Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Entangled particles break the
rules...[T]hey are influenced by each other,
instantly, no matter how far apart they [are].
Even if they’re on opposite sides of the universe."

- Love, Quantum Physics, and Entanglement by Ari Daniel

Harry was sure they could hear the frantic thud of his heart pummeling itself against his ribcage as he tried not to breathe. He was equally sure his shoe had been poking out from beneath the cloak for a moment there. But miraculously, no one was looking in his direction. He stared at Malfoy, who was sprawled out, his head on Pansy Parkinson’s lap.

Theirs was an intensely familiar sort of behavior, like they were used to touching one another, like it came as naturally as breathing. Pansy was running her fingers through Malfoy’s pale hair and smirking, as though having him cuddled up with her was the equivalent of winning a billion Galleons. Harry wondered, briefly, if Malfoy’d had sex with her, and then felt himself making a face. Ugh, what did he care? It wasn’t like he wanted to know who Pansy Parkinson was shagging. And he definitely didn’t want to know who Malfoy was shagging.

Zabini was leaning back in his seat, one long leg propped up on the seat across from him, regaling the other Slytherins with tales of Slughorn. “Oh, who’d want to be part of his stupid Slug Club anyway,” Malfoy interrupted. “I don’t even know if I’ll be at school next year. Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll stick around for all of this year.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Parkinson asked, her eyes narrowing a bit. She’d stopped toying with his white-blond strands.

Malfoy looked up at her. “Because I might have other things to do, darling. More important things, if you know what I mean. When certain people are restored to their rightful positions.”

Her eyes widened.

“What sort of important things?” Theo Nott asked quietly, looking up from a book that sat open on his lap. He was one of the Slytherins Harry really didn’t know much about. He seemed quiet and bookish, like perhaps he’d been sorted into Slytherin by mistake and actually belonged in Ravenclaw. He had nice eyes, too, very dark and intense.

Not that Harry was going around looking at other blokes’ eyes. Because he wasn’t.

Cedric’s eyes were grey-blue, a voice in his head reminded him. His eyes were big and bright and earnest, his hand warm and reassuring.

Shut. UP, he told the voice.

Malfoy was gazing at Nott from under his eyelashes, Parkinson’s fingers moving through his hair once more. “Maybe I’ll tell you sometime, Theo. But what do I get in return, hm?”

Nott’s cheeks turned pink and he stared back down at his book. Zabini snickered and Parkinson gave Malfoy a fond, exasperated look.

“You’re not really going to leave, are you Draco?” asked Crabbe, his beefy face all screwed up. Sweet Merlin, it was like Malfoy was holding court in here. No wonder Malfoy thought he was god’s gift; this was sickening. Harry had the urge to go around the car and slap every single one of them. Malfoy was the last person they ought to look up to. He might be handsome – in a gittish, ferrety way, of course – but he was the worst sort of bully.

He might be more than just a bully now, Harry reminded himself. He might officially be on the side of darkness. Harry noticed that he kept the sleeves of his robes firmly down at his wrists, never letting them ride up. Was it because something was there? Etched into his skin? Harry shivered at the thought of someone their age taking the Mark. Surely he wouldn’t, not really, no matter what Harry thought he’d seen.

But he would. He absolutely would. This was Malfoy, for Circe’s sake. If anyone was hell-bent on becoming evil, it was him.

Harry hated that he didn’t always look evil, though. Like right now, gazing up at Parkinson with blatant affection, and laughing and whacking Zabini with the toe of his slick Oxfords, he looked…like a normal person. Like someone who had friends and told jokes and probably kissed Pansy Parkinson a lot.

There was something different about Malfoy this year, though. His arrogance was still front-and-center, obvious in the way he lounged about, preened, leered over at Nott every time Nott looked up from his book (and what the hell was that about, honestly). He was still every inch the rich prat he’d always been, too snobbish to live.

But there was a tension in him this year that was new. Harry saw him get a far away look in his eyes every now and then, a troubled frown marring his typical haughty expression. And despite his lounging, Harry thought he spied a new sort of rigidity in the way he held himself.

If anyone was going to notice something like that, it’d be Harry. Harry prided himself on always knowing when Malfoy was up to something. And unless you knew someone’s baseline behavior, how were you supposed to tell? Harry knew Malfoy’s baseline behavior like the back of his hand. And he was different, somehow.

He was definitely up to something. But what?

The train rolled to a stop and Harry’s heart started hammering again. The Slytherins were pulling on their school robes, grabbing luggage, and making their way out of the compartment. Harry was trying very hard to stay still and make no noise, but then Goyle’s suitcase smacked him on the head, hard. Before he could stop himself, Harry let out a small, shocked cry. It wasn’t loud, but he swore he saw Malfoy’s eyes narrow for a moment.

But then Malfoy was saying something else to Parkinson, making her laugh, and Harry felt himself relax again. “You go on ahead,” Malfoy said to her. “I’ll be right there.”

She looked like she might argue with him, but then she smiled, rather stiffly, and left the compartment. Outside of the compartment, students were filing past, making their way into the darkness beyond the brightly-lit train. Harry watched as Malfoy moved over to the door to shut the blinds and then bent over his trunk to open it.

Harry wanted to shout “Ah ha! Got you!” because whatever Malfoy was doing, he hadn’t wanted anyone else to see, not even Parkinson. Which meant, of course, that it was part of whatever dastardly plot he was involved in. And now, Harry had a front-row seat for it.

“Petrificus Totalus!” Malfoy shouted suddenly, and Harry realized, too late, that he had been pulling his wand out of the trunk. Harry felt his limbs harden, freezing instantly. He’d been leaning over the edge of the luggage rack, trying to catch a glimpse of Malfoy’s suitcase, and now, his leaning had him tipping forward at an agonizingly slow rate. His weight shifted bit by bit until he was tumbling to the ground in a painful heap, landing right at Malfoy’s feet, the invisibility cloak underneath him. He was entirely visible now, and at Malfoy’s mercy. Which was really a shit situation, because obviously, a git like Malfoy wouldn't show him any mercy at all.

Malfoy smiled, slow and dangerous, and Harry wondered if he ought to be afraid. But Malfoy, Dark Mark or not, was a coward at heart; not worthy of his fear. Merlin knew Harry had faced much worse.

“I knew it,” Malfoy said triumphantly. “I thought I saw a flash of your ugly shoe earlier. And then I heard you when Greg’s suitcase hit you. You bloody fool.”

Harry could do nothing but watch as Malfoy tapped his pointy chin with a long finger. “You didn’t hear anything important. I could just let you leave. But what fun would that be? How often am I going to have the Harry Potter lying at my feet, defenseless as a lamb?”

Harry’s instinct was to flinch, but he couldn’t even do that. “Could curse you,” Malfoy said, his voice going worryingly soft. “I learned some interesting ones over the summer.” His eyes were hard and flinty, despite his little grin, and utterly devoid of feeling. He was a fucking monster. He was only sixteen; how could he be like this at only sixteen?

“I ought to curse you, you half-blood prick,” he continued. “For my father. Don’t think I’ve let that one go.”

Harry wanted to spit out that he was glad Draco's father was rotting away in Azkaban. If anyone deserved that place, it was Lucius Malfoy.

The tip of Malfoy’s wand prodded Harry right below his chin. “Could cut you right down the middle,” he said, dragging it downward, along Harry’s neck and to his chest. “Watch you bleed out.” Harry would’ve shivered, if he could move, at the dangerous flash of Malfoy’s eyes then.

Malfoy brought his face closer, until Harry could feel his breath, hot and humid, against his skin. Malfoy’s eyes searched his, and Harry realized there were darker rings of gray at the outer edges. He’d never noticed that before. Funny he’d notice that now, right before Malfoy cursed off his bollocks or cut him open from sternum to groin.

Malfoy straightened up and Harry braced himself for something terrible, for pain. But instead of cursing him, Malfoy adopted a bored expression and sniffed, “I’ve got more important things to worry about than idiots like you, though. You’re hardly worth the trouble.”

And with that, he yanked the invisibility cloak out from under Harry and looked at it, a little smile on his face. “This is nice, though.” He stuffed it into his trunk. “Think I’ll keep it.”

He prodded Harry with his foot, scooting his frozen body under the seats, hiding him from sight. And then Harry heard him leave, the door of the compartment sliding closed behind him.

The train whistle sounded a moment later, and Harry mentally prepared himself for a long ride back to London. He spent the whole trip thinking about how he was going to get his cloak back. Because he would get it back, even if he had to punch Malfoy's face in to do it.

Over the first few days of school, Harry grew increasingly certain that Malfoy was up to something.

And he had Harry’s invisibility cloak besides, which made it easier for him to sneak around doing Voldemort’s bidding. It was awful to be without the cloak, in general. At least Harry still had the Marauder's Map. Cloak or no, Harry’d always be able to locate Malfoy so long as he remained in the school.

Harry tried, for days, to catch Malfoy unaware. Every time his name appeared in quiet hallways, Harry rushed towards it, slinking along the walls with the map, trying to pinpoint Malfoy’s location so he could grab at him.

But by the time Harry reached the spot where he’d been, Malfoy was always gone, his name moving out of reach, back to busy corridors with too many witnesses.

Harry hadn’t told anyone about the cloak.

He wasn’t exactly sure why. He’d almost told Ron loads of times, and he’d almost come out with it the other day when Hermione asked if he’d used the cloak much since school started (in the end, he'd simply said 'no', and since she didn't necessarily approve of the cloak anyway, she'd dropped the subject).

It was embarrassing, he supposed. Maybe he would tell his friends once he had the cloak tucked safely away in his trunk. But until then, the entire situation made him feel stupid. He still couldn’t believe he’d let Malfoy get the best of him like that. Every time he thought of that moment on the train, that horrible moment when he’d tumbled to the floor, he wanted to die from the humiliation.

On second thought, maybe he’d never get around to telling anyone about it. Maybe he’d go to the grave with this particular secret.

Since he had no one to hatch clever cloak-rescue plans with him, he simply tracked Malfoy from morning until night, on the map and in person, keeping tabs on him at all hours. It soon became difficult to focus on anything else. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, his teachers - they all seemed weirdly faded in his mind, mere distractions from the more important task at hand. Even Quidditch couldn’t hold his attention like it usually could. There was only Malfoy and the cloak, the cloak and Malfoy. He began to see Malfoy's blond hair and lanky frame in his dreams, saw him hurrying through endless corridors or racing along the edge of the lake, Harry hot on his trail.

And then one day at supper, Malfoy’s name appeared in the seventh-floor corridor, where Harry’d spotted it several times already. Without stopping to consider what he was doing, Harry got up from the table and hurried out of the Great Hall, ignoring the shouts of his friends at his back.

He sprinted the whole way, so that he was breathless by the time he reached the corridor. But he wasn’t too late, for once. Malfoy’s name was there at the end of the hall, just where it had been before, and he was alone.

Harry looked up, expecting Malfoy to be under the cloak, expecting to see nothing, but Malfoy was there, entirely visible, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His head was bowed, his eyes closed. Harry stepped silently towards him, and Malfoy didn’t move at all until one of Harry’s trainers squeaked against the floor. And then he reacted quickly, his hand on his wand in an instant.

But Harry’s wand was already out.

“What are you doing here, Potter? I thought you’d learned your lesson on the train.” Malfoy was scowling, and he looked decidedly pale. Paler than normal.

“You need to give me back my cloak,” Harry said.

Malfoy barked out a laugh. “Or what? You’ll hex me? In school? Good way to get tossed out of here on your arse. Salazar knows my life would be easier without you slinking around after me.”

Harry took a step closer. “I'm not 'slinking around' after you, you git. And don’t tempt me. I’d love nothing better than to hit you with a good stinger. It would be worth getting in trouble, honestly.” He saw that Malfoy’s wand hand was trembling now, and he relented, a little. “Look. If you give me the cloak, I won’t hurt you.”

“Don’t think I will, sorry,” Malfoy said. And then he straightened his arm and opened his mouth to cast something undoubtedly horrible at Harry.

Harry, of course, was faster. He always had been.

“Expelliarmus!” he cried, and Malfoy’s wand flew into his free hand. He grinned. “There. Now we’re even. You have something of mine, and I have something of yours.”

“Give that back, you bastard!” Malfoy snarled, looking furious as he dove at Harry. But Harry jumped out of reach, and Malfoy only managed to snatch at air. He stood there afterward, fuming. His hands weren’t shaking any more – they were clenched into fists at his side – and his chest was heaving. His face was a splotchy sort of pink. 

“I’m happy to give it back. When you give me back my cloak.”

Malfoy glared at him for several long moments, and Harry suspected he was trying to figure out if there was a way to kill him and get away with it. “I don’t have it with me,” he finally said between gritted teeth. “I’ll need to fetch it.”

“Fine,” Harry said. “But you'd better come right back. I’m keeping your wand until I have that cloak in my hands.”

“Fine,” Malfoy said.

They stared menacingly at one another until Malfoy stomped off, his robes billowing around him.

Harry leaned against the cool, stone wall and let out a breath. He had two wands, and no particular reason to be worried. Malfoy could bring his goons back with him, of course. He could return with Crabbe and Goyle yipping at his heels. If he did, though, Harry would have no problem besting them. They were big, but they were slow, and not especially skilled in defense.

Harry supposed Malfoy could come back with his entire cadre of horrible Slytherins in tow. But that was highly unlikely, as most of them were still at supper, and it would give the professors pause if they suddenly exited the room en masse.

What he didn’t consider was what ended up happening: Malfoy never came back at all.

Harry waited for an entire hour before making his way to the Gryffindor tower, his dark mood swirling around him like a dementor.

He’d hardly eaten anything and he still didn’t have his cloak. Goddamnit.

That wanker. That absolute wanker! 

Harry wanted to punch things. What he didn’t want was to run into Hermione. But there she was, just past the portrait of the Fat Lady, still in her school robes like she’d been waiting for him since supper had ended. He realized she probably had been. Merlin, being her friend was both a blessing and a curse, sometimes simultaneously.

“Where in the world did you go?” she asked, her brows knitting together with worry.

“Nowhere,” Harry said.

“Harry,” she said, her voice indicating that she was not going to tolerate non-answers.

“I was just checking up on Malfoy,” he said with a shrug.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” she exclaimed. “You need to stop with this Malfoy business! We have more important things to worry about!”

He sighed. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving her away.

“No, we really do, mate,” said Ron, who'd suddenly joined their little huddle. “I mean, honestly, who even cares about that prat? He’s worthless.”

“Right,” Harry said, and fought back the bizarre urge to argue that Malfoy was not worthless, unfortunately, because he was Voldemort’s henchman, and was most certainly up to something. “I know that. I’ll stop.” He refused to meet either of their gazes, because he didn’t want to know what he'd find there. Worry, pity, and irritation were possibilities. Or maybe some horrible combination of all three. Besides, they’d probably know he was lying if he looked at them, if they didn’t know it already.

Oh, who was he kidding? They definitely knew it already.

“Anyway,” he said after a moment. “I’ve got to get some reading done before bed. I’ll talk to you guys in the morning.”

He heard Hermione’s little huff and saw Ron raise his eyebrows at her meaningfully. “It’s not healthy…” he heard her whisper as he walked away.

Maybe it wasn’t, but it wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter. Malfoy had his cloak, and was probably the littlest baby Death Eater besides. Harry had to keep an eye on him. The future of the entire wizarding world depended on it.

He snorted to himself, at his dramatics. 

But still, Malfoy was involved in something bigger than making a new batch of Potter Stinks badges. This was different. Harry knew it.

