Skewed Logic

Harry got to the Astronomy Tower early, sinking into a chair and glancing briefly out at the moonless night sky. He closed his eyes and tried to sort out his thoughts. What was he doing here?

No, bad question. He knew exactly what he was doing here. It was the same thing he had been doing every night for the past month and a half.

Perhaps the thing to ask was, why was he doing it? No, he would get nowhere thinking like that. The thought was one he had turned over in his mind countless times before, and he had never managed to come up with an answer.

The real question was, he supposed, what was he going to do?

He had rehearsed this in his mind for hours, mulled over his exact words, spent classes planning out every point of it. But you couldn't predict everything that would happen, especially not when you were dealing with --

He heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps entering the room and his eyes snapped open. He stood from his chair and walked over to the doorway and the figure silhouetted there.

"Draco," he said, keeping his voice steady, and somehow the name sounded different than it had all the other times it had fallen from his lips.

"What you were expecting Marcus Flint?" There was a spark of something that Harry did not recognize in Draco's eyes, and he wondered if Draco had any idea what he had decided.

"Draco, this can't go on." The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. He looked at Draco closely, trying to gauge his reaction, but he knew by now that Draco was excellent at hiding his emotions.

The blonde in question shut his eyes briefly, then opened them, his expression unreadable.

"What do you mean?" It was an honest question. Draco truly couldn't fathom what Harry was saying.

"I mean what I said, Draco," Harry said stubbornly, fervently wishing that he wasn't having this conversation. "We can't go on meeting like this. I --"

Draco shut him up by covering his lips with his own, but Harry pulled away from him.

"Draco, I'm trying to talk to you! Will you just listen?"

"I don't see why we can't go on meeting like this," Draco said plainly. "Seems to me that it's working out fine. We meet, we snog, we go to sleep. Can't get much simpler than that." There was an edge of anger to his tone, as though he couldn't believe that Harry dared to suggest that this had to stop.

"I'm sick of hiding this," Harry sighed. "I haven't gotten more than an hour of sleep each night for the past six weeks. Once or twice Ron found the notes detailing where to meet, and I had to make up cover stories about detentions. I just can't do this anymore, Draco. I'm so tired." He looked at Draco pleadingly, letting the words hang in the air between them. Draco's eyes bored into him, questioning. There was a long moment of crackling tension and Draco seemed to be waiting for something, though what, Harry had no idea.

"Fine," the Slytherin said abruptly, stepping back. "Fine. But it won't last. You need me, Potter." He turned around and walked swiftly out.

---

Harry didn't get a bit of sleep the rest of the night. What had he just done? What had he just done?

Something incredibly stupid, that's what.

Draco was right, of course. It wouldn't last. What had he been thinking? Meeting Draco at night was such a part of his life now. Sneaking out after dark to whatever location they had decided on that night -- the Astronomy Tower, various empty classrooms, the Quidditch pitch, and so many other places, anywhere they could be alone, really....

If someone had told him at the beginning of the year that this night he would be lying awake in bed, depressed that he would no longer be able to make out with Draco Malfoy, he would've been horrified. But that was before he had given in to this feeling, this awful desire that made him risk detention and House points to be with this boy who used to anger him so effortlessly.

Draco hadn't changed a bit, either. The Harry of a year ago would've thought that the only way he would ever fall in love with Draco Malfoy would be if Draco underwent a massive personality alteration, not to mention a sex change. And yet he was in love with him, irrevocably in love with him, and he was the same smug little ferret as he had always been. So why had Harry been skulking around at night kissing him?

It had started around October. It was little things at first, like noticing a certain shine to Draco's eyes during one of their verbal spars, or wondering how his hair happened to be that exact alluring shade of silver-blonde. Then as he became more aware of the Slytherin, he realized that more and more he would automatically seek Draco out when he entered a room. Realizing this, he tried to stop it, but more and more he would catch himself staring in Draco's direction, and more and more he would catch Draco gazing at him. Finally, there had been a time when they had been exchanging witticisms, their insults growing more and more heated, and somehow the built-up tension had changed and their lips had met, and various pleasurable and satisfying things had ensued. After that it had been only natural to arrange a time to meet again -- and again, and again, and again, until kissing Draco Malfoy had lost the surreal feeling it had at first held and became simply glorious.

It was, of course, only kissing, but it was kissing as Harry had not dreamed possible. He thought of his first kiss with Cho Chang a year ago and almost smiled -- now, he wouldn't even call it a kiss. It was a simply their lips meeting for a moment, whereas with Draco kisses took a lot longer and involved a whole lot more than lips. Once or twice Draco had wanted to go further than kissing, but Harry had shied away, weakly protesting that he liked their relationship just how it was.

But didn't this prove that even their relationship, just the way it was, was too much? He'll hate me for this, Harry thought.

He needed Draco. He couldn't last another day without Draco. In fact, he was going to get up out of bed right now and tell Draco that he loved him, tell Draco he was sorry he ever -- no.

It was true, what he had said. He hated having to hide the relationship (if you could call it that, he thought ruefully) from his best friends, and he hated the constant exhaustion. A few days ago Hermione had told him in an anxious tone that he looked like he hadn't slept in a month, and her obvious concern made him feel terribly guilty. See, he told himself sternly, this is all for the best. He would no longer have to stop himself from saying anything to Ron and Hermione, because there would be nothing to say. It was over.

---

Harry sat down to breakfast promising himself that he would not look over at Draco, wouldn't even look at the Slytherin table at all. I don't care about Draco, he chanted in his mind, I don't care about him and it was about time we ended this anyway, before someone found out. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care.

He was, of course, lying through his teeth. He cared far more than he liked to think about. He had finally managed to doze off last night into a sort of half-sleep, but it hadn't done much for either the fatigue or the writhing mess of thoughts congealing in his mind.

Ron was doing enough looking at the Slytherin table for the both of them, Harry thought, wondering what could possibly be so interesting over there. He cursed his curiousity for tempting him to break his vow. I'm not going to look, he assured himself, because Draco will think I'm looking for him, and he'll think he still has a chance. And the last thing I want to do is hurt him with false hope.

"Malfoy's not over there," Ron declared, mercifully enlightening Harry to the situation across the room before he gave in. The import of Ron's words struck him like a sudden blow. Oh, God, what've I done? Harry thought miserably.

"Are you sure?" he asked, keeping his voice light and unconcerned. He had found that learning to keep control over your voice was a skill necessary to having a secret affair with your worst enemy.

"Have a look for yourself!" Ron's tone was one of amazement and delight, and though he had just discovered the existence of sweets.

Well. As long as Draco's not there, Harry thought, having a look for himself. And Ron was right. He couldn't see Draco anywhere. He quashed a rising tide of panic and reminded himself that this was Draco -- Draco, who would sulk in his room and miss breakfast if the house-elves hadn't left his pillows in just exactly the right formation.

Oh, God, please let him be all right. I didn't mean a word of it.

"Maybe he's sick!" Ron said gleefully, and Harry put on what he sincerely hoped looked like an excited look.

"Ron, that's horrible!" Hermione began, frowning at him. "Even if he is Malfoy."

Even if he is Malfoy. This was the hardest part about being with Draco: pretending to hate him. He wanted to protest Hermione's inference that Draco deserved less than the rest of them, but what could he say? "Draco's a really nice guy, except for the times when he's a prejudiced, insufferable little git"? Somehow, he didn't think Ron and Hermione would buy it.

But that's why I broke it off, he reminded himself. So that I wouldn't have to hide it from them anymore. It will be much easier now... right? But the midnight snogs weren't all he had to hide, he realized suddenly. What he needed to hide was the reason behind them. His love for Draco. And hiding that would be just as miserable whether he was doing something about that love or not.

Oh hell, he thought. What on earth have I done?