Altus Amor

Reunion

**********

“WHAT THE HELL??” shrieked Harry, jumping up from where he sat. One moment he had been musing peacefully, and the next thing he knew there was a particularly pale-looking boy seated upon him. The boy turned around.

“MALFOY??” He gasped, finding it incredibly hard to believe that his arch-nemesis could be lounging around on *his* lap. The blonde turned around to face him.

“Christ, Potter, what the hell are you doing here?” he questioned angrily.

“I could ask the same to you! Or do you normally come around, gracelessly dropping in on peoples laps.”

“I didn’t see you,” he replied arrogantly, if not a bit self-consciously.

“Obviously.”

“Look, could you just leave already? I don’t have time for bickering.” Harry was taken aback. When did Malfoy *not* have time to argue, especially with *him*? He began to wonder what that year away from Hogwarts had done to the ex-Slytherin.

“*Me* move? Excuse me, but I was seated here first. Now, unless you would like to drag me off this rock kicking and screaming, I’m not moving.”

“Don’t pressure me, Potter. I’ve been known to do that,” Draco remarked sullenly. Harry looked up at him, green eyes not once wavering from the other boy’s. It was like a challenge: a trial of territory.

“Talk, Malfoy. That’s all you are: a lot of talk.”

“Which I suppose is better than a biased reputation?”

“I’ve lived up to mine. The least you could do is live up to yours. Aren’t you supposed to me some big, bad Death Eater by now? Aren’t you supposed to be the living shadow of your ruthless father?” Harry retorted. For once, Malfoy was silent. Finally he spoke.

“I think I’ll take you up on that little threat of yours,” he said, then took hold of Harry’s ankles and pulled him roughly off of the stone. Harry yelped in confusion, before coming to his senses. He kicked Malfoy hard in the chest, breaking free from his grip.

“Shoddy prat,” Harry spat down at the ground where Malfoy lay, clutching his head with both hands. *But if I kicked him in the chest, why is he holding his head? Malfoy’s just strange that way.* He peered up at Harry, a malicious grin on his face.

“Well, Potter, your reputation isn’t *completely* corrupted.”

“Neither are my reflexes, for that matter.” Malfoy squinted his eyes in a glare at him, then stood up, leaning against the huge stone. He looked from the Harry to the rock, then back to Harry.

“Well? Are you gonna get the hell out of here or what? Because I don’t plan on leaving.”

“I’m not moving,” Harry replied, voice firm. In one swift movement that could only come from mounting a broom hundreds of times, he was once again seated on top of the large piece of granite. Malfoy remained where he was, seemingly frozen between whether to turn around or carry on where he was. He chose the latter.

“Look’s like this could be a long afternoon,” he said, then jumped up on the farthest end of the rock, sitting with his back turned to Harry. *So he’s just gonna stay there? Just like that?* he thought uneasily. *I should go back; return to Zonkos and find Ron and Hermione. But no! That would mean he had won. And there is *no way* I am letting *Malfoy* win at anything I have a say in.* So they carried on like that in silence, both refusing to give up their claim of stone, persevering like two stubborn five year olds.

But there was something...different about how Malfoy carried himself now. Perhaps it was the butterbeer talking, but Harry found him to be much less menacing than normal. If this meeting had happened a year ago, the other boy would no doubt have been hurtling mud-balls at him. Yet now he remained rather...quiet, for lack of better terms. Of course, none of this was contributed to the recent try-to-drag-Potter-off-the-rock incident, though now he sat silently, almost as if Harry wasn’t there at all. It was quite unnerving, to be honest, but Harry tried to put that from his mind. He had come to the rock by the Shrieking Shack to find some solitude from the bustle of Hogsmeade, and up until Malfoy’s unsolicited appearance, was having a satisfactory time brooding over his life. Had the audacious blonde possessed the same intentions?

*Never mind him,* Harry thought. He had come up here to find some peace from his life, and goddamnit that was what he was going to do, annoying git in his presence or not.

He sat back and closed his eyes, letting his mind tune in with the rustle of the trees, the gentle caress of the wind as it brushed his face, the warmth of the sun as it sank into his dark robes; completely releasing his thoughts about Voldemort and death and what was to come. This had become a habit lately: this meditation he used to escape from reality. While it might not free him as well as flying did, it let him concentrate and be open on an entirely new level.

Harry expanded his senses so that he could literally feel what was around him. He could sense the life of the forest; thriving with good as well as dark magick. He was able to perceive small animals that traced the border of the woods, not yet able to endure the chaos of a small city. It amazed him what he could do if he only released his mind and concentrated on certain things. It was a completely different kind of magick; frightening and wonderful and exhilarating all at once.

He let his awareness expand to the boy sitting next to him, and the effect was...terrifying. Feelings of fear and self hatred, desolation and pointlessness washed over Harry, pushing him under waves of emotion, and he struggled against the current as if trying to keep his head above water. He had never been inside of someone; never been this deep, and he apparently wasn’t ready for the intensity of it.

He tried to find something to grasp onto; some emotion that he could ‘surf’, figuratively speaking. In a flash of horror he saw strait into Draco’s home; saw his father scolding him and the numerous beatings that left him huddled in his room. Sympathy washed over Harry, as well as an unusual connection that proved that he knew somewhat of what it was like to be in Draco’s position. Suddenly he heard a voice, though muffled and far away. Slowly he wiggled out of his alternative state, only to come face to face with an irritated Malfoy.

“Don’t do that,” he said, his voice neutral, yet Harry could detect some trepidation in it’s note.

“Do what?” Harry asked nervously. Malfoy stared sternly at him. “You could--I mean, you could--”

“Don’t think that I am so thick that I can’t even feel it when somebody is inside of my own head, Potter.” Harry sighed, slightly embarrassed. It seemed very personal, what he had seen, and yet Draco appeared to be rather indifferent about it. They were silent for a few moments, and Harry had begun to wonder if the other boy had simply forgotten he was there again. Then, in a far of, nostalgic voice, Draco spoke.

“It really sucks, doesn’t it?” Harry was taken aback.

“Um, what does?” He replied a little uneasily.

“Life. Voldemort. The way it seems like everybody is trying to force us to do something we don’t want to.” Harry sat there, curious, if not a bit bemused. Was Malfoy treating him like a friend, or was he so wrapped up in his on musings that he was mistaking Harry for someone else? Did he even care?

“I suppose...I suppose that they need the reassurance,” Harry started. After the other boy said nothing, he continued. “Perhaps they need to know that some things in life are guaranteed.” Malfoy seemed to contemplate this for a moment.

“Does it bother you at all? The fact that everybody has these priorities for you?” Draco asked, eyes fixed on a crevice in the stone.

“Sometimes...but you are in control. You always are.” From this, the other boy voiced a deep, throaty laugh.

“In your world, maybe,” he said, speaking again in his familiar cold manner. “So, because I am a Malfoy, I get to play the role of the lovely villain?”

“Villain, maybe. Lovely--very doubtful, Draco.” For the first time in six years Harry saw the Slytherin smile, and it alarmed Harry how comfortable he looked right now. Wasn’t there supposed to be this great animosity between them? Wasn’t Draco supposed to be yelling or cursing or *something* that was relatively normal for his persona?

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you being so, well,--”

“Nice, Potter?”

“Yeah....”

“Would you rather be dragged off the rock again?” Sardonic Malfoy, once again. *This* he was used to. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Going for more bruises? If I remember correctly, they were rather a fashion for you. Hermione proved that quite well.”

“If *I* remember correctly, Potter, I wasn’t the one who practically *lived* in the hospital wing,” he said, his icy droll restored. This comment brought back memories of Quidditch; of soaring high over everybody’s heads, searching for something he *knew* would be there. For once he had no retort.

“Get back to your friends,” Malfoy voiced. “It’s getting late.” And before Harry could make any sort of response, Draco was gone, lithe form retreating silently into the depths of the night.

Their meeting had no doubt been strange. The fact that Malfoy could be nice left a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, one which he would prefer not to fathom for fear of any more startling revelations. Harry sighed. Once again, the world had proven that nothing in life was guaranteed.

__________________________________________________

Draco walked away from the Shrieking Shack, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He had just gone out and done the most awful thing possible. He had made *nice* with the enemy. Worst of all, it was *Harry* *Fucking* *Potter*--his arch nemesis for six entire years, and was actually having a civil, if not relatively *deep* conversation with him.

And what was he doing, *smiling* and *laughing*, above all things? Where had that come from? He wasn’t--no, he couldn’t be. Draco simply refused to believe that there was anyway that he was acting nicely because he *liked* Potter. It was exactly the opposite, for your information. In fact, the only reason he didn’t beat him down where he was standing is because he was tired and had a headache and wasn’t exactly in his right mind...so, so there.

And what the fuck did Potter think he was doing, going inside his head like that? Draco had been surprised how easily it was for him to find his way into his thoughts, and that idea honestly scared the living shit out of him. No one, for any reason, should be allowed to see what was inside his mind. So why hadn’t he beat Harry for that as well? The only reasonable explanation Draco could offer himself was that he had been out of it the entire day.

Speaking of that, his headache continued to persist, no matter what remedies he used to try to heal it. All he had were shriveled attempts to cure the throbbing, which in fact, had no assurance it actually *could* be cured. For all of the death he saw each day, he was terrified of it. Terrified of the utter silence and complete nothingness of it all.

Draco shivered and pulled his cloak tightly against him. For a brief moment the moon peaked out from the clouds, shedding translucent light upon his pallid skin and slightly calming his frantic thoughts. Potter. Death. Potter. Lucius. Potter. *Damn that Potter! He has to claim everything that *should* be mine: the Quidditch cup, the House cup, the ability to go to Hogwarts, my own fucking *mind*!*

Then there was the mass destruction: the killing of thousands of witches and wizards for the pure and evil attempt to wage war. How many people would die? How many landmarks and memories and things sacred to the wizarding world would be lost in this violent battle? Could anything be done to prevent it? *Not that you care at all, right, Draco?* he inquired inwardly. Immediately his internal Jiminy Cricket shut up, for the time being at least.

He stared up at the silver beacon hung low in the sky. *It’s waning; a time for banishing. The goddess Hecate rules the dark of the moon. Rosemary is planted on the new moon for good luck. Wolfsbane is harvested on the new moon; again, banishing.* Draco listed off useless facts in a weak attempt to cool his thoughts.

By the time Draco reached the Malfoy Manor, via portkey, the clouds had formed broad, shadowy layers to cover the sky. The high towers and ivy-covered walls of the mansion helped carry out the nights’ menacing air. It seemed as if with the growing darkness that each pounding throb his head made grew ten times more furious.

As soon as he stepped through the two great oak doors, Lucius stood up in a cold greeting, as if he had been waiting like an angry lion all day for Draco to return.

“I trust you got the supplies?” Draco nodded and handed Lucius the small package.

“And Kieran Flint? Did he have any information?” Draco exhaled. This was the business he had been dreading; he loathed to see the smug expression on the older Malfoy’s face when he told him the news. Nevertheless, he mustered the cheesiest I’m-so-glad-I’m-about-to-be-a-Death-Eater smile he could, and proceeded.

“They are planning an attack on either Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade--a bomb, a mass destruction of the capitol of the British Wizarding World. They want to start the war off with a bang; really get the Order’s attention. I don’t know much more of the details--I’m not sure if Kieran trusted me enough,” he added, wanting to submit a bad word for Flint. Slowly but surely, a grin tweaked the edges of Lucius’ mouth.

“That is, by all standards, excellent news, Draco,” he said, his voice harsh. “Kieran *will* trust you in the future, I presume. Now leave, I have some clients to deal with,” he ordered, no doubt having full intentions on some meaningless torture or dark magick to celebrate the ‘excellent news’. Draco stalked away, nearly sick with hatred for his so-called ‘father’.

__________________________________________________

Harry walked back to Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione silently, trying his best to be the least noticeable as possible. This task was rather difficult when Ron kept yakking on to him like a freaking six year old who had lost his mother in a supermarket.

“Harry, where *were* you? We were looking all over for you! I even had Seamus keep an eye out for you!”

“Look, I’m sorry Ron, but I just went for a little walk. I told you I would be back soon.”

“Yeah, the keyword being ‘soon’. You were gone nearly three hours! Hermione had begun to wonder if you had hurt yourself or some-” at this point Ron earned a much needed jab in the side from Hermione.

“What Ron means to say, Harry,” she carried on, “is that with all that’s been happening lately, everybody is worried about you.”

“Well everyone can stop worrying, because I am completely FINE!!” he said, yelling the last word and leaving a appreciative silence dwelling around Ron and Hermione.

“Ok,” Hermione peeped.

“Whatever you say,” Ron countered. Harry’s brow furrowed, his face reddened, and he made a sound that could only be distinguishable as a ‘GRRUUUMMMPHHH!!!’ before turning on his heel and running the rest of the way to the boy’s dormitory, taking refuge within his bedside curtains.

What the hell had *happened* today? Draco’s entire personality appeared to have altered within the short time he had been away from Hogwarts. It scared Harry. So far in his life, there were only a few things he could count on: one, Ron and Hermione would always be his best friends, and two, Draco Malfoy would always be an insufferable prat!! If that could change, then what *else* could as well?

And to be *inside* of Draco, mentally, actually see his thoughts, was not far from horrifying. Harry still questioned why he did it. *Boredom? Lack of trust?* He urged those answers upon himself, but the one resolution was that he was blatantly curious about the other boy’s manner. He always had been, even when he had despised the Slytherin. There was always this hidden nature in him that barely shown through to the surface: something utterly enticing about Draco.

Harry shook himself, and literally smacked his own head. *If you *ever* use *enticing* and *Draco* in the same fucking sentence again you are jumping out of the Astronomy Tower window,* his sub-voice threatened. Harry nodded, feeling his stomach do a twist-of-sorts, then leaping up to his throat.

Harry became terrified. *What-the-fuck-is-going-on? What is that damned blonde doing to me?* He took a deep breath, calming his rapidly beating heart. *OK, it’s nothing. Just nerves. God knows why you are getting them now: it’s probably just from running too hard.* Hard. Hard. Harry took another deep breath. *Oh, fuck. OK You’re *fine*, Potter, just ran too...err...*much*.*

He laid back against his bed, exhausted from lack of sleep and over exertion. He realized that at the moment he would welcome sleep graciously. Yet after laying down staring at the labyrinth of patterns on his ceiling, the understanding fell upon him that neither his mind nor his body was going to allow any kind of sleep. Immediately his psyche jumped to thoughts about Malfoy. Silver-blonde, gray-eyed, ashen-skinned, Malfoy.

He had always thought that he was so different from the other boy. In a way, I guess, he was. Malfoy was the cold that radiated from the atmosphere on a wintry day: distant and reserved; sullen and slightly foreboding. Harry, on the other hand, was summer: warm and sweet and comforting; hope in it’s purest form.

Aside from those palpable dissimilarities, though, they were oddly alike. As Draco had most honestly observed, they were both being set on paths that neither one of the truly wanted to travel. For once, Harry didn’t want to be the hero. He was sick of the unreal expectations; the way that if there was a problem, they immediately called upon him. He hated all of the danger he was in and the caution he had to take everyday: he stopped playing Quidditch, and Goddess knows what other measures would be taken to ensure false security. *I’m a burden on everyone, aren’t I?*

Draco, he supposed, did not want to be the shadow of his father. *And to think. All of this time you thought that he was eagerly awaiting joining the Death Eaters.* From what Harry had experienced earlier--all of those feelings of desolation and helplessness--Draco felt absolutely lost in his roll in life. That...that startled Harry. He wanted to feel sympathetic towards the other boy. He *did* feel sympathetic towards him. That was what scared him: his sudden interest and fascination with Draco Malfoy, and how perfect and familiar it felt to be with him. Basically, Harry felt that it was wrong *not* to feel wrong, thinking of Malfoy as a friend, someone to talk to.

He looked at his watch. Shit. It was 2:30 in the morning. Exactly how much sleep was he going to loose over someone who he hadn’t even seen for a year before today?

He stood unsteadily, grabbing his robes and quickly flinging them over his pajamas before walking out of the boy’s dormitory and into the common room. *What I really need now is some advice. Someone to tell me if I am going crazy or not.* Harry thought for a moment. He couldn’t talk to Ron, no, not about matters concerning Malfoy. Hermione? No, she hadn’t had any sort of relationship up to this point, and wouldn’t be any sort of help. How about....How about....Sirius! He had *tons* of experience on dealing with near-insanity.

Dear Sirius, he started, seating himself at a nearby desk.

How are you? I’m fine; don’t worry. I just have some...err...questions that I would like to ask you. Don’t mind me if I don’t make the most of sense. Well, here goes:

Harry reviewed the letter he had just written. Perhaps he had come off as too eager...but then again, he didn’t really care. He needed an answer as to why he felt as if his chest was constantly constricting.

Shoving the note in his pocket, he vowed to send it off the first thing tomorrow. Then, reluctantly, he crawled back into his bed, feeling slightly nauseated if not a little excited at the thoughts of Draco Malfoy that helped lure him into the final ecstasy of sleep.

__________________________________________________

So far, the night had not gone well. Draco had gotten nearly half of the way to his bedroom before his head had begun to pound horribly. Steadying himself on a railing, he managed to lure himself up to the top of the landing, breath hitching in his chest as he tried to make sense of the pain. The ache was worse this time, each pound feeling as if a sledgehammer was striking his skull. Darkness and shadows obscured his vision, and with each throb he could actually *see* beating red pulses from behind the lids of his eyes, sending a torrent of torture throughout his body. A wave of exhaustion fell over him, and he sunk back against the wall, leaning his head against the cold stone. The iciness of the manor provided some comfort, and for once he was glad to live in such arctic temperatures.

Two voices floated down the hall and washed over Draco, who, once he realized he wasn’t hearing things, used most of his energy to listen.

“I’m glad you could stop by, Macnair,” came the familiar chilling voice.

“Anytime, Lucius. Now remind me, why exactly am I here?”

“Draco.” He could almost sense the reprehensible expression on Lucius’ face.

“Ah. I’m assuming the ritual didn’t go well?”

“Not in the slightest.” There was a pause.

“You did know the dangers of it from the start. How if he wasn’t--”

“Macnair, do you mean to tell me that my heir, a Malfoy, of all names, is not destined to be a Death Eater? It’s absurd. It’s foolish to even believe it for a moment.”

“What other explanation do you have to offer? If your son, in fact, isn’t fated to follow Voldemort, then another ritual would only kill him faster.”

“Kill him faster? As if he already has suffered a fatal magical blow?” Lucius didn’t sound upset at this notion--perhaps annoyed a little, but not upset. Draco sucked in a deep breath, and, ignoring the pain, positioned himself to better hear the two.

“You said he reacted rather badly to the incantation. Doubled over? Is that not a sure sign of what we feared?” There was another pause. Lucius spoke up.

“Don’t let him know, Macnair. The last thing I need around this manor is a son that is too lazy to work the proper magicks because he feels it pointless. We need all the work we can get done in the month he has left.” At this point, footsteps could be heard leaving the corridor and into the sitting room. “Now, about Hogsmeade,” A door slammed. Draco hazily stood up, thoughts and dark revelations brooding his mind till he could barely tell reality from his own melancholy awareness.

*It can’t be true, can‘t be, I‘m 16, It just fucking can‘t,* he told himself, over and over again, using the fabricated mantra to keep him sane until he reached his room. Crashing on the bed, he stared out into the darkness of the chamber. He seemed to fit so well into it; so well into the ever-barren emptiness that reflected everything he had ever felt for anybody.

He had seen death so many times; tortured and killed for Lucius so much that he had felt each pang of agony that he caused his victims. In all of his slaughter he had never once gotten used to it, and doubted you ever could get used to it. Death was such a final thing; so dark; so empty; that he feared it more than a future serving Voldemort. He was a pathetic, and he knew it. Draco was a weak, wretched, useless excuse for life; and he was terrified of what was to happen. Terrified of leaving this world, no matter how much he said he hated it; no matter how much he despised it’s occupants.

Clutching his throbbing head in his hands, Draco cursed, then sunk back into his mattress, pleading with every deity he could imagine to let him live out his dismal life. He just couldn’t face the eternal darkness. *Can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t face it,* he mused over and over again, trying to find something to grasp onto. At the moment Draco felt as if he was falling into a whirlwind of shadows endlessly clawing at him, whispering to him that he soon would be one with them. *A month. A fucking month. How can I live out a month knowing what’s to come?!*

Silent tears began to fall down his cheeks, the warm moisture reminding him where he was. Despair and longings filled his pounding head until his own fear took control of his senses, and he drifted off somewhere between unconsciousness and reality, muttering useless words over and over again, his mind existing on a morose astral plain.

__________________________________________________

The letter came at breakfast. Quickly Harry tore away from the throngs of people that gathered around the Gryffindor Table, heart beating in correlation with the idea that his fear about desiring Draco could soon be put to rest. With shaky fingers he slit the top of the letter with his nails, lifting out a tattered piece of parchment.

Dear Harry, it read, the handwriting much sloppier than normal.

I would love to comfort your heart, but there are much more important matters at hand. We have trouble. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Whenever those three word were expressed by Sirius, the outcome either ended up with him fighting a large, forty meter dragon, or Voldemort had somehow managed to gather millions of followers once again. Harry prayed it wasn’t the latter. Albeit reluctantly, Harry continued on with the note.

I fear it will not be much longer before the entire wizarding world is at war again. I have just received shocking news while at Hogsmeade--Harry, love, it’s horrible. They are planning on a mass destruction of Hogsmeade. Thousands of witches and wizards....I thought you should know. I will alert Dumbledore immediately to begin working on a strategy as to stop them. Oh, but we have hardly any information to begin with!

Harry stared at the parchment, an expression of utter bewilderment on his face. Hogsmeade? But, how could they? Didn’t they value Hogsmeade just as much as the rest of the witches wizards? *They learn not to care,* he subtly reminded himself, sinking against the wall and letting the letter fall from his hands, drifting a few feet away, then landing gracefully by his feet.

*Why now? Why on top of everything that has happened? Why add a war to the mix of confusion and terror? Fate works in so many fucked up ways, it’s not even funny.* Harry lowered his head into his hands, striving desperately to make sense of the world; of why all of the horror seemed to be centered around him; why it had to grow ten times worse.

“Harry?” came a small voice from above him. Slowly he gazed up into Hermione’s russet eyes, noting the way she held the loosely held the letter, a look of panic covering her face.

“Oh, Hermione,” he voiced, then rushed up to her in a comforting embrace, stroking back her hair and attempting in vain to comfort her fright.

“It’ll be OK They are gonna work on it, right? Sirius has never failed. He got out of Azkaban for gods sake! Taking down a couple of Death Eater’s plans should be simple.” Harry wished he could believe what he was saying, but he knew better. He knew that Sirius was no God, and perhaps an attack like this was somewhat inevitable. While that was quite unsettling, it provided him with the understanding that he couldn’t change certain things, and that was oddly reassuring.

“What are we going to do?” Hermione asked in a hushed tone, eyes worriedly peering up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, like, what should we do to stop them?”

“Hermione, maybe this is one of those times--”

“No! No! I refuse to sit around while our beloved Hogsmeade goes to hell in the hands of those--those monsters.” Tears were streaked down her face, yet she still held the same audacious tone in her voice. Harry respected her more than anything now: the fact that she wouldn’t put up with any destruction of her home. Somewhere inside him he knew that she was right. He had fought too hard to keep his only heaven a safe place, and was damned if he was going to let everything fall apart.

“You’re right, Hermione, but I don’t understand what we could do.” Hermione quickly dried her face off, then began to pace around the room, gears working endlessly behind the lids of her eyes.

“What we need is information that we can get to the Order. We need someone on the inside.”

“There are already spies for Voldemort--”

“In low places though. He wouldn’t trust them enough to pass on something this important.” Harry nodded.

“Obviously we could never collect the data necessary by ourselves, but....I’ve got it! Harry, we need someone with serious connections that would be willing to talk to us.”

“Hermione, the chances that we will find a Death Eater that would be willing to give information to us is the same as the chance that Fred and George will become saints. I.e.--it’s not going to happen.”

“Well, we don’t necessarily need a Death Eater per say, but someone, as I stated before, with connections to a Death Eater. Like, someone who could easily get information for us?”

“Yeah, and I’ll say it again: not gonna happen!” Hermione looked defeated.

“You’re right, you’re right. I was being stupid. Who could have thought that a couple of sixth years could do a thing as farfetched as that.” Harry felt terrible, for his hopes were let down as well. But surely it was impossible for someone as reputably known as Harry Potter to collect information furtively for the Dark Side.

“Wait a second,” he said, nearly slapping himself upside the head for being so think. “I think I might just know someone....” Hermione stared longingly at him. “Well, it’s along shot, but--”

“Harry, what is it???” Harry paused. Since he had read Sirius’s letter, he had forgotten about his strange reaction towards the meeting with Draco Malfoy. Nevertheless, it was apparent that the boy needed someone, and despite the fact that the absolute last thing Harry wanted to do was to be in the disturbingly comfortable presence of the arrogant twit, it really was the best, only option they had.

“Malfoy,” he finally spoke. Hermione’s eyes widened.

“Malfoy?? MALFOY?? How in the wizarding world are you going to get MALFOY to talk to you?” She was shocked, and slightly disgusted. Either way, Harry went on to tell her about their reunion near the Shrieking Shack, and one way or another ended up spilling all of his awkward feelings towards the other boy. That is precisely how he ended up in the Gryffindor Common room with Ron--Hermione had insisted he be in on the foolish plan as well--and Hermione both goggling at him, their faced nearly drained of color.

“I don’t believe it,” Hermione said for the umpteenth time. “Harry likes Malfoy.”

“I DO NOT LIKE MALFOY!” he screamed. Ron gazed over at him.

“Sure you do,” he said.

“NO! No, I really don’t.”

“Why not?” Harry looked at Ron as if he had gone mad. Perhaps he had.

“Because Ron, you little git, it’s DRACO-FREAKING-MALFOY!!!”

“And that never occurred to you while you got cozy next to him in Hogsmeade?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, I did not get cozy next to him! We had a conversation! ONE conversation.”

“And you got into his mind--”

“And why does that have to mean anything other than ‘talk’?”

“And probably his pants--” Ron finished. Hermione snorted, and Harry glared at both of them.

“Oh honestly, Harry, he’s not that bad looking--” Hermione started.

“Pretty cute, in fact--” Ron.

“In that forbidden-Slytherin sort of way.” Hermione. Harry rolled his eyes. This was exactly what he had been thinking, and having in voiced by his friends was...unnerving. True, though, Malfoy, prick or not, was incredibly sexy.

“Wouldn’t mind liking him myself.” Ron.

“BUT I DON’T WANT TO LIKE MALFOY!!!!” Came the angry, desperate, half-yell from Harry’s throat. That was the truth. No matter what came to it, he didn’t want to like Malfoy. Harry supposed fate just had it in for him.

“Never mind that right now. What we need to be talking about is how to get close to him,” said Hermione, leaving Harry still fuming about his feelings. “Harry, I think that it’s clear at this point that you will be the one to get close to him?” Harry nodded. *Heh, obviously....*

“Then I suggest we get started right away. What is the easiest way to contact Malfoy?”

“Owl?” Ron offered.

“No, we need it as soon as possible. Owl post might take to long. Besides, his home might be spelled to check each letter. No, it’s much to dangerous.”

“Floo powder?” Harry recommended. Hermione seemed thoughtful.

“You know, that might be the best way. I mean, I’m guessing he is alone most of the time, and might not trust an unknown owl....”

“But is it really safe for Harry to travel to the Malfoy Manor? Doesn’t Lucius have it in for him?” Ron voiced.

“Yes, but we’ll put protection charms on him--and Harry, you can take your invisibility cloak.” Ron appeared satisfied at this, and Hermione walked briskly out of the room, muttering to herself about where Hogwarts stored it’s floo powder. Ron turned to Harry.

“Good luck. You’ll need it.”

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