He got ready for bed and slipped between his sheets. It was early – too early for sleeping, at least – but he didn’t feel like dealing with anyone else. He pulled his heavy, red curtains closed, and when he was tucked safely away behind them, he took Malfoy’s wand out and examined it. It was a nice wand, simple and elegant. Hawthorn wood, maybe? It felt good in his hand, almost as comfortable as his own, and that was too weird, so Harry scowled at it for a moment.

He ought to break the damn thing. It would serve Malfoy right, for making him wait in that corridor.

Surely Malfoy didn’t think the invisibility cloak was more important than his own wand? And what was he planning to do tomorrow in his classes? Tell the professors he’d lost it?

Harry calmed a little, thinking about all the ways in which being wandless was going to be awful for Malfoy. He fell asleep certain that he’d be getting his cloak back at breakfast.

Chapter Text

“You can't see what you don't understand. But what you think you already understand, you'll fail to look at.”
― Richard Powers, The Overstory

Draco narrowed his eyes at his reflection in the mirror. “Crinus Muto,” he said, enunciating each syllable carefully and moving the wand in his hand through the appropriate double-swish motion.

Nothing.

He flung the spare wand Professor Snape had given him last night at the mirror, where it thunked harmlessly off the glass and fell with a muted clatter to the floor. Worthless piece of junk, that wand. Made of Maple and Acromantula thread, it was entirely incompatible with Draco’s magic.

He yearned for his real wand, could almost imagine its perfect heft in his hand.

However, he emphatically did not want to give Potter his cloak back.

First of all, the cloak was one of the most incredible things Draco’d ever encountered. Draco felt like he could do just about anything when he had it on, and no one would know. It was much more effective than a Notice-Me-Not or a Disillusionment Charm, and it resisted Revelios entirely. And considering what Draco had recently been tasked with doing for the Dark Lord, he could use all the magical assistance he could get.

He was trying not to think too much about that, though, at least not yet. He still had plenty of time before he was supposed to complete his tasks. He had almost an entire year. And who knew what might happen before the year was over? Perhaps his father would be released from Azkaban and win back the Dark Lord’s favor, and then Draco would be relieved of his duties.

Draco told himself that it really might happen that way.

Regarding the cloak, though, yes, it was an amazing bit of magic in and of itself. But even beyond that, Draco loved having something to lord over Potter. It felt good. It felt better than good. It made him feel taller, somehow, filled him with a heady sort of pride, like he’d finally done it right. After all these years, he’d finally gone toe-to-toe with Potter and won.

Even when they were purportedly not paying attention to one another in the Great Hall or in Potions, Draco knew that Potter was thinking about it. Knew that Potter was biting down on mouthfuls of bitterness, remembering how Draco had taken his cloak while he lay there uselessly. Salazar, how that must sting.

But now Potter had Draco’s wand, and it was looking like Draco was going to have to make the trade Potter had proposed last night if he ever wanted to cast a spell again. He picked up the loaner wand, scowling at it.

“Crinus Muto,” he tried again. His hair arranged itself into a ridiculous pompadour and Draco cursed under his breath.

Greg stuck his head out from between his curtains. “Why’re you casting so many of those?” he asked, yawning, and then took another look at Draco. His cow-like eyes widened. “Merlin, mate, what happened to your hair?”

“I lost my wand,” Draco bit out. “Professor Snape loaned me this one. It’s horrible.”

“Want to try mine?” Greg asked. Greg wasn’t the brightest of his friends, but he was the most loyal, and would cheerfully give Draco the shirt off his back if Draco were to ask for it.

“Yes, please,” Draco said, attempting to adopt a pleasant expression despite his frustration with the entire situation. Greg was sensitive about Draco’s scowls; he took them personally, no matter how many times Draco tried to tell him that was simply the way his mouth went when he wasn’t paying attention.

Greg lumbered over to the mirror and they traded wands. As soon as Greg’s was in his hand, Draco felt his magic sharpen and focus. “Crinus Muto,” he said, looking towards the mirror. His hair relaxed from the pompadour and fell into something much softer that resembled his usual style. “Oh, thank Circe,” he said, heaving a sigh of relief.

“You can use mine for a while,” Greg said. “Until you find yours.”

“What will you use?” Draco asked.

Greg shrugged and rubbed his t-shirt-clad belly. “I can use this one,” he said, gesturing towards Snape’s. “Not like I can do most of the spells in class with my own wand anyhow.”

“I think you’re doing quite well this year,” Draco told him. “You’ve got all those housekeeping spells for the Charms quiz mastered already.”

Greg looked pleased. “I’ve been studying a lot.”

“I know,” Draco said, grinning. “Doesn’t hurt that Millie’s the one tutoring you, does it?”

Greg looked bashful. “Shut up.”

“She’s been good for you,” Draco said, picking up his rucksack and, at the last minute, shoving the cloak inside, pushing it to the bottom of the bag.

“I guess,” Greg said, his face now the color of an overripe tomato.

“You sure you don’t mind? About the wand?” Draco asked. He felt the tiniest bit guilty about taking it, but not guilty enough to hang onto Snape’s.

“Course not,” said Greg, grabbing his towel. He started out the door but turned back at the last minute. “Don’t let Vince take my seat again at breakfast, though.”

“I won’t,” Draco promised him.

He could feel Potter’s eyes on him. He could always feel Potter’s eyes on him lately.

Potter’s gaze seemed to have a physical dimension to it, like it carried actual weight, and Draco felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up whenever it was trained on him.

He looked up, unwilling to be cowed by the intensity of it, and met Potter’s stare straight-on. He usually didn’t, choosing to ignore it instead, and he expected Potter to look away at this silent challenge, expected it to chase him off, but it didn’t. Potter’s eyes remained fixed on his, his expression unchanging.

Finally, heat flaring up in his cheeks, Draco turned back to his food.

Arsehole.

He collected his things in a hurry, not wanting to run into Potter in the corridor, and rushed to first period.

“You can’t keep avoiding me forever.”

Draco jumped upon hearing the voice directly behind him, coming from the alcove he’d just passed. Potter stepped out, looking beyond pissed off.

They were in the dungeons, between the Potions classroom and the Slytherin Common Room entrance, and no one else was around because they were all at lunch. Fucking hell, he had to be more careful at mealtimes. Potter kept ambushing him when he ought to have been in the Great Hall, eating with everybody else.

“I’m not avoiding you. I’m hardly even aware of you; why would I avoid you? I’m simply getting something from my room,” Draco said as levelly as he could.

“It had better be my cloak,” Potter said.

“It’s not,” Draco said.

“Whose wand have you been using today?” Potter asked.

This made Draco smile. “None of your business,” he said. “But as you can see, I hardly need mine back at all. I’m fine without it.” That was entirely untrue; Greg wasn’t going to let him use his wand forever, and Snape’s worked about as well as a licorice rope.

“Right, and what are you going to do when you have to take an exam? You going to use your little loaner wand? Risk your grades just to hang onto something you’ve stolen from me?”

“I –” Draco began, feeling unsettled. He hadn’t thought about that.

“I know you care about that sort of thing, Malfoy. Daddy will probably take away your allowance if you get anything below an ‘O’, right? Oh, wait, never mind: he’s in Azkaban.”

Draco’s chest tightened, but he wasn’t going to let Potter goad him into violence, which was most certainly what he was trying to do. “Oh, poor Potty,” Draco said in a bored voice. “You don’t have any idea what it’s like to have parents around to care about your grades. Or about anything else, for that matter. Considering yours are dead and all.”

Draco watched gleefully as something in Potter cracked. Potter really ought to have realized by now that Draco only resorted to the dead parents thing because it was one-hundred percent effective when it came to making Potter utterly lose his shit. However, since Potter had zero self-awareness, he hadn’t.

Potter let out a feral sort of growl and then lunged. His hands shoved Draco’s shoulders, hard, and sent him sprawling onto his back, his head hitting the stone floor with a muffled crack. Thank Merlin he’d anticipated being knocked down and had been able to brace himself a bit, but it still hurt like hell.

Then he had half a second before Potter was coming down on top of him, arm cocked back. He tried to roll away, but the first punch got him in the jaw, making him dizzy as the world jangled around him for a moment, quivering at the edges. The second got him in his stomach, knocking all the breath from him. He sucked at the air desperately as another, less intense hit caught him in his side near his ribs.

Draco realized that unless he wanted to be beaten to a bloody pulp, he needed to start fighting back rather than just trying to block Potter’s blows. He aimed his knee at Potter’s bollocks and made contact, and Potter rolled over, moaning, as Draco tried to pull himself together enough to strike again.

He’d only thrown actual punches a handful of times, wrestling around with Greg and Vince when they were younger. And honestly, both of them had always let him win. It was a lot more difficult when your target was a moving one, and out for your blood, and when your head was spinning so much it was making you nauseous. He somehow managed to land a decent right hook at the side of Potter’s head, near his temple, and Draco saw red blood welling up where the hit made the hinge of Potter’s glasses bite into skin. He swung again, but it wasn’t quite as effective, merely glancing off of Potter’s chin.

Then Potter heaved himself up and tried to wrestle Draco back into submission, and Draco was squirming and kicking like mad, trying to avoid another brutal blow, when they heard shouting down the hall.

“Mr. Potter! Mr. Malfoy! Stop this at once! Get off of him, Potter!”

Draco watched as Potter blinked, blood dripping slowly from the cut at his temple, running down his cheek. He seemed to shake himself, and his eyes went back to normal, the mad light in them extinguishing. He slid off of Draco and sat up, looking dazed.

“Fifteen points from both houses and detention for a week,” Professor Snape snapped, drawing closer. He sounded mostly normal, but his eyes were too bright, and slightly panicked. “And I demand an explanation.”

“He started it,” Potter said, scowling.

Professor Snape’s mouth thinned. “I’m sure Mr. Malfoy disagrees.”

“I most certainly do, Sir. As you can see, I was –” Draco began, but Snape held up his hand.

“I don’t want a blow-by-blow from either one of you. Just tell me why you felt the need to resort to fisticuffs in the middle of a Tuesday. And, incidentally, Draco, I must say that I didn’t expect this from you.”

Draco felt guilty then, but Potter spoke up. “Oh, and I suppose you did expect it from me, then?”

Professor Snape raised a brow at him, and Potter looked furious.

Draco realized he could tell Professor Snape about his wand. But that would likely lead to Potter’s cloak being confiscated, because surely such things weren’t supposed to be kept at school. Or worse, Dumbledore would show his usual blatant favoritism and let Potter have it back, proving yet again that he considered Potter to be above the rules. “We had an argument, is all,” Draco said, narrowing his eyes at Potter, daring him to contradict this.

Potter nodded, swiping absently at the blood trickling down his face. Draco wasn’t bleeding – or at least he didn’t think he was – but he was certain he was bruised to hell and back. “Just an argument that got out of hand,” Potter agreed.

Snape sighed. “Report to Madam Pomfrey, both of you. And you can serve your first detentions tomorrow evening with me. And if I ever find that you’ve resorted to physical violence again, the penalty isn’t going to be a few house points and a week of detention, I can promise you that. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Professor,” Draco and Potter said in unison.

“Good. Now, get yourselves to the nurse straightaway. You both look awful. And Mr. Potter, you’re bleeding.”

Potter seemed to realize it, then, staring at the blood on his hand and then dabbing at his temple while they began to make their way towards Madam Pomfrey’s office.

“And no dithering about in the halls,” Snape called after them.

“Hope you’re happy, Malfoy,” Potter grumbled, his green eyes flashing over to Draco’s.

“Me?” Draco cried. “You hit me first!”

“Yeah, well, you were asking for it.”

“Same could be said for you.”

They glared at one another and walked in silence the rest of the way.

They both had minor concussions (Draco was happy he hadn’t gotten worse than he’d given), along with assorted cuts and bruises, all of which Madam Pomfrey healed with her usual brutal efficiency. Afterward, she instructed them to recline on a pair of the horribly uncomfortable hospital beds in her back room and flicked her wand towards the lamps, dimming the lights but not turning them off. “You should be fine now, but I’m going to monitor you two for an hour or so before I let you leave. Can’t be too careful with concussions.” She tsked at them, shaking her head. “I hope you boys have learned your lesson about fighting.”

Potter nodded his head, while Draco mumbled ‘Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good,” she said, closing the door behind her.

They were both silent and still in the darkened room after she left, and Draco soon found that he was horribly aware of the other boy’s presence.

He realized he’d never been alone with Potter like this before, in such a quiet, hushed place. They were usually surrounded by their friends, who egged them on and threw insults back and forth, or, on the few occasions that they were off by themselves, were too busy filling the space around them with their own cruel taunts and threats to really take notice of one another.

Never before had he been faced so squarely with the reality of Harry Potter as a living, breathing person, a person who took up space the same way Draco did, who was trying to keep his body still just like Draco was trying to keep his still. It was disorienting to think of him in this way, to imagine the red blood circulating through his veins, to consider what thoughts might be drifting across his mind at that very moment, to wonder whether he was actually so different from Draco after all

But those were odd things to think about, and they made Draco discomfited. He resolutely turned his mind to Quidditch, and, when that didn’t work, he began to count backwards from five hundred.

“Can we please just make the trade?” Potter said quietly, breaking the silence, when Draco was at two hundred and seventy-two. “I know you must want your wand back. I really want my cloak back. It’s…it’s important to me.”

Draco blinked up at a crack on the ceiling above his bed. “Why?”

Potter huffed and adjusted himself on the hard mattress. “It was my father’s. It’s been in the Potter family for generations, and it’s one of the only things of his that I have, and I –”

“Yes,” Draco said. He wasn’t sure why he said it. He only knew it had something to do with the way he’d been thinking about Potter, and how hearing him say this about the cloak made him even more real, almost unbearably real.

Potter was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you.”

“No, I’m not fucking with you. I’ll make the trade. I’d like my wand back. You can have your ridiculous cloak.”

“Oh,” Potter said. “Okay.” He paused. “When?”

“Tonight. At midnight. I’ll meet you in that seventh floor corridor.”

Potter narrowed his eyes. “You’re definitely fucking with me.”

“I’m not. I swear it on my family name.”

“Okay,” Potter said again, hesitantly. Draco could feel the confusion and suspicion radiating off of him in waves, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

They stayed there in the quiet semi-darkness for the next hour. Draco found that he couldn’t focus on anything but the sound of Potter’s breath, the shifting of his body on the mattress, his occasional sigh. It all echoed through Draco’s head like thunder. Nothing, not Quidditch or Potions recipes or even counting backwards was enough to distract him. By the time Madam Pomfrey came in to give them a final once-over, Draco was ready to crawl out of his skin, and nearly ran over a first year in his desperate rush to escape the infirmary. To escape Harry Potter.

His escape was only a temporary thing, though, since he'd arranged to meet with Potter later that very night.

Chapter Text

The hatchet must fall on the block; the oak must be cleft to the centre. The weight of the world is on my shoulders."
― Virginia Woolf, The Waves

“Where are you going now?” hissed Pansy as Draco hurried through the Slytherin Common Room. He slowed at the sound of her voice, schooling his face to look bored. He’d thought she was already down in the Great Hall for breakfast, or he would have been more careful to avoid her.

“Mother wrote and said I’m to come home this morning. Family emergency,” he said.

“Or that’s what you told the Headmaster, anyway,” she said, arching one of her dark brows.

Draco said nothing and she stomped her foot. “You never tell me anything!” she cried. “It’s maddening, watching you slink around the castle like a burglar! Tell me what's happening!”

He only stared at her and after a moment, she softened. “Please, darling.”

“You know I can’t,” he said.

She sniffed and blinked, looking away from his face. “Fine. I’ll save you some dessert if you’ll come back tonight. And I hope you know I’m going to be worried sick about you all day.”

“I’ll be alright,” he said. “Promise. And I’ll try to return tonight, okay?”

She nodded tersely, still not looking at him.

“Pans. Look, it’s very important, what I’m trying to do. Essential, even.”

“Essential for whom? Because it’s not essential for me. Not essential for Greg or Vince or Blaise. I don’t think it’s essential for you, even. I think you’d be better off if you weren’t doing this, honestly.”

He caught her eyes, willing her to understand. “No, not any one person – it’s essential for the cause, I mean.”

“Fuck the cause,” she said quietly. “Just keep yourself safe.”

He was allowed to use the floo in Dumbledore’s office to get to Malfoy Manor, although he was going to have to take the train on the way back (no one was allowed to floo into Hogwarts at the moment).

When he first stepped through, he thought he might’ve been worried for nothing. His mother was there, looking better than she had when he’d left for school in September, her hair carefully styled, her robes pressed and immaculate. “Thank you, Severus,” she said to Snape, who’d stuck his head through the flames to make sure Draco got through safely or some such nonsense. Draco knew it was Dumbledore’s way of trying to keep tabs on him, at least a little, during this visit home. “I appreciate your help in bringing him.”

“I hope it’s nothing too serious, Narcissa,” Snape said in a strangely formal tone.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Just a personal matter I need to discuss with Draco. Thank you again.”

Snape inclined his head towards her and then it disappeared in the flame, leaving Draco to wonder, not for the first time, about his professor’s motives. It wasn’t always clear where his loyalties were. There were rumors last summer, too…but then, there had been rumors about everything last summer.

“Hello, my dear,” his mother said, and then he saw her facade crack, just a bit. Her smile went from easy to strained, and there was a look in her eyes that he didn’t like. “Sorry to have called you away from school.”

"Yes, why did you?” Draco asked. "I'm assuming there isn't actually a family emergency."

“Well, not exactly, but I had to say something,” she said, placing her cool hand on his shoulder. “The truth is that he’s requested your presence. He’d like to talk with you about your progress.”

Draco’s heart froze in his chest. His progress. His non-existent progress. He thought he’d had time. He’d thought – “I’ve been trying, Mother,” he said, sounding panicked. Which was true. He had looked over what seemed like every inch of that fucking castle, trying to find the twin of the Vanishing Cabinet in Borgin and Burkes. He’d skipped meals and classes to do it. He’d spent entire nights out of bed, dodging Filch and Peeves. And he’d found nothing.

Her smile got even worse, and she looked like she might cry. “Good, darling. That’s good. Just…be sure to give him some concrete examples, make sure you –”

“Cissy, where is my nephew?” came a high, musical voice from the doorway. It was Aunt Bella. Her hair was everywhere, the circles under her eyes dark as bruises. Her black robes were tattered and stained and she looked high, like maybe she’d taken one of the pleasure draughts that were popular among the Death Eaters. “Ah, Draco, love. Good to see you. But if you don’t get moving this instant towards the dining room, I’m going to spell away your kneecaps.”

Draco gulped. “Coming,” he said. He followed her down the hallway, and noticed that beyond the library, where he’d come through, the house was not in good shape. Some of the furniture was tipped over, some of the wallpaper shredded. There was a broken mirror on the wall, and scorch marks all around it.

“You’ve been redecorating in my absence,” he said wryly.

“Oh!” Bella said, giggling. “Oh, I always forget how much you make me laugh! My little Draco-Waco.” She mussed up his hair and essentially threw him into the dining room, striding in behind him and bowing low to the Dark Lord.

He seated at the head of the table, looking much as he had the last time Draco had seen him: monstrous. Sickly grey skin was stretched over sharp bone. There were holes where his nose ought to have been, like someone had been stabbing a quill through a sheet of paper. His teeth were jagged and irregular, his lips too red. Draco bent low, staring at the polished walnut floorboards, trying to suppress the shudders that kept sweeping through his body. “My Lord,” he said.

“Draco, my boy. It has been too long. Sit, please, I want to hear about school.”

Behind him, Bella laughed. “Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, Teach us something please,” she sang in her sweet soprano.

“Silence,” said the Dark Lord, turning his cold gaze on her. She jerked in place, and Draco couldn’t say whether she’d been hit with a spell or it was just her natural reaction to the sharp tone.

“Yes, Lord,” she whispered, pressing up against the wall, her dark eyes huge in her thin face. Draco turned back to the man before him.

“Now, I’ve called you here because we’ve received worryingly little word of your progress thus far. Why is that?”

“Well,” Draco began, clutching his fingers together in his lap. His voice sounded firm; that was good. “I haven’t had a way to contact you without it being intercepted.”

“Why haven’t you used the Vanishing Cabinet to contact me? You were told it could be utilized to send messages back and forth.”

Draco felt a sickening wave of coldness wash over him. “I – I haven’t located it, Lord. Not yet, anyway. I thought – I thought you said I had the whole school year to find it.”

“Ah. I see. You thought you had the whole school year.” Draco wasn’t looking at him directly, but he saw the Dark Lord’s figure rise up out of the chair. He felt the Dark Lord’s face draw close to his and he tried not to flinch away, but didn’t quite manage. “You were planning to wait until the spring to look, then?”

“I’ve looked, I swear,” he said, his voice a trembling wreck now. “I’ve looked everywhere. All the restricted places. I’ve searched high and low—” His voice gave out at the last word.

An icy cold hand gripped his chin, ragged nails digging into the flesh. “Then search. Harder.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, Lord.”

He returned to his seat, adopting a pleasant expression. “Your mother is a very beautiful woman for – what is she, forty? Forty-five?”

“F-forty-two,” Draco said, dread lancing through his gut.

“I can’t tell you how many of my loyal followers – the ones who haven’t gotten themselves thrown in prison for their carelessness – have inquired after her since your father’s been away. She’s very lucky to have my protection from them, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, Lord,” Draco said, fingers gripping the arms of his chair. “Very lucky.”

“I would hate to have to withdraw my protection because of your disloyalty.”

Draco blinked, the world wavering around him. “No, please. Please. I’ll find the cabinet. I can. I will, please –”

“I know you will, Draco. I have faith in you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have assigned the task to you in the first place.”

Draco nodded.

“You should consider it an honor, that I’ve asked you to do this for me.”

“I do,” Draco said.

“Oh, incidentally, I have another task for you. Equally important, maybe even more so.”

No, Draco thought. No. No, no, no.

“In addition to finding the Vanishing Cabinet and getting it to work again, I’d like you to kill Albus Dumbledore.”

It took a moment for it to sink in.

Oh, fuck. This was not good. This wasn’t even a real task, was it? It was a death sentence. Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard of his age, surrounded by a school full of powerful allies. It was an impossible thing, and the Dark Lord knew it just as well as Draco did. “How?” Draco whispered.

“Oh, I’m not picky,” the Dark Lord said, smiling. His smile was worse than anything else he did with his face. “It doesn’t have to be neat and tidy. But I’d like it finished before the end of the school year.”

“Yes, Lord,” Draco said.

“Good. Don’t let me down.” He sat back in the elaborately-carved dining chair, with its gleaming tigerwood dragon’s head rising up over him, casting shadows over his face. “I would so hate for anything to happen to your lovely mother,” he said. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to discuss. You may run along back to that disgraceful excuse for a school.”

“Th-thank you, Lord,” Draco said, managing to stand up and lower himself into a shaking sort of bow. He walked out of the room at a measured pace, turned the corner and slipped into the powder room at the base of the stairs. He lifted the lid of the toilet just in time to rid himself of whatever he’d eaten for supper last night. He hadn’t had breakfast.

When he was finally done being sick, he rinsed his face off at the sink and examined his reflection in the mirror. He looked gaunt and pale, his eyes hollow and strange. He forced himself to straighten his shoulders. “Stop being a little bitch about it, Draco,” he hissed at himself. “Just get it done.”

The eyes in the mirror seemed to get sharper at that; they looked less hopeless. He simply had to be smart about this, that was all. He could do it. He had to do it.

Failure wasn’t an option anymore.

Back at school, Pansy was waiting for him in the Common Room. She took one look at him and folded him up in her arms. “Oh, shit. It’s that bad?”

He nodded against her.

“Here, come on, let’s go to my room.” The fact that Draco had always been able to go to Pansy’s room without being zapped by one of the electric eels that suddenly appeared when boys ventured that way ought to have been an early clue regarding his sexuality. At the time, he’d just thought he was lucky. He used to think he was lucky in general. His life had seemed so charmed for so long.

Now he looked at Pansy and tried not to be sick again or burst into tears as she shut the door behind him.

“Just tell me, Draco,” she said.

“I can’t fucking tell you!” he exploded. “Merlin, get it through your head, woman!”

She took his hand, more patient than he’d ever known her to be. “Okay,” she said, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face with her other hand. “Okay, I get it. Just. What can I do? I’ll help. You don’t have to tell me any of it, okay? Just give me instructions. I’ll do anything.”

He stared into her soft brown eyes and tried not to fall apart. “Are you going to Hogsmeade next weekend?”

She nodded. “I assume so. You?”

He shook his head. “Or, well, not if you’ll help me. I have another thing I should do here. And besides, it will be…better, if I’m not there.”

“Okay,” she said. “So, I go to Hogsmeade. Then what?”

“I need you to give a package to someone.”

The first trip to Hogsmeade was in mid-October. Harry was surprised they were allowed to leave the castle, with all that was happening, but he was grateful for it as he and Ron and Hermione made their way out into the crisp, autumn air. He felt itchy and restless lately, so stifled that he almost wanted to rip off his own skin.

He wasn’t sure why, exactly. It wasn’t as though he was bored. No, there was plenty to think about, plenty happening.

He’d been called in to meet with Dumbledore and shown memories of Tom Riddle’s parents. Dumbledore had indicated that it was leading up to something to do with the prophecies, but he wouldn’t say much more than that, promising it would all be explained in due time. Since that first meeting, though, there’d been nothing. Dumbledore seemed to be out of the castle more often than not, and it was driving Harry mad that he wasn’t getting any closer to finding out what was happening – what was really happening, not the shite they printed in the Prophet.

And then there was his Potions book, with notes from the Half-Blood Prince. That was a mostly good thing. Or, at least, it was helping him pass Potions this year. But Hermione was always on him about it, acting like it was Tom Riddle’s Diary, Part II, when obviously, it was just an old textbook some student had written on.

And then, of course, there was Malfoy. The night of their stint in Pomfrey’s office, Harry had gone up to the seventh-floor corridor as promised, Malfoy’s wand in hand. He’d fully expected to wait around for hours before going back to his room, still cloak-less and even angrier. Or, he’d realized while he was waiting there in the empty hallway, Malfoy might’ve alerted Snape or someone to Harry’s late-night whereabouts, and they might be on the way to award him hundreds of detentions.

But instead, Malfoy had appeared in the darkened hall like a ghost, and had handed Harry his cloak, his pale face expressionless. He’d taken his wand back in hand, a glimmer of relief flickering over his face as he held it, and then looked over at Harry. “We’re good?” he’d asked.

“Yeah,” Harry’d said. “We’re good.”

Malfoy had nodded and gone as quickly as he’d come. It had been rather anticlimactic after everything, and Harry’d been left to wonder whether Malfoy had placed a hideous curse on the cloak or something.

He’d examined it back in his room for what seemed like hours, trying to determine whether it had been tampered with, but he’d found nothing. It still worked like it always had.

He and Malfoy’d had detention together the next day, and then the next six days after that, all served with Snape. There was less menial work to be done in the DADA classroom than there had been in the Potions room, so Snape had Harry and Malfoy researching different sorts of shielding spells. So far as Harry could tell, the only point of this was to make Harry slowly begin to resent the only subject he’d ever really loved.

So, they’d done their punishing assignment side-by-side, and hadn’t spoken about any of it, not about the fight, nor about the fact that after all that drama, Malfoy’d just handed his cloak to him like it was nothing.

And since then, Malfoy was being stranger than ever. He’d quit Quidditch earlier this week, for one thing, which made Harry want to clobber him over the head with a broom, because what the fuck? Malfoy couldn’t quit Quidditch! It was just…wrong. Beating Malfoy at Quidditch was, generally speaking, the highlight of every academic year. And besides the Quidditch thing, Malfoy was skipping classes on occasion (which never used to happen) and failing to show up for meals. Harry would find him on the map when he was absent, and watch him moving around the halls, always alone. Or sometimes, he would just be sitting in his room, also alone. But although he was able to locate him, Harry was no closer to finding out what he was doing than he had been at the start of the year.

Besides Dumbledore and his Potions book and Malfoy, Ron and Hermione were driving him batty with their incessant bickering, and Merlin, it was all just so annoying. Nothing was progressing the way it ought to have been, and Harry felt like he was in stasis, trapped in amber, unable to do anything about anything, just watching motionless and praying for something – anything! – to happen.

And later that very day, it did.

Harry watched, his mouth hanging open in shock, as Katie Bell flew up into the air, her arms stretched outward, her face contorted into a silent scream. It was horrible and hideous and Harry didn’t know what had happened to her, but he knew they needed help.

He raced to Hagrid’s hut, screamed at him to hurry, hurry, and then Hagrid was picking Katie up off the ground where she was convulsing and shivering and looking like she might die – like, really, actually die – and hauling her back to school.

Harry found himself in McGonagall’s office shortly thereafter, explaining why, exactly, he thought Malfoy was responsible for what happened to Katie. McGonagall informed him that Malfoy hadn’t even been in Hogsmeade, and then everyone – Ron, Hermione, McGonagall – looked at him like he was out of his mind. Well, no – McGonagall had looked more disappointed than anything else. Disappointing McGonagall always made Harry feel like the worst sort of monster, like he’d just been caught tossing newborn kittens off the top of the astronomy tower.

He walked back to his room thinking about how he’d wanted something to happen, and it had. Guilt, creeping and black, spread through him, and then slowly managed, somehow, to transfigure itself into even more anger.

Days later, Dumbledore had returned, and called Harry in to meet with him. He showed Harry another memory in his pensieve – this one of a handsome, young, and very-clearly-sociopathic Tom Riddle, and Harry really wanted to ask why Dumbledore had ever thought bringing him to Hogwarts was a good idea. There were lessons he was supposed to learn – information about Voldemort that he was supposed to glean from the memory – but it was relayed to him in Dumbledore’s usual style of puzzles and riddles and talking around the thing instead of just fucking saying what he meant, and it left Harry with a raging headache.

Harry trudged off the field after practice, his Quidditch leathers trapping sweat against his skin despite the coolness of the air. The sun was blazing overhead in a perfect blue sky.

“Hey, wait up!” Harry turned to see Ron running towards him, looking red-faced. Ron had been a bit of a disaster – again – during practice, and Harry was having trouble brokering peace between him and the rest of the team. If it had just been the slip-ups, it would have been fine, but Ron’s way of dealing with his mistakes was to give everyone else a hard time. Harry knew he needed to do something – talk to Ron about it, work with him one-on-one, something – before the first game against Slytherin, but he hadn’t had time to figure out the best course of action yet.

“That practice was brutal, huh,” Ron said as he caught up to Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry said, wondering if he ought to suggest that next time, Ron might consider not telling Ritchie Coot his brain was smaller than a flobberworm’s. Thankfully, Ron kept right on talking, so Harry didn’t have the chance to say it.

“Can you believe Ginny? She was being such a you-know-what out there. Merlin, can’t believe I’m finally getting to play Quidditch and I have to play with her.”

Harry listened half-heartedly as Ron griped about his sister, then about Ritchie, then about Demelza, apparently making his way down the team roster. Harry was thinking he needed to look at the map, see just what Malfoy was up to while everyone was outside, enjoying the mild weather.

“Oh, Godric,” Ron suddenly squeaked beside him.

Harry looked up, realizing they’d arrived at the Gryffindor Common Room entrance already. He registered that first, and then he noticed the other thing, which was that Ginny was snogging Dean Thomas. And she was doing it right there, right in front of the entrance, where anyone could see. Ginny’s head was tilted to the side, her mouth open against Dean’s, and Harry caught a glimpse of her pink tongue as she licked into Dean’s mouth. Dean’s hands were low on her hips, moving towards her bum.

The Fat Lady looked vaguely scandalized.

“What the fuck!” cried Ron, and Ginny and Dean both jumped away from one another and Harry wanted to sink into the cracks between the stones of the floor and disappear.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Ron said. Ginny was turning a frightening purplish color now. Harry told himself he hadn’t been the one snogging someone in public, and had no reason to feel embarrassed, but feel embarrassed he did. He couldn’t have said why, really. He’d noticed Ginny a bit this year – all the boys seemed to be noticing Ginny, including Dean (obviously). But it wasn’t only that.

He realized he’d never seen anyone he knew kissing like that before. It wasn’t the chaste sort of closed-mouth kisses that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley gave one another sometimes. And it wasn’t the horribly awkward attempt at a kiss that he’d shared with Cho. It was a proper kiss, with tongue and wandering hands and fucking Christ, Harry had just noticed that Dean had a hard-on tenting his trousers that he was trying to hide with the bookbag he’d just picked up from the floor. Harry looked at the ceiling while Ginny screamed at Ron to mind his own business and then made fun of him for never having kissed anyone.

Ron screamed back and called her a slag, and then Ginny burst out crying, and Harry was dragging Ron into the Common Room and giving Dean a meaningful look before inclining his head towards Ginny. Dean wasn’t stupid; he’d take care of her. Possibly by shoving his tongue back down her throat.

Later that night, Harry was in bed. It was quiet, and his thoughts were running scattershot through his head at dizzying speeds.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Ginny and Dean and the way they’d looked together.

It wasn’t like he’d never thought about it before. Obviously, he had. He was a normal sixteen-year-old guy, after all.

Well. Okay, normal except for the whole Voldemort situation. That wasn’t exactly normal. But he had urges and feelings just like everybody else. He’d thought about kissing Ginny plenty of times. And before that, he’d thought about kissing Cho, until they’d actually kissed, because after that, he couldn’t think about Cho at all without wanting to die immediately, from the shame.

Maybe he was simply doomed to be an awkward git with girls. It wasn’t like they weren’t interesting to him, they were just…strange. They did and said all these things that confused him, and whenever he tried to flirt with them, he felt like a complete numpty.

He didn’t mind thinking about snogging them. He didn’t even mind thinking about having sex with them in an abstract sort of way. But when he really pictured any of it, he became so tense he could hardly breathe.

Like now, if he thought of the way Ginny’d been with Dean, and put himself in Dean’s place, and really tried to imagine having his hands on Ginny’s hips, moving towards the curve of her arse, he could feel his whole body becoming taut as a bowstring. The thought of opening his mouth up to let in her pink tongue made his stomach knot up so horribly that he had to curl around his pillow and shut his eyes as tightly as possible to get it to relax.

He could not imagine how people could be like that with one another, how they could disregard all the awful mistakes they might make and just…let go. Dive in. He didn’t understand it. He knew it was probably nice to get off, or whatever, but everything leading up to that seemed incomprehensibly difficult and complicated and not even worth it.

He rolled onto his side, hating himself a little. Why could he not just be like everyone else? Why was everything in his life so difficult?

Chapter Text

“Killing him will not banish him from your dreams.”
― Kate DiCamillo, The Beatryce Prophecy

Harry continued to keep track of Malfoy all that fall, though it was strange how his feelings were never fixed in place. Instead, they ebbed and flowed, shifting and then shifting again. Sometimes, he’d be watching Malfoy from across the Great Hall, and Malfoy would look up and catch him at it, then roll his eyes with the ghost of a smile playing over his lips, and Harry was reminded of the day they’d both been in Madam Pomfrey’s office together, and how it had felt almost peaceful between them.

Then other times, Harry would think about Katie Bell, or about something Malfoy’d done in the past, something he’d said to Ron or Hermione, and he’d work himself into such a fury it almost scared him. He’d make efforts to sneak up on Malfoy in empty corridors and imagine how much he’d like to have a rematch, a few moments to have a go at Malfoy, to teach him a lesson.

Right before the first Quidditch match of the season (which was against the Slytherin team sans Malfoy, a fact that had Harry on edge anyway), he ran into Malfoy in a quiet corridor, two girls trailing behind him.

“What’re you doing?” Harry’d asked him. “Why aren’t you outside watching the match?”

“Didn’t know it was mandatory, Potter,” Malfoy’d said.

Harry was going to be late to the game if he didn’t hurry, but that seemed beside the point. “Why’re they following you?” he’d said, frowning as he looked the girls over. “Did you do something to them?”

Malfoy’d only laughed, much to Harry’s irritation. “If you must know, the brunette – Astoria Greengrass – has been in love with me for years. She and her friends do this sometimes - follow me around, giggling.”

The girls were standing back a bit, out of earshot, and they were, in fact, giggling. “Draco, come here,” called Astoria, who was, now that Harry looked at her, quite pretty.

Harry gave Malfoy one more glare for good measure and stalked off. He felt wrong the whole game, facing off against some shite seeker he didn’t even know. The next morning, from across the Great Hall, he discreetly heated Malfoy’s tea until it was scalding, and felt a sick rush of satisfaction when the other boy took a sip only to sputter and spit it right back into his cup, his face pained.

It went on like that, with little periods of heightened antagonism, though nothing particularly eventful occured. Harry watched the map and watched Malfoy and wondered what Malfoy was doing when he roamed the corridors alone.

Slughorn's Christmas Party was less terrible than he'd expected it to be. Harry’d asked Luna to go with him, and she was good company. Sure, she talked about weird things, but she wasn’t wearing her radish earrings that night, and, even better, she treated him like a normal person. Plus, he didn’t have to worry about kissing her or anything like that, which was a relief.

Hermione was hanging out with them, too. As it turned out, Hermione’s date, Cormac McLaggen, was a little too interested in wrestling with her under the mistletoe, an activity Hermione preferred to avoid. So, the three of them passed the time by dodging Cormac and debating Luna’s myriad conspiracy theories. Luna’s choice of conversational topics had many of their teachers and classmates running in the opposite direction, so Harry was able to relax and enjoy himself in the relative peace and quiet.

It was all very pleasant, until Draco Malfoy came in.

He was hauled in by Filch, who informed Slughorn that Malfoy had been creeping around outside of the party. As he stammered out an apology to Slughorn, Malfoy looked so embarrassed it made Harry grimace.

Professor Snape, who’d been lurking in a corner all evening, saw what was happening and assured Slughorn he’d take care of it. Harry watched as Snape pulled Malfoy aside, then carefully made his way closer to them, keeping out of sight, until he could hear what was being said.

“I promised your mother I’d help you!” Snape was hissing. Harry looked the other way and munched on a cracker, pretending to be oblivious. “I made an Unbreakable Vow!”

“Well, you’ll just have to break it. Because I don’t need your help!” said Malfoy angrily. “My plan will work. It’s just…taking a long time.”

“Draco –”

“Leave it alone!” he hissed, and then turned on his heel and left the room.

Afterward, Harry tried to relax and continue enjoying the party, but he couldn’t get himself to stop thinking about the conversation he’d overheard. What had Snape meant when he said he’d promised to help, and what had Malfoy been doing sneaking around outside Slughorn’s office? After another hour, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Harry leaned over to Luna. “Would you mind if I called it a night?” he asked.

“No problem, Harry. I can keep Hermione company,” said Luna. “Are you going after Draco?”

Harry blinked at her. “Um. Course not.”

“Oh, I just assumed. Anyway, I’ll be fine,” she said, giving him a sweet smile.

“Okay. Thanks. Thank you for coming with me, by the way,” Harry said.

“I’ve had a wonderful time,” said Luna, looking sincere as always.

He slipped out into the hall and pulled out his map. Malfoy was on the seventh floor again. Harry broke into a jog as he climbed the stairs, and didn’t slow down until he was there. Malfoy was at the other end, scowling at him as he approached.

It felt good, as ever, to have caught up with Malfoy. To have found him alone, doing Merlin only knew what.

“Salazar, Potter, give it a rest,” Malfoy said. He was leaning against the wall and his eyelids looked strangely heavy.

“Why were you trying to get into the party?”

“Just wanted to be as close to you as possible, of course. Don’t you know that I’m the president of the Harry Potter fan club?” he laughed, low and loose.

Harry realized that Malfoy sounded strange. His speech was relaxed – less clipped – than usual. And his body seemed languid, almost, as he leaned against the wall. “You’ve been drinking,” Harry said, realizing it as he said the words.

“Ding ding ding!” Malfoy said, chuckling. “We have a winner!” His bony, trouser-clad hips were jutting out from his robes, but he looked weirdly soft, for him, the robes undone and his hair a bit messy.

“You crashed the Slug Club party and then went and got drunk?” Harry said, stepping closer to look at his eyes. He saw that the pupils were dilated, and that Malfoy was gazing at him without looking away.

“I didn’t crash the party,” Malfoy said. “I was just…taking a stroll.”

“At night, by yourself, outside of the party. In formal robes.”

“Everyone’s dressed nicely tonight,” Malfoy said lightly. “Even you. I can’t tell you how shocked I was by your lack of raggedy muggle attire.”

Harry ignored this. “What were you doing there?”

“I already told you,” Malfoy said, tossing his hair out of his eyes. Then suddenly, he smirked. “You know, Potter,” he said, reaching out and tugging on Harry’s tie. “You’ve really got to stop following me around. People are going to get the wrong idea about us.”

Harry felt himself recoil as he slapped Malfoy’s hand away. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Malfoy managed to peel himself off the wall and stick his face close to Harry’s. His breath smelled sweet and boozy. “It means that they’re going to think you fancy me,” he whispered, and then laughed again and leaned back once more.

“What the fuck,” Harry said, his heart beating faster. “That’s not funny.”

“I find it hilarious,” Malfoy said with a lazy smile.

“That’s because you’re an arsehole,” Harry realized he felt off-kilter, almost dizzy. There was a prickle of uncomfortable heat under his arms.

“Maybe,” Malfoy said, leaning his head back again and looking at Harry from under his half-closed lids. It reminded him, suddenly, of the way he’d looked at Theo Nott on the train at the start of the year. “Or maybe I’m just flirting with you.”

Harry felt his stomach clench. “Stop saying that stuff!”

“Oh, but Potter, what if I really was? You’d be hurting my feelings now, acting so offended.”

Harry gritted his teeth. He needed to regain control of this conversation, only he didn’t know how, exactly, with Malfoy acting like this. “Did you give that necklace to Katie Bell?”

“Salazar, you’re so difficult; you never want to talk about anything fun. Although plum is a very flattering shade on you. You should wear it more often.”

Harry stepped closer and grabbed his arms. They were very thin, worryingly so. “Did you or did you not give that necklace to Katie?”

Malfoy affected a pout. “I just paid you a compliment. Would it kill you to say something nice to me in return?”

Harry gave him a hard shake. “Answer the question.”

“No,” Malfoy said.

“No, you won’t answer, or no, you didn’t give it to her?” Harry demanded. He was so sick of wondering, and so frustrated by his lack of progress. He was so angry. He thought of how Katie had looked up in the air, her silent scream of horror. She still wasn’t back at school. And Malfoy was joking about it, acting like it was all a game.

Malfoy licked his lips and then gave a little smile. “Maybe…both,” he said.

Harry slammed Malfoy back against the wall. “She almost died, you bastard!”

Malfoy just looked at him, the smile still playing over his lips, his eyes bright as silver. They were both breathing hard, and Harry had the urge to rip him limb from limb. “What are you planning to do, Potter?” Malfoy said softly after a moment. “Kill me? Go ahead. Knowing this school, I doubt you’d even get detention. And it would feel so good, wouldn’t it? Just imagine how satisfying it would be.”

Harry made a strangled, furious sound, slamming Malfoy into the wall a final time before letting go. “You’re not worth it,” he said tightly.

“If I’m not worth it, then why can’t I take a fucking slash without you trailing around after me?” Malfoy said, straightening his robes.

“I’m going to find out what you’re doing,” Harry said.

“So you keep saying. Yet here we are, halfway through the school year and you don’t even know what to accuse me of.”

“I know you hurt Katie,” Harry said. “I know that much.”

“Do you now.”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“Prove it,” Malfoy said.

Harry glared.

Malfoy laughed. “As I said, you don’t know a thing. You have nothing on me, Potter. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted.”

Harry had to fight against his every instinct before stepping back, because what he wanted to do was throw Malfoy down to the ground and sink his fists into the other boy’s flesh. He could actually feel the ghost of the hits he’d landed the last time they’d fought, and he wanted it again. He wanted it so much.

But instead, he watched Malfoy walk away, vowing to find out what he was doing if it killed him. If it killed them both.

Draco was trying to walk as quietly as possible through the Slytherin girls’ wing. It was difficult, because he’d been drinking from Greg’s secret stash of firewhiskey prior to his run-in with Potter. He found himself banging into more things than he usually did.

Fucking hell, why had he given Potter’s dumb cloak back? Things like this had been so easy when he’d had it.

Finally, he reached the room Pansy shared with Millie, Daphne and a girl named Lucretia Bromley. He opened the door slowly, slowly, and shut it silently behind him, then crept towards Pansy’s bed.

Pans was muttering to herself and snoring a little before he shook her awake.

She wasn’t surprised to see him – his bunking with her was a regular occurrence this year. She was, however, annoyed when he cast a Muffliato and told her he needed to talk to her.

“Ugh, whiskey breath. You’ve been in Greg’s stash, haven’t you?” she asked, sitting up and scowling at him. “Can’t you sneak into his bed and wake him up for once?”

“But I like waking you,” Draco said, pouting at her.

She smiled and rubbed at her eyes before pulling him down onto the pillow beside her. “Fine. Let’s hear it, then. Your drunken rant may begin.”

He chuckled and moved his head closer to hers. “Got in trouble with Snape tonight, cause I was near that stupid Slug Club party.”

“Gross, why?”

He shrugged. “Was out and about anyway. Thought I’d take a look.”

“You know, you could always try sleeping, Draco. It’s great fun. I enjoy it, myself.”

“No time,” he said wryly. “Anyway, after that, Potter tracked me down.”

Pansy stiffened. “He better not have hurt you again.”

“No,” Draco said. “But I might’ve said some things…”

Pansy sat up and looked at him. “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“What do you take me for? Of course not. I told him nothing. Although he kept asking me about the Gryffindor girl.” He couldn’t say her name, even though he knew it. Every time he heard it, he was filled with an awful sort of heaviness, like someone was standing on his chest, and it became hard to breathe.

“They have no way to connect you to that whole mess,” Pansy said.

“No, I know,” Draco said.

“Well, if you didn’t tell him anything, why do you look so fretful?” She settled back down into the crook of his arm.

“I may have told him people were going to think he fancied me if he kept following me around.”

Pansy burst out laughing. “Serves him right! They should, and he probably does.”

“Right,” Draco said. “I’m sure.” He tried not to die of embarrassment as he said, “I also might have told him he looked good in his purple-y shirt.”

She laughed even harder. “Of course you did, you horrible flirt! You always get like that after drinking. Merlin, you’d probably try to seduce a wingback chair if that was your only option.”

“Could do worse than a wingback chair,” Draco said, grinning at her. “The lines of them are lovely.”

Pansy snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“He did, though,” Draco said, softly. “Look nice.”

“Oh, no, darling. Tell me you aren’t developing a pash on Harry Potter, for fuck’s sake.” She stared at him, her smile fading.

“Of course not,” he said quickly. “Only, I’m not blind.”

“Well, no,” Pansy said, taking his hand. “He’s not horrible looking, I suppose. But he’s Harry Potter. He literally wants to murder you.”

“Maybe,” Draco said. “Probably.”

“And you want to murder him.”

“Definitely,” Draco said.

“When are you going to let something happen with Theo, by the way? You know he fancies you.”

Draco let out a whoosh of air. “I hardly have time for romance, do I? And besides, what’s the point? I’m going to marry you after the war.” If, by some miracle, he made it out of the war alive, he thought, but didn’t say.

“Yes, but we both know how that’s going to go,” she said, kissing his temple. “I want you to find something with somebody else, too. I want you to have passion and romance. I want us both to have that.”

“I know. Theo’s…” Draco didn’t know quite how to finish that. Theo was handsome and intelligent and turned a delightful shade of pink whenever Draco teased him. But it didn’t seem right, to be doing that now. Not when it was impossible to know what might happen. “Theo’s someone I wouldn’t mind taking my time with. I could see myself really liking him. More than just a one-off, I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Draco. “He’s rather perfect, isn’t he?”

“He’s so serious,” Pansy said.

“Might be good for me,” Draco said. “Someday.”

“Okay, then. We’ll get married, and you’ll have your consuming, passionate love affair with Theo, and I’ll have one with Blaise.”

“You could always marry Blaise, you know, like two normal people who've been in love with each other since they were children. Although I’d be screwed, then.”

“No, I don’t want to marry Blaise. We’d only make each other miserable. But a long-term affair? Sign me up. Sounds perfect for us.”

“You’re strange,” Draco said.

“So are you,” she said. She was quiet for a moment, and then: “Did Potter say anything specific about the Gryffindor girl? Is she coming back to school?”

Draco forced himself to stay calm, to keep his limbs sprawled out and relaxed, his voice light. “Dunno. He didn’t say.”

“She’s okay, though,” Pansy said. “She didn’t die or anything.”

“No,” Draco said. “She didn’t. We’d have heard.”

Pansy clutched at his sleeve tightly. “Of course,” she said. “And the rest of your tasks? Are they going all right?”

He looked at her. “You are not getting involved again. No way.”

“I know, you stubborn wanker. I’m just asking how they’re going.”

He cleared his throat. “Fine. Making some progress.”

“Liar,” she said, quietly, bringing his hand to her mouth to place a soft kiss there. He sighed. She knew him too well.

 “Goodnight, darling,” she said after a moment.

“Night, Pans,” he said.

He stared at the green canopy as she slipped back into sleep, thinking about the way Theo looked at him. It was nice, and it made his heart pick up speed every time their eyes met. Someday, it would be good to give that a go. If they both made it through the war, anyway. He’d like that.

He considered, sometimes, that he might want to get his kicks while he still could. He’d only ever kissed Pansy’s cousin’s friend two summers ago behind a hedge at Pansy’s aunt’s estate. It had been a good kiss, lots of tongue, and they’d frotted together through their clothes, which felt incredible. But that was as far as his experience went. Well, besides kissing Pansy in third year, but he didn’t count that.

It would be sad, he thought, if the Dark Lord killed him before he could ever kiss anyone else. Like Theo.

Like Harry Potter.

He frowned at himself. What the fuck was his problem? The git wore an attractive set of dress robes and he lost all common sense? It was so foolish; he knew better than that, or at least he ought to.

It had been strange, though, in the corridor tonight. The way Potter had gripped him, the way he’d been looking at him. Draco hadn’t known whether Potter was going to punch him or kiss him for a moment. He wondered what would have happened if he had surged forward in that moment, if he’d taken Potter’s mouth. He wasn’t entirely sure that Potter would have pushed him away, and wasn’t that mad?

But that was probably the whiskey talking. Draco always got too worked up when he drank, Pansy was right.

In bed later that night, Harry was asleep and dreaming. He had Malfoy against the wall again. But instead of being mouthy and flippant, Malfoy was terrified. He was shrinking back from Harry and trembling all over, and his eyes, turned silvery by moonlight, were wide and panicked. “No,” he kept saying. “Don’t.” And it felt good. It felt so fucking good to have broken him, finally, to have him begging.

Harry lifted a hand to his throat and squeezed, and Malfoy closed his eyes and Harry saw tears spilling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you anything you want.”

And Harry opened his mouth to ask whether Malfoy had given the necklace to Katie, but instead, he heard himself ask, “Why did you look at me like that?”

“Like what?”  Malfoy said, looking at him again.

“Like you looked at Theo,” Harry said.

“I think you know,” Malfoy said, suddenly coy. “It was how you wanted me to look at you. Wasn’t it? I did it because I knew you would like it. In fact, I think you wanted me to do more than just look at you.”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what you mean. Stop it.”

“I asked you to pay me one compliment, and it shouldn’t have been difficult, given some of the things you’ve thought about me.”

“I think you’re a danger to this school. I think you’re a Death Eater. I think you gave that necklace to Katie,” Harry rattled off. “That’s what I’ve thought about you.”

“You think my eyes are almost the same color as Cedric’s,” Malfoy said, moving closer.

Harry began to back up. “You're nothing like Cedric,” he said.

“You like the smell of my hair.”

“You’re mad,” Harry said. His back was up against the wall.

“You wonder what my body would feel like against yours.”

“Stop. Please,” Harry said, his voice getting small.

“It’s okay, Harry, I don’t bite,” he said, his fingers in Harry’s hair. “Unless you want me to.”

And Harry felt himself give up and give in, felt himself inching closer to Malfoy. He felt Malfoy’s breath on his lips, but then suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at all, and he realized Malfoy was gone, and in his place was an enormous, muscular snake with pearlescent scales. It was slowly wrapping itself around Harry’s chest and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until Harry knew he would die, that a person couldn’t possibly go for so long without air –

He opened his eyes and realized his face was smushed into his pillow. He bolted upright, panting, covered in sweat. “Oh my god,” he whispered, mortified. He felt sick and aroused and angry, and he hated himself so much in that moment that he wished the fucking snake had suffocated him to death.

Chapter Text

“But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.”
― George Eliot, Middlemarch

“You can’t keep me from her! I demand to speak to my mother!” cried Draco. It was the day before the winter holiday began. He was in Professor Snape’s office and had just been told that he wasn’t allowed to go home.

“Draco, calm down, for heaven’s sake,” Snape said. “You must remain here; Hogwarts is the best place for you right now. And your mother agrees. She’s the one who informed me that leaving would put you at too great a risk. Malfoy Manor simply isn’t safe at the moment.”

“Then why is she there? If it’s not safe, she shouldn’t be there either. At least if I’m with her, I can try to protect her!”

“You would only endanger her further, you ridiculous child!” Snape snapped. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was much quieter. “There are rumblings among some that you’ve angered the Dark Lord, and if you go home, that will only make things worse. It will give people a reason to target you, and your mother, too. How do you not understand this?”

Draco froze. The others were already saying he'd failed? And his mother was at risk because of it?

“I know it must be difficult, to be away from her,” Snape went on. “But staying here is safer for you and for her, and it gives you more opportunities to accomplish your tasks. And if you would just tell me what you’ve been asked to do, I would gladly help you.”

“I told you, I don’t need your help,” Draco replied, fighting back tears. He had never been away from home or separated from his parents on Christmas. It seemed, stupidly, like the saddest part of the whole miserable business. Draco knew it wasn’t nearly as important as the life-or-death situation Snape was describing, but it seemed to strike him right through the heart in a much more immediate way. Dying was a not-quite-real concept, ephemeral and far away. Missing Christmas was tangible, something he understood in his bones and his gut.

A cool, heavy hand settled onto his shoulder. “Let me know if you change your mind, yes? And for Salazar’s sake, please stop skipping meals. Your mother will have my head if you starve yourself to death.”

“Yes, Sir,” Draco mumbled, rising from the chair and slipping out of the room.

He went to his bed and closed the curtains behind him and cried into his pillow. Over Christmas, of all things.

The silver lining of being at school over winter hols was that it was almost entirely empty. There were only two other Slytherin students who’d stayed, both of whom were much younger. Besides those two, there were a handful of students from the other houses who showed up at meals and then disappeared again. More than half the teachers were gone, and even Peeves seemed to be staying out of sight (and earshot).

Draco wondered whether it would be a good time to put together a plan regarding Task Number Two (as he had taken to calling it to avoid thinking about the actual thing he was supposed to do). But as he watched the white-haired Headmaster devour two helpings of pudding from across the Great Hall, he decided he’d put that off a bit longer and continue to focus on the Vanishing Cabinet. Because perhaps, if he found and fixed the cabinet, the Dark Lord would be so pleased that he would release him from his other duty. Besides, Draco reasoned, once the other Death Eaters were able to get inside Hogwarts, he wouldn’t really need to be the one to do it. Any one of them could - they'd likely jump at the chance.

He was pacing the silent seventh-floor corridor again the afternoon of Christmas Eve. The spell he used to track the cabinet always led him here, to a blank expanse of stone. Initially, he’d suspected that the cabinet was contained in a room on the other side of the wall, a space only accessible from somewhere else – a different corridor, or even a different floor – and so he’d searched the whole castle, top to bottom, for this hypothetical entrance. He’d found nothing.

He’d also tried all manner of revealing and unlocking spells, spending weekends in the library looking for better ones, or at least different ones. None of them had worked. Yesterday, despite the risk, he’d even attempted to blast a hole in the wall, but the wall also seemed impervious to his Confringo.

Now he was wondering if he’d done the tracking spell wrong; perhaps he’d missed something. Yes, he’d done it five separate times, but he did tend to be sloppy with his wand work (according to his father, who had criticized him for it at as long as Draco could remember). So, maybe the spell hadn’t worked properly, and the cabinet wasn’t really beyond the blank wall after all.

He was walking in circles, panicking, the way he tended to when he was running low on ideas. Soon, he knew, he’d come up with something else to try, or perhaps he’d hole up in the library tonight and keep researching spells that might reveal the hidden room.

If there was a hidden room.

Fucking hell, his head hurt.

He was missing something, he just knew it. Some detail, some possibility, some different way of approaching the problem.

He was ready to try actual dynamite, honestly. Or maybe he could transfigure something into a wrecking ball, and just knock the goddamn wall down. He raked his fingers through his hair, pulling at it in frustration, wanting to scream into the silence enveloping the empty corridor.

He tried to slow his breaths, because they always became too rapid when he was like this. He sounded shallow and hoarse as he pulled relentlessly at the air, never quite collecting enough. It made him feel like he was drowning.

“Calm down, you silly git,” he told himself. “You can’t think properly when you’re this worked up.” He rolled his shoulders and then stretched his neck, trying to relax his muscles. And then he stopped dead and stared.

“What the hell,” he whispered, taking a step closer.

There had been no door there a moment ago.

Now there was a door.

There was a door.

He let out a quiet yelp of joy, throwing the door open and shutting it closed behind him. Inside was a sprawling, high-ceilinged room full to the brim. It seemed to be packed with centuries worth of dusty old junk. Useless stuff.

But right there, next to the door he’d just come through, was the Vanishing Cabinet, the twin of the cabinet he’d seen at Borgin and Burkes. Draco fell to his knees, the brutal rush of relief making his legs give out. For a moment, all he could do was sit back on his heels, motionless and stunned, staring at the dust-blanketed cabinet. Finally, he touched the angled edge of it with the tips of his fingers. It felt solid, and real. “Thank you,” he whispered to no one in particular. “Thank you.”

Harry spent Christmas at the Weasleys, which should have been wonderful. He loved being at the Burrow, loved the packed space, the homey furniture, the bustle and the chaos, and, of course, the homecooked meals. He loved that Molly fretted over him and he loved Arthur’s quiet supportiveness. He loved George and Fred’s irreverence, Ginny’s quick wit, and Ron’s goofiness. He loved when Bill and Charlie came home, and he even loved having Percy there, too, even though Percy was a prat. He loved it because together, the Weasleys were everything he thought a family ought to be. And even better, he got to be part of it, and that always made him feel stupidly, embarrassingly happy.

Even so, despite everything being just as lovely as ever, Harry could not relax. He was in constant motion, full of manic energy with nowhere to go, restlessly tapping his fingers and toes. He found himself pacing, agitated. He had the sensation that he was in a too-small cage, and ached with a mad desire to break free. He couldn’t have said why, really. He only knew that it felt like everything was about to explode, like this was only the calm before the storm. Everything in him was prepared to do battle, to wage war, and instead, he was stuck here decorating gingerbread men.

“You’re quiet,” Ginny said to him on his second night there, her hand settling softly on the sleeve of his jumper. She looked very pretty in a sapphire blue shirt. It made her hair look like a sunrise, and he wondered if she was still dating Dean.

He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Tired,” he said.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?” she asked. “I wouldn’t tell Mum. Or Ron, even, if you didn’t want me to.”

“Yeah, I know you wouldn’t,” he said. “But I promise, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she said uncertainly before drifting away.

Ron, being Ron, didn’t notice that anything was the matter, or if he did, he didn’t mention it, which was perfectly okay from Harry’s perspective. It was one of Harry’s favorite things about Ron, frankly. Ron didn’t do serious talks, and he didn’t ask nosy questions. Instead of asking Harry what was wrong, he asked him to play chess and exploding snap, or recruited him to go flying around the yard for a while. He talked about Hermione and Lavender and other people from school, forcing Harry out of his black moods with his unyielding insistence on normalcy. Harry knew Ron was one of the primary reasons he hadn’t cracked under all the pressure yet, and he was grateful for him.

But still, it was getting to be too much. Harry was on too precarious an edge, and he needed to leave the suffocating coziness of the Burrow, or he was going to go mad. On Boxing Day, first thing in the morning, Harry wrote Dumbledore, asking if he could return to school a few days early. Dumbledore wrote back that same day, saying, “7:15 train tomorrow a.m. Hagrid will be expecting you.”

The next day, Hagrid was indeed there, waiting for him at the end of the line, even though Harry could’ve managed this part perfectly well himself. Hagrid was holding the pocket of his coat closed with one enormous, thick-fingered hand as they walked together, and Harry wondered what sort of illicit, tiny creature he had in there.

It made Harry feel steadier, somehow, to see Hagrid. He’d had a difficult year, Harry knew, with so few of them opting to continue their Care of Magical Creatures studies. But now, he seemed to have moved on to a new, more pressing problem: Aragog the Acromantula’s health was failing. Hagrid was beside himself over the enormous spider, wiping away tears every now and then as he spoke. Harry asked him questions, trying to reassure him that everything would be okay. Hagrid thanked him and gave him a bone-crushing hug when they reached the castle. “Yer a good lad fir listenin’ to me, ‘arry,” he said.

“I don’t mind at all,” Harry told him, and that was true. He never minded listening to Hagrid talk about anything. “I hope you’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you with Aragog.”

Hagrid’s eyes filled and his lip wobbled. “I will,” he managed.

It felt better to be back at school, eased his anxiety a little. Perhaps it was the prospect of a few days of quiet, a chance to be alone and think. He wondered if Dumbledore would want to meet with him, whether he’d show him more memories in the penseive.

The first thing he did when he reached his room was take out the Marauder’s Map and spread it out on his bed, out of habit more than anything. And then, to his surprise, he saw Malfoy’s name on it. His first thought was that he was either imagining it or the map had made some sort of mistake. Malfoy never stayed at school over hols, and Harry would know, since he often did.

A strange sort of anticipation began fizzing through Harry’s body at the sight of that name. Malfoy was here, in this nearly empty castle. And now Harry was here. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to get to the bottom of things. Harry had no schoolwork, really, and no friends to distract him. He could focus all his pent-up energy on Malfoy.

He watched the Malfoy-dot move back and forth on the seventh-floor corridor, like it was pacing. He wondered, for the millionth time, why Malfoy was always there. What was in that corridor that made it so damn interesting? As far as Harry could tell, it was empty and mostly bare. Harry had explored it thoroughly, of course, after he’d seen Malfoy lingering around there. He’d knocked on the walls, scanned for irregularities along the floor and ceiling, cast spells to reveal hidden spaces or people. He’d found nothing at all; the corridor seemed quite boring.

Harry studied the Malfoy-dot. “What are you up to, hm?” he whispered to it.

It disappeared.

Harry stared in disbelief at the blank space where the name had been. For reasons he couldn’t necessarily parse though, he blew on the map and shook it out, like that would fix the problem and make the dot come back. It didn’t.

Harry did not move for nearly an hour. He stared at the map, willing Malfoy’s dot to reappear, mind reeling over the new mystery. It simply didn’t make sense! Where in the world could he have gone?

There had to be a hidden passage there, Harry decided. A passage spelled to be undetectable. Perhaps it led to the crypts or to Dumbledore’s office or something interesting like that. Or it could even lead into Hogsmeade. Back in second or third year, he’d heard rumors about that, about a supposed tunnel to Hogsmeade that the professors used.

He’d almost given up on the map and was preparing to charge over to the seventh floor, fists at the ready, when the Malfoy-dot reappeared as quickly as it had gone. It was in the same place it had been when it first blinked out of existence.

Harry stood, holding the map and breathing hard. His hands were trembly with an adrenaline rush and the map was shaking. He paced, muttering to himself, then watched as the Malfoy-dot moved to the Slytherin Common Room and remained there.

He threw himself back onto the bed and let out a cry of frustration.

It happened again the next morning, the Malfoy-dot blinking out of existence in the seventh-floor corridor only to reappear a while later. When he saw Malfoys’s name move to the Great Hall, Harry knew he had to act.

Donning his invisibility cloak, Harry made his way to the now-familiar spot. As always, it looked utterly uninteresting. He pressed his hands against the stones near the place where Malfoy had disappeared. He looked closely at each one, shining his wand along the cracks between them. Nothing.

Well, that wasn’t a problem. Harry was prepared to wait. He settled in under his cloak and got comfortable.

Draco ate lunch in the Great Hall that day mostly to appease Professor Snape, who had made another remark about Draco’s weight that morning. How all this was affecting him physically was another thing he didn’t like to think about. It wasn’t as though he’d had a lot of body mass to spare – he had been on the thin side ever since he’d started his third-year growth spurt. But now, he knew he looked awful. When he showered, he could count his ribs, and even his face looked strange, his cheekbones too sharp, his eyes too big.

It wasn’t that he was trying to avoid meals, but he forgot, a lot of the time, when he was working on his tasks. And then sometimes, even when he did remember to show up in the Great Hall, he couldn’t force himself to swallow more than a few bites before pushing his plate away. His stomach was always in knots, and eating wasn’t an appealing prospect at all.

Still, he made himself eat a full plate that day, bite by bite. He could eat steadily, because he was alone at his table and had no one to talk to anyway. When he finished, he made his way back to the Room of Requirement, as he’d recently learned it was called. He’d solved the puzzle after his first time inside, locating references to the room in several of the Hogwarts history books in the library. It was brilliant, really, the whole notion of the place.

Unfortunately, fixing the cabinet was proving to be tricker than he’d thought. He’d hoped to be finished with it by now, but it was stubbornly refusing to connect to the other cabinet, even after he’d cast all the usual repair charms.

Nothing to do but keep at it. At least he’d found the damn thing. That was a good first step.

Harry watched Malfoy pace in front of the blank wall very deliberately. And soon, a door materialized. It was an ordinary-looking door, wooden and rectangular, unremarkable save the fact that it hadn’t been there a moment earlier. Harry stared in fascination as Malfoy opened the door and slipped in, shutting it behind him. It disappeared again.

Harry looked at the map in his hand. Like the door, the Malfoy-dot was gone.

After tinkering with the cabinet for the rest of the afternoon and evening, Draco spent the night in the library. Madam Pince was gone, so the library, except for the restricted section, was unlocked. He pored over every book he could find that mentioned magical cabinetry, message-relaying furniture, and furniture portals. He was bleary and almost delirious by morning, but he’d found something that might be helpful. He walked through the tepid, early-morning sunlight that spilled in through the corridor windows and made his way to the dungeons. He fell into bed, enjoyed an hour or two of oblivion, then woke and made his way to the seventh floor.

Harry saw Malfoy’s dot move. He was ready.

Draco ought to have been exhausted; he knew his short nap hadn’t been enough to make up for his lack of sleep the night before. Still, he was fueled by anxiety, and it was always surprising how far that could take a person. He opened the cabinet and felt around for what the book he’d been reading early this morning had called a Warding Nail. It was, according to the text, a solid gold nail that could be used on furniture to negate its magical properties. Lumos, he murmured, and shone the light of his wand inside. Sure enough, there, near the bottom of the cabinet, just underneath the lowest shelf, was a golden nail.

He flicked his wand at it and felt almost giddy with triumph when it slid out and into his hand. Now he just had to get a test message to the other cabinet. He pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket. He’d tried this test two dozen times already, and each time, he’d been sorely disappointed when the note had stubbornly remained in his cabinet instead of transferring to the other. But he had a good feeling about today, about this attempt. The parchment read, simply: Respond if received.

Once the parchment was in the cabinet, he closed the door and said the necessary spell, and then waited five minutes, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. If this worked…if this worked…

He yanked the door open after exactly five minutes and let out a quiet huff of disapointment. The parchment was there, just as it had been before he’d closed the door, folded the exact same way, placed in the exact same spot.

He stared at it mutely for several long moments, as though it might disappear if he simply looked at it long enough. And then he exploded.

He pulled out the parchment and ripped it into a dozen pieces and lit each one on fire. He kicked the cabinet and swore at it, and picked up a stool and sent it flying into the recesses of the room. “Incendio!” he screamed, setting fire to a nearby tapestry and then spraying it with water to put it out. “You blasted cabinet! Why won't you work? Why are you doing this to me?” He felt half-mad, utterly unhinged in a way he rarely was.

He kicked at the cabinet again, and his toe exploded in pain. “Fuck!” He tumbled to the floor and clutched at it. “Ow, damn it,” he moaned, rocking back and forth.

Everything was a disaster. It was all shite. He was going to fail; he was certain of it. He was never going to complete his tasks, and his poor mother…Salazar, how could he do this to her? And he’d be killed soon afterward, surely, and the truth was that he didn’t want to die. He didn’t, Merlin help him. He was only sixteen. He couldn’t just go out, couldn't just disappear in a flash of smoke. It wasn't fucking fair.

He had curled up in a ball and was sobbing on the cold stone floor. The room was dusty and silent, and he was so tired. So tired, and so alone.

Then, suddenly, something touched his shoulder. He exploded to his feet, grasping for his wand and pointing it at the intruder. Then he realized who it was.

Potter had his hands up in the air, and he wasn't holding a wand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry. I just – are you okay?”

Draco stared at him in disbelief.

“Stupid question, of course you aren’t,” Potter said.

“What are you doing here?” he said in a voice that sounded raw and uncertain.

“Followed you in.”

Draco looked at him, at his earnest expression and his shining green eyes, his wild hair and his stupid fucking glasses. And before he could stop himself, he lunged, grabbing Potter’s jumper in his fists. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” he cried, shaking him. “Why the fuck can’t you leave me alone? As though I need one more thing to worry about!” His voice sounded like a sob and that made him even angrier. “I hate you! Merlin, I hate you!” He shoved him at the last, then shoved him again before he could completely steady himself.

Potter managed to not fall over and then just stood there, his eyes wide. Draco hit him harder in the center of the chest. “Stop it,” Potter finally said.

But Draco couldn’t stop it. He kept hitting, with no grace or skill, just lashing out like a wounded animal. “Fucking stop, Malfoy!” Potter yelled, swatting at his hands. They tussled for a moment, and finally Potter grabbed at Draco’s wrists in a lightning-fast move that reminded Draco of why he’d always won at Quidditch. Draco’s wand was flung across the room, and then suddenly, Draco found himself with Potter behind him, yanking his arms back.

“Let go of me, you arsehole,” he said frantically, trying to jerk away.

“Please just relax, okay?” Potter said.

“Let go!” he cried.

“Not until you calm down!”

Draco tried to yank away again and couldn’t; Potter’s grip was like iron. He felt himself dissolving, melting, crumbling. He felt big, fat tears of fury and indignation tumbling over his cheeks. “Let me go,” he said again, this time in a broken whisper.

Potter moved one of his arms, wrapping it around Draco’s chest, pulling him closer. “It’s okay,” he said quietly, his voice shaking a little and so near that Draco felt the words along the sensitive skin of his neck. “You’re okay.”

Draco shook his head and couldn’t speak. His body seemed incapable of supporting him, so weak he feared he might fall. But Potter held him, whispering soothing nonsense while Draco tried to stop crying.

After a while, Potter was pulling at him, guiding him to the floor. He kept an arm around him and soon, the other arm joined the first and Draco fell back against Potter’s chest. He kept his eyes closed. He didn’t want to see any of this. It was too horrible, and he didn’t want to accept that it was real.

It was horrible, and humiliating, and it made him want to die, but it also felt so good he could hardly stand it.

He leaned back against Potter and the world grew quiet and still around them.

Chapter Text

“Of course one kiss changes things. If it's done right, a kiss changes everything.”
― Tessa Dare, Romancing the Duke 

Somehow, unfathomably, Malfoy had fallen asleep in Harry’s arms.

Harry had been acting on pure instinct earlier. It had been like trying to tame a wild beast: Malfoy had been all fever-bright eyes and staccato heart and chaotic, violent motion. Harry was still shocked that it had worked, honestly. And yet, a part of him had known it would, even as he’d done it. Some primal, elemental part of Harry had known what Malfoy needed in that moment and had figured out a way to give it to him.

Malfoy had cried for a long time before passing out, not that Harry’d been keeping track of the minutes. He really had no idea what time it was. They might have been in here for an hour or six or twelve. He had no clue, but that was all right. Time seemed beside the point just now.

Now that Malfoy was asleep, though, Harry didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He’d scooted back until he was leaning against an antique armoire, pulling Malfoy with him, slowly, so as to not wake him. And now they were huddled together there, and Malfoy had turned to the side in his sleep a bit, so that he was curled up against Harry, his cheek against Harry’s chest, his long legs twined around one of Harry’s. His hair was tickling Harry’s nose and it smelled sort of sweet – fruity, like raspberries. And it was soft and downy, like the feathers on Hedwig’s chest.

Harry had taken to running his hand up and down Malfoy’s arm in a slow circuit, because it felt like a thing to do for someone who needed to be comforted.

Merlin, Malfoy was a wreck. Harry’d never, in his wildest imaginings, pictured Malfoy coming quite so unraveled. He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping, his eyes weirdly alert, the circles underneath them dark as bruises. And he’d been so desperate, so frantic.

Harry sighed and pressed his chin into the soft blond hair. It was nice, sitting like this. It wasn’t going to be nice once Malfoy woke up. He’d probably flip out and try to attack Harry again. But for now, Harry felt strangely calm, like he was exactly where he needed to be.

It was some time later when Malfoy finally stirred. His steady breaths lost their rhythm first, and then he shifted almost imperceptibly, and somehow, Harry knew he was awake. He wondered if he ought to stop rubbing Malfoy’s arm. He should, shouldn’t he? It was probably weird that he was doing it at all. But maybe it would be even weirder if he stopped, because that would make it obvious that he was aware of it, and it wasn’t just an absent, mindless gesture.

Malfoy moved his cheek against Harry’s chest, almost nuzzling into it, and Harry forgot to breathe for a moment. He stopped rubbing Malfoy’s arm and cleared his throat. “Are you all right, then?” he managed.

There was a tiny shake of the head beneath his chin, and then Harry felt Malfoy’s arm – the one that had been trapped between them – sliding around to encircle Harry’s waist and grip the back of his jumper.

His skin was prickling with anticipation, the tempo of his heartrate quick-quick. “Do you, erm. I mean, can I get you anything?” he asked stupidly.

Another little shake of his head, more hair tickling Harry’s chin.

Then Malfoy finally moved, sitting up and turning to face Harry. Malfoy’s huge grey eyes blinked at him. There was a bit of sleep in the corner of one, and Malfoy’s left cheek was bright pink and had the woven pattern of Harry’s jumper imprinted on it.

“You didn’t have to get up,” Harry said, feeling hot. “That’s not why I said that.”

Malfoy said nothing, only looked at Harry curiously. His eyes were round and more guileless than Harry’d ever seen them. They were luminous as stars, too, molten silver in the dim light of the room.

Slowly, a little furrow between his brows, Malfoy raised a hand and put it on Harry’s chest, against the too-big jumper he’d been using as a pillow. He’d shoved Harry in almost that exact spot earlier today, but the way he was touching it now was as gentle as that shove had been fierce. Malfoy stared at his hand like he couldn’t believe where it had landed, and then he moved it slowly up along the fabric, making Harry’s pulse gallop, and finally rested it so his thumb was on Harry’s cheek, the rest of his fingers lined up along the side of Harry’s neck. Harry felt the weight of Malfoy’s fingertips throughout his body, felt his stomach muscles tighten in response.

“Malfoy –“ he began.

“Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy said absently. He slid his thumb from Harry’s cheek, letting it glide softly over Harry’s lips. His eyes were so bright.

Harry sucked in a breath. “What –”

“I said, shut up, Potter.”

Harry realized what Malfoy was going to do a split-second before he did it. He realized it, and yet he stayed right where he was.

In his more cynical, bitter moments down the road, he’d tell himself that Malfoy had started the whole thing, that it was entirely Malfoy’s fault. He’d tell himself that he had been clueless – hadn’t even known what was going to happen before Malfoy had sprung it on him.

But there was a deeper truth, even when he told himself those lies. And the truth was that he knew what was going to happen and that he wanted it to happen. The truth was that he stayed utterly still as Malfoy shifted towards him.

There was even a final pause, a chance to stop before it was too late. Malfoy stalled when he was very close, waiting for one long, breathless moment, his lips only an inch away from Harry’s. Harry could feel the brush of Malfoy’s nose against his cheek, the tickle of his breath. But they hadn’t kissed yet; he could have backed away.

He didn’t.

Malfoy’s kiss didn’t feel like a thing that could have possibly come from him, because he was all brutal angles and sharp tongue and jagged edges, while the kiss was feather-light and shiver-soft. Harry shut his eyes tightly and breathed in Malfoy’s sweetness, felt the warmth of his body everywhere they touched. The air between them seemed to shimmer, every slow movement of Malfoy’s lips over his sending a hum of electricity across his skin. His stomach swooped like a gull diving towards water when Malfoy’s tongue coaxed his mouth open.

He made a weird, desperate sort of noise then, and he was a little embarrassed, but it felt so good that he couldn’t stay embarrassed for long. And soon, Malfoy’s hands were in his hair, and every root his fingers touched seemed to tingle like mad, and Harry made another embarrassing noise, and then Malfoy huffed a tiny laugh into Harry’s mouth. “Merlin,” he said, and the way he said it made Harry laugh, too, made everything in him thrum with happiness. “You actually like it.”

Harry wasn’t really wanting to think about the fact that he liked it, or what that might mean, and words seemed a bit beyond him anyway, so he only hummed in response as Malfoy’s tongue slid tantalizingly over his, as Malfoy’s fingers sought out skin beneath the hem of his jumper.

He was so sensitive there, at his stomach, and he found himself trembling and making unchecked noises again as Malfoy’s fingers skated over it, tickling and maddening. No one had ever touched him like this, and it felt like such a secret, private spot. A vulnerable place, soft and defenseless, with no bony armor to protect it.

There was a feeling growing in his hips, a hot, sharp ache, and his whole body felt liquid and malleable, languid and on edge all at once. He felt starved, needing to touch more of Malfoy’s skin, wanting to feel wrist and thigh and throat beneath the heels of his palms.

And yet, when Malfoy reached a hand down into his jeans, Harry jerked away, eyes wide, his heart thumping so loudly he could hear it.

Malfoy was breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and lips bright pink, feathery blond hair mussed. “What?” he asked.

Harry swallowed, reality rushing in on him from all sides at once, nearly knocking him over. “I can’t –” he began. He got up on shaking legs. “I can’t.”

And then he fled, like a coward. He, who had faced basilisks and trolls and Voldemort, rushed out of the room, and then ran all the way to the Gryffindor Tower as though he were being chased.

But Malfoy wasn’t chasing him. In fact, it hadn’t even occurred to him to follow Harry in that moment.

Instead, he remained in the Room of Requirement, touching hesitant fingertips to his kiss-chapped lips and trying to understand what had just happened.

Draco started out bewildered and embarrassed. By the time he left the Room of Requirement, he was furious.

How dare Potter stalk him all over the bloody castle, force himself on Draco and hold him close for hours, kiss him like that and make those sounds and then bolt out of the room, a look of revulsion written across his face?

Draco wished he’d cast at him before he’d run out. Just a stinging hex, at least. Some small measure of revenge. Something.

He crawled into bed, consoling himself with the notion that fixing the Vanishing Cabinet would be revenge enough. He’d fix it, and then Potter and all his pathetic Gryffindor groupies would be sorry. They’d be sorry they’d ever crossed him.

“Malfoy.”

Draco rolled away from the sound, muttering something about chocolate frogs.

“Malfoy.”

He bolted upright and grabbed for his wand.

“I have it,” Potter said, holding it up. “Sorry. I was a little worried you might try to curse me.”

“I’d love to,” Draco replied. “Get out of my fucking bed, Potter.”

“No. I need to talk to you,” he said.

“I don’t want to talk to you. Get out.”

“No,” Potter said, mule-like.

Draco let out a huff of frustration and slapped his hands against the blankets.

“Listen, I –” Potter began awkwardly. He was lighting the canopy with the tip of his own wand, which glowed warm over the planes and angles of his face. He was in plaid pajamas. Draco stared at them, fascinated by the notion that Potter wore pajamas, like a regular person. “I wanted to apologize. For leaving. I didn’t mean to, it’s only that I didn’t know –”  He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and worried at it. “I didn’t know what to think.”

“It was perfectly clear what you thought. And I don’t care,” Draco said. “I hadn’t slept, and I was practically delirious. I had no idea what I was doing. I’m relieved you left. The memory of it is awful enough already; thank Merlin nothing else happened.”

Potter’s face fell. “You don’t have to be nasty about it.”

“You’re the one who ran out of the bloody room looking like you might sick up all over the place,” Draco said before he could think better of it. He adopted a bored, imperious expression to indicate that even if Potter had looked like that, Draco didn’t give a shit.

“That’s not how I was feeling at all,” Potter said fervently. “I’ve just never done…that. Merlin, you’re only the second person I’ve even kissed, and the only…” he trailed off.

“Boy?”

Potter nodded a little stiffly.

Draco could feel himself losing his grip on his fury, even as he tried to keep hold of it. “Who else?”

Potter made a face. “Cho Chang. She – well, it’s a long story. It was terrible, though.”

“Oh,” Draco said. He wasn’t sure what else to say. The boy he hated more than anyone else in the entire universe was here, in his bed, in pajamas, telling Draco about his first kiss. The world seemed to have turned on its head.

“So, anyway, I wanted to say sorry, and I also wanted to ask you what you were so upset about. You never said.”

Draco stared at him. “I’m not going to tell you just because we –” He shook his head. “You’re mad. I’m not about to confide in you, Potter.”

Potter frowned, his thick eyebrows knitting together at the middle. “I thought I might be able to help.”

Draco let out a burst of laughter. “Help? You are mad.”

“Look,” Potter said, annoyed. “I know you’re doing something for –”

He was cut off as Draco shoved a hand over his mouth. “Do not say that name.” If Potter said it, the Mark would burn. And when the Mark burned, a channel opened between Draco and the Dark Lord, and lingered until the Dark Lord chose to close it.

Potter threw him off. “I don’t care about saying it. I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be, you fucking imbecile,” Draco snapped.

“Well, I’m not. Anyway, I know you’re doing something for him. And for some reason, it has you panicked. I’m not about to help you finish whatever job you’ve been assigned, good lord. Of course I’m not.” He glared, briefly. “Fuck you for even thinking I might.” Then he tilted his head, his eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks, moss-green eyes shining with confidence. “But I would be willing to help you, keep you safe or whatever, if you’re in danger.”

“There’s nothing you could do,” Draco said dully. He’d been so distracted by the madness with Potter today that he hadn’t really been thinking about how completely fucked he was. It came back to him very quickly.

“There might be. I’ve faced off against him before. I could do it again.”

Draco could not believe his arrogance, he really couldn’t. If he only knew, if he’d seen some of the things Draco had seen over the summer… “You were lucky. And he was weak then. He’s much stronger now.”

“So am I,” Potter said, setting his jaw.

“You’re delusional,” Draco said.

“What happens, if you don’t do whatever it is you’re trying to do?” Potter asked softly, looking at him with unnerving concern.

Perhaps it was that Potter's look took him by surprise. Or perhaps it was that Potter had sneaked into his bed in his pajamas. Or there might’ve been some other reason, some subliminal thing that caused Draco to blurt out, “He’ll kill my mother. Or, no, first, he’ll let her be brutalized. Then he’ll kill her. And then he’ll kill me.”

Potter recoiled. “But your parents are his loyal supporters,” he said, sounding horrified. “Your father is in Azkaban for it.”

“He doesn’t view it that way,” Draco said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “He views it as failure.”

Potter looked away for a while, and Draco could see his jaw working, the muscle flexing. Then Potter set his wand down on Draco’s bedspread, so that the point still illuminated the space under the canopy, and took Draco’s hand. Draco thought for a single instant that he was going to just hold it, and could hardly breathe around the feeling that stirred inside of him.

Instead, Potter slowly pushed up the sleeve of Draco’s navy pajama top. He was gentle. It was the gentleness that kept Draco still.

His Dark Mark was revealed inch-by-inch. Potter didn’t flinch away; he didn’t even look surprised. “I’d hoped I was wrong,” he said quietly.

Draco felt, for the first time since he’d had the Mark spelled into his flesh, a prickle of shame. He’d been thrilled by the Mark at first, by the status and power he imagined it lent him. Then, later, when he was on his way to Hogwarts, he was afraid he’d get into trouble over it. He’d hidden it all year because of that – because he was trying to avoid the punishment that would undoubtedly accompany its discovery. But in all that time, he’d never been ashamed. He’d always considered it a badge of honor, signifying his worthiness. It hadn’t been offered to Greg, or Vince, or even Theo, despite the fact that their parents were also Death Eaters. It had only been offered to Draco.

He was special, chosen, prized. Marked.

But now, looking at Potter’s face, he had the urge to hide it for an entirely different reason.

“Why?” Potter asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Because it was an honor, that he was willing to do it in the first place. I’m the youngest. By nearly a decade.” It was true. He was.

Potter ran a rough finger over the thick black lines and Draco shivered at the feel of it, and at the sight of The Boy Who Lived touching the wicked-looking skull. “Do you really believe that?”

“Of course,” Draco said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Potter looked up at him. “Because maybe some part of you knows it's wrong. What he’s doing.”

Draco yanked his arm away and covered it, then folded his arms around himself. “I’ll admit that his methods are a bit more…violent than I might prefer,” he said haltingly. “But something has to be done. We’re losing our culture. Our identity. It’s not right, the way we’ve hidden ourselves away, the way we let them take so much from us –”

“Them?”

“The Muggles,” Draco said, wondering how it was he didn’t understand this. Even a half-blood like him should understand the wrongness of the way they lived - in fear, cloistered away - when they ought to have been the ones in charge.

“Oh,” Potter said. “What have they taken?”

“Sweet Merlin, Potter. Land, for starters. Control over the country. Wealth. Even our magic. How do you explain Mudbloods when –”

“Don’t call them that!” Potter exploded, making Draco flinch. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, but you can’t say that. At least not around me, or I’m not going to talk to you about it anymore.”

“You’re the one who came here to talk to me,” Draco said. “It’s my bloody bed.”

Potter scrubbed his hands over his face. “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have come,” he said, sounding flat. Draco didn’t like it.

“Well, you had to apologize. You were rude earlier.”

Potter let out a strangled laugh. “Rude, was I? I suppose I was.”

Draco shouldn’t ask; he knew he shouldn’t. But he had always been greedy, especially when it came to compliments. “Did you hate it? Earlier, I mean. Was it as horrible as the one with Cho?”

Potter’s eyes widened and he pushed his glasses further up his nose. There was a smudge near the corner of one lens and Draco had the urge to wipe it away. “Erm. No.”

“Just a little bit horrible?”

He laughed, and then looked surprised by that, too. “No, you tosser. I think you know it wasn’t.”

“So you did, then,” Draco pressed.

“Did what?”

“Like it.”

Draco saw Potter’s throat work as he swallowed. And he realized, suddenly, that there was power in this. What happened between them had softened Potter towards him, enough that he’d come here offering protection. It had made Potter weak.

“Yeah,” Potter finally said, his voice a little rough. “I did.”

“You know, you could have lied to me, if you didn’t want to admit that,” Draco said, raising a brow at him.

“I don’t like to lie if I can help it,” Potter said.

Draco wanted to laugh at him for it, for his naivete, his simple-mindedness. But he couldn’t quite manage, somehow.

“How about you?” Potter asked, looking terrified of the answer.

Power, Draco thought again. He held sway over Potter in a way he never had before. Potter cared what he thought. He could hurt Potter now, he realized; he could say something cruel in response to his question. But then he would lose his toehold of control.

On the other hand, he could choose to nourish the thing between them. He could be kind, and watch it grow. He saw no downside to this.

“Did I like it?” Draco began, his voice light. He let out a chuckle. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Potter said.

“Potter, I don’t tend to do anything I don’t want to do. If I hadn’t liked it, I would have stopped. And if you’ll recall, I didn’t. You were the one who ran out of there. And if you hadn’t, I don’t know that I ever would’ve stopped, to be honest with you.” He said it lightly again, casually, as though they were talking about Quidditch scores and not the fact that Draco had tried to shove his hand down Potter’s trousers.

Potter exhaled shakily, his pink lips parting. They looked wet, like he’d been licking them. “Oh,” he said. He seemed to have no idea what to do next.

Draco didn’t really either, but Potter’s cluelessness gave him courage. “You know, if you ever wanted to, we could try it again.”

Chapter Text

Potter stared at him. “You’d – you’d want to?”

“Maybe,” Draco said, giving him a smile that was half smirk.

“Do you, um. Do that a lot? I mean, with other people?”

Draco considered him, wondering what he would like to hear. The truth seemed irrelevant; what seemed important was how Potter saw him and wanted to see him. “Not really,” he said. “No.” It just so happened that what he suspected Potter wanted to hear was also the truth.

Potter looked down at his hands. “You seemed to know what you were doing.”

“So did you,” Draco said.

Potter grinned at that – it had been the right thing to say. He also turned pink – high on his cheeks and down his neck. “Shut up,” he said. “No, I didn’t.”

“Did,” Draco said. “If you hadn’t told me you’d only kissed Cho before, I’d have assumed you’d gone around snogging half of our class.”

“Whatever,” Potter said, running a hand over his hair and mucking it up even more than it was already mucked.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Potter said, meeting his eyes again. Salazar, they were so green.

“Would you want to do that again?”

“Um…I guess, if you want to. We could – we could try, like you said.”

He looked so nervous that Draco had to laugh. “It’s not a death sentence, Potter. It’s a snog. It’s supposed to be fun.”

“So I’ve heard,” he said, giving a little smile.

“You weren’t nervous last time,” Draco pointed out.

“We didn’t sit around talking about it for an eternity last time,” Potter said.

“Ah,” Draco said. “I see.” He took a moment to look at Potter, at the nervous fidgeting of his hands, at the flush spread over his cheeks, at his messy hair. It was almost too much, seeing the wizarding world’s chosen one off-kilter in this way, all his obscene power and gritty determination subsumed by flustered, anxious lust. “Close your eyes,” Draco said.

Potter sucked in a breath and then closed his eyes, lashes fluttering down to his cheeks. They were incredibly long and soot-dark. Draco took a moment to marvel over the fact that Potter had obeyed. He’d done what Draco had told him to do, even though it left him quite vulnerable.

Draco leaned closer and ran the tip of his nose over Potter’s cheek, let his breath and lips brush over his ear. Potter let out a shaking breath but didn’t open his eyes.

Draco kissed the spot just below the earlobe, letting his tongue flicker out against Potter’s skin, and felt a shiver run along Potter’s body in response.

He raised a hand to Potter’s ear and slid a finger softly along the edge of it, tracing the curve of it, then trailed his fingers lower, down the side of his neck. He watched as Potter’s lips parted, as he inhaled.

His mouth was pink and curved, and Draco wanted to touch it. And he could, so he did. He traced the round line of Potter’s full lower lip with a finger, then kissed it gently, briefly, before licking a little trail over the surface, just teasing. Potter tried to catch his mouth, but Draco had already pulled away and replaced his mouth with his fingertips again, so Potter ended up kissing those instead. Potter grinned, his eyes still closed. “You’re just toying with me now,” he said.

“It’s supposed to be fun, remember?” Draco said, removing Potter’s glasses and setting them carefully aside.

“Yes, of course,” Potter said. “Silly me.” Draco’s mouth was close to Potter’s again, then, so that Potter could feel him near, could feel his breath.

Draco licked over Potter’s mouth again, and this time Potter’s lips opened at the touch, and Draco’s tongue caught along the top one and Potter made a little whining sound.  

Then it was over to the other side of his neck, kissing and then letting his teeth scratch gently at delicate flesh.

“Merlin, Malfoy,” Potter whispered. He was squirming in place, his breath catching, his body reacting to Draco’s every touch. He was a live wire, on edge, practically vibrating with want. It was one of the best things Draco’d ever seen in his life.

Draco finally relented and kissed him soundly, dispensing with the teasing and letting himself get lost in sensation, in the taste of him.

Potter didn’t seem nervous now; he seemed hardly able to control himself. He kissed Draco feverishly, deeply, his hands cupping Draco’s jaw, bringing their mouths together hard enough to bruise. And soon, he was taking charge, pressing Draco back onto the bed with a sudden confidence that was dizzying.

Draco was having a hard time keeping any thoughts in his head. He kept telling himself to reassert control over the pace, over the positioning, but then Potter would make a sound or rake his fingers through Draco’s hair, and Draco would forget.

After a while, he forgot to think about it altogether. There was only Potter’s mouth, and his startlingly green eyes on Draco’s when they occasionally pulled back to breathe and look at one another. There were only Potter’s hands, broad and rough from Quidditch, driving Draco mad with the way they skated over his skin so deftly and almost reverently. There was only the heavy, reassuring weight of him, draped over Draco’s own body, the press of their hips together, the evidence, so obvious, of how much they both wanted it.

Finally, Draco said, without knowing why he was saying it, exactly, “You’re ridiculously good at this.”

Potter pulled away a little, his eyes searching Draco’s. “Yeah?”

Draco nodded, then let out a sigh as Potter kissed his throat, rolling his hips up, feeling a curl of pleasure as he ground his cock against Potter's thigh. “I would let you,” he murmured.

Potter was still for a moment and then he resumed kissing up the side of Draco’s neck. “Let me what?”

“Anything, I think.” If Potter ripped off his clothes, he’d let him. He’d help, for Merlin’s sake. If Potter wanted to use his mouth, or touch his cock, or anything, he’d give himself over willingly.

It was a disturbing notion. He tried to get ahold of himself a little, to think, but he felt like a black hole of desire, like it was annihilating every other thing in him, leaving him an aching, yearning mess.

“Anything,” Potter repeated, sounding breathless. “God.” He swallowed, pressing his body against Draco’s and letting out a low moan. “Anything I wanted. I don’t even –” he shook his head slightly. “Malfoy, you can’t just say that, when I’m so…” He trailed off, then kissed Draco’s mouth hotly. Then he pulled off a little, his eyes back on Draco’s. “No, we don’t have to – um. I’m okay with this, I swear. What we’re doing. I like this. This is fine.”

Draco was weirdly disappointed. “Okay,” he said, and then decided he had made a fool of himself. He’d revealed to Potter how needy he was, how much he wanted him. He shouldn’t have done that, not if Potter didn’t feel the same way. “I should get some sleep anyway. I’m tired.”

“Oh, right,” Potter said, pausing for a moment and then sliding off Draco and onto the mattress, facing him. “Right. I’m sorry. I knew you were tired, and I came in here and – I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Draco said.

Potter touched Draco’s cheek with the pads of his fingers. “What? What is it? What’s wrong?” He sounded concerned, like he cared about the answer.

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s only – everyone will be back in four days. You know this can’t continue then, don’t you?”

He’d said it on purpose, to hurt; revenge for his embarrassment. He knew it even as the words left his mouth. And then he immediately wanted to take it back.

“Oh,” Potter said, looking down at the bedding. “Of course not. That makes sense.”

Draco wondered what he was even doing. Lashing out irrationally, putting something between them that he didn’t want there. But this was all irrational, wasn’t it? None of it was planned. He had no plan at all.  From the beginning, he’d been flying blind. He hadn’t intended to kiss Potter in the Room of Requirement. And then afterward, he’d told himself it had been an experiment of sorts, just something to try. He’d wanted to see how it felt, to know. For curiosity’s sake.

And he hadn’t planned on this, that was for sure. He hadn’t planned on Potter coming in. He hadn’t planned to talk Potter into snogging him again, or on feeling so exposed in the aftermath. He hadn’t planned on wanting Potter this much. And he hadn’t planned on lashing out, or on how Potter’s disappointment would feel like a bludger to his gut.

“Potter –” he said, reaching for his hand.

But Potter was sitting up, out of reach. “I’ll let you be, yeah?”

“Okay,” Draco said. Tell him you didn’t mean it! Tell him you want to keep touching him!

“Goodnight, Malfoy. I hope you get some rest,” Potter said, before sweeping the invisibility cloak over himself. Draco watched the curtains of the bed part, saw the door to his room swing open and then close again.

He fell back onto his pillows, wanting more than anything to rewind the last few minutes and try again. “Draco, you’re a fucking idiot,” he murmured to himself.

The next day, Potter sat down beside him in the Great Hall at breakfast. Nobody was there, really – two younger students at the Ravenclaw table and one seventh year at the Hufflepuff table, plus a handful of professors. Snape was one of them, and he definitely noticed, and was staring. Draco found himself getting hot and flustered. “What are you doing?” Draco asked.

“I want you to tell me what you have to do. For him, I mean. I can’t help you if I don’t know what it is. The way I see it, we can find a way around it, you know?”

Draco stared at him. “You realize I volunteered for this, don’t you? I’m not trying to figure out a way around it. I’m trying to actually do it. I want to do it.”

“I don’t think you do,” Potter said, his mouth forming a grim line.

“Yes, well, you’re stupid.”

“Is that all you’re eating?” Potter asked, ignoring Draco’s insult.

Draco glanced down at the piece of toast on his plate. “Yes.”

“No, have some sausage or something. Do you like sausage?”

“I like sausage just fine, but –”

Potter put two links on his plate and then put a spoonful of berries there, too. “And everybody likes fruit.”

“Potter, I don’t need you to make my plate for me. I’m not five.”

Potter let out a chuckle. “No, but you’re way too skinny and you hardly eat anymore. Somebody has to remind you. Since your friends aren’t here, it’ll have to be me.”

Draco scowled.

“Tell me, Malfoy. Please.”

“No.”

Potter's brows furrowed. “I swear I won’t do anything to get you in trouble. I promise. And I won’t tell a soul without asking your permission.”

“No!”

“You’re being stubborn.”

“And you’re being annoying. Leave me be.”

Potter’s jaw flexed, and his green eyes burned. “No.” He reached over and made up his own plate, piling up miniature muffins and scones and bacon and sausage and eggs and tomatoes. “What are you doing today?”

“Taking a stroll around the lake,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “What the bloody fuck do you think I’m doing?”

“Hanging out with me in the Room of Requirement,” Potter said, shoveling food into his mouth.

Draco let out a growl of frustration and shoved a sausage into his mouth, chewing angrily. “You’re such a bastard. If you actually wanted to help me, you’d leave me alone.”

“Let me actively help you, for fuck’s sake.”

“No,” Draco said, swallowing down a glass of juice.

“I know how he works, Malfoy. I know him. He’s –” Potter stopped talking, then looked around. “He’s in my head,” he said quietly.

Draco felt a thrill of fear. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Potter considered him, like he was weighing his words carefully. “My scar,” he finally said. “It serves as some sort of connection to him. Sometimes I hear him. Hear things that are happening, or feel his emotions. I know him, Malfoy. I know about his past. I understand him. Whatever he’s got you doing, I can help you figure out how to get around it. I won’t get you in trouble. I swear it.”

Well, if that wasn’t concerning as fuck.

Potter’s eyes were lit up from the inside, like holy fire, and his hands were curled into fists. Draco had the sudden thought that this boy who had hated him up until literally yesterday might honestly do whatever it took to keep him safe. It should have been a comfort, perhaps, but instead it made Draco feel deeply unsettled and a little disgusted. Whether the disgust was aimed at Potter or himself, he wasn’t sure. “I don’t want your help, damn you,” he ground out.

“I didn’t ask you if you wanted it. You’re getting it. I’m just asking you to make the whole thing easier on both of us.”

Draco looked around the room. Professor Snape’s eyes were on them, piercing and dark, and the Headmaster was also looking, his fuzzy white brows furrowed with concern.

“Fuck. Off,” Draco hissed, and then shot up from his seat and walked out.

Harry strolled into the Room of Requirement in the early afternoon. “Hello,” he said. “You weren’t at lunch. I brought you a sandwich.” He set it down on a little table.

Malfoy was kneeling next to the tall cabinet, looking frustrated. He said nothing, didn’t even acknowledge Harry.

Harry knelt beside him. He wanted to shake him, tell him to stop being so unreasonable. He also wanted to stop caring, to walk out of the room and let Malfoy dig his own grave. He ought to do that. Part of him wondered why the hell he even cared. So they’d kissed; so what?

But he couldn’t.

Hermione always said he had a hero complex, and maybe he did. But, Merlin help him, he couldn’t leave Malfoy now. Not when he’d seen him so terrified and desperate yesterday (had that only been yesterday? It seemed ages ago). Not when he knew what Malfoy felt like underneath him, or what his mouth tasted like. And not when he’d seen Malfoy’s certainty waver when Harry had said he knew Malfoy didn’t actually want to do whatever it was he was doing. Malfoy had doubts. Harry was sure of it.

“I know it has to do with this cabinet,” Harry said calmly. “And you tried putting a note in there yesterday. So, the way I see it, this cabinet must be linked to something. It must be a way to send messages back and forth. Is that it?”

Malfoy still didn’t say anything, just slid the bottom shelf back into place.

“And it’s not working, obviously, since the note was still in there when you opened it back up, and that upset you.”

Nothing.

“So, you’re still trying to make it work. That’s what you’re doing.”

Malfoy pointed his wand at a little square piece of wood and muttered a spell, attaching it to the interior of the cabinet to hold the shelf still. He sat back on his heels and frowned.

“Draco,” he said, putting his hand on the other boy’s arm.

“Don’t touch me,” Malfoy growled.

“Oh, we’re not allowed to touch each other today?” he said, trying to keep the anger from his voice and failing. “Yesterday, it was fine, but today, it’s off limits? Who gets to make that decision? I wasn’t quite sure about whether I wanted to touch you yesterday, but I wasn’t given much of a choice.”

Eyes the color of rainclouds narrowed. “That was different, now, wasn’t it. You want to touch me like that? Use me? I told you that you could.”

Harry felt himself recoil. “What? No. I –”

“You fucking liar,” Malfoy said. “You want to use me to get off and that makes you feel bad about yourself. Guilty. Sound right so far?”

Harry, horror sweeping over him, shook his head.

“So, instead of accepting that you’re a selfish arsehole who thinks with his prick just like everybody else, you tell yourself that what you really want is to help me. That I need to be rescued. That way, you don’t have to face the truth.”

“And what is the truth, then, Malfoy?” Harry managed. “Since you know everything.”

Malfoy smiled, slow and cruel. “You want to use me. You hate me, but you want to use me, maybe even fuck me. And you hate that you want it, but you do. Deep down, I don’t even think you want to do it nicely. I think you want to hurt me. I think you fucking despise me. And I think that terrifies you.” He chuckled, running his hand up Harry’s thigh. Harry brushed his hand away. “Hence, all this drivel. Pretend it’s rooted in altruism, and you can sleep at night, eh Potter?”

“You’re fucked up for even thinking that,” Harry said. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t. He didn’t want to hurt Malfoy. And he did want to help him. He sincerely felt sympathy for him ever since yesterday, when he’d seen him crying on the floor, looking broken.

But.

But he had thought about using him. About having sex with him. He’d never thought about doing that with another boy – not ever – until yesterday. But when Malfoy had said that Harry could do whatever he wanted, he’d thought about that. Just for a moment, but still. And he’d thought about doing it roughly, just like Malfoy said. Just for a moment, he’d let the scene play out in his mind, and he’d enjoyed it. He’d pushed the thoughts quickly away after that, but they’d been there all the same.

“Am I?” Malfoy said, raising a white-blond eyebrow, a brittle, hard smile curling up one corner of his mouth. “Then tell me to stop.” He pointed his wand at Harry and Harry was flying backwards, bracing himself for the pain when his head hit the stone floor, but instead it was soft. Cushioned.

In an instant, Malfoy was climbing over him, straddling him. He looked down at Harry and moved atop him, dragging himself over Harry’s cock. And despite everything, it felt good. Harry closed his eyes and let out a huff of air before trying to sit up.

But Malfoy pushed him back down, and then, suddenly, his hand was cracking across Harry’s cheek, and it was a moment before the hurt registered. “Ow, what the – stop that!” Harry cried.

But Malfoy hit him again, just as hard, looking furious. “Do you like me, Potter?” he asked. “Do you want to help? Do you want to take care of me?”

Then he was reaching up under Harry’s jumper and pinching his side so hard Harry was certain he was going to tear the skin off. “Fuck’s sake!” he cried, pushing Malfoy off and trying to hold him still. But Malfoy wasn’t having it, and he slapped at Harry and snarled and hit. Harry grabbed hold of his wrists and pinned them over his head, and before he could stop himself, he was kissing him, and Malfoy was writhing underneath him, and then biting his lip, and there was more pain, and blood.

Harry kissed him harder, everything coppery and slick, and realized he was dragging his prick over Malfoy’s prick as he kissed him, and Malfoy was rolling his hips up even as he fought, and that the sounds he was making were softer now, more like moans than anything.

Then Malfoy was wrenching his hands free and grabbing at Harry’s jumper, then at his arse, trying frantically to get him closer.

“See?” he whispered in Harry’s ear. “I told you. You need to stop making it into something it’s not.”

Harry let out a groan of frustration. “Why are you like this?”

Malfoy threw his head back and laughed. His teeth were pink with blood and he looked drunk even though Harry knew he wasn’t. “Why’re you?”

Harry scowled down at him. “Fine, then. Just shut up if you're going to be a dick about everything.” Then he kissed him, which was so much easier than talking, as it turned out, and soon he was pulling at Malfoy’s long legs, lifting them up and positioning them around his waist, and they were rocking together, creating the loveliest friction between them, and Harry closed his eyes against it all, and didn’t let himself do anything but feel. He felt the tight heat of Malfoy’s mouth as he licked into it, the prickle of pain as Malfoy dug his nails into the skin along Harry’s back, and then the building pressure in his hips and his cock.

They both came in their trousers, Malfoy first, and then Harry. It felt like flying and also like he was dying in the sweetest way possible.  It was exquisite in its intensity and in the way it swept everything from his head, leaving him empty and full of light. He kissed Malfoy mindlessly afterward, almost tenderly, and they breathed each other’s air, and Harry opened his eyes and looked into Malfoy's and felt like he was falling.

And then he disentangled himself from Malfoy and stood. And then he walked out of the room without another word.

He made his way to the Gryffindor Common Room where he spelled his trousers clean and then curled up on one of the couches, clutching a pillow to his chest.

He’d never done that with anybody before. He’d only ever done it in the privacy of his bed after lights out, thinking of nothing except the feel of his own hand. He’d shared something more intimate with Malfoy than he ever had with anyone, and it had been awful. It had been absolutely horrible, and it had also felt so good that he felt like he might cry. His face and his back and the place where Malfoy had pinched him and his knees were sore, and his mouth still tasted like blood.

Chapter Text

"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I'll meet you there."

- Rumi, A Great Wagon

The morning of New Years’ Eve, Draco was lying in bed in his empty room, thinking about a boy he’d known called Simon.

When Draco was seven, Simon came to Malfoy Manor with his mother, Ms. Pepperdine, who was Draco’s French and Latin tutor. Simon was also seven. He was a wizard but would not go to Hogwarts because his mother didn’t believe it was good for magical children to live apart from the rest of the world. Draco thought that was rubbish, but he didn’t tell his parents she’d said that, because he knew they’d fire her, and she was nicer than most of his tutors.

Simon was different from his parents’ friends’ children. He wore jeans and t-shirts and scruffy shoes that Draco learned were called trainers. Draco thought it all looked very odd since he’d never seen muggle clothes before. Simon brought books with him – muggle books – and read them while Ms. Pepperdine drilled Draco on past tenses. Draco would peek at the covers, and secretly wish he could read them, too.

After his lessons were over, Ms. Pepperdