifted his glasses off his face. "No, they won't," he answered. "You were right."

He kissed Harry gently.

Snow began to fall outside the warming charm that they had cast over themselves. The next day, it would be Christmas.

-fin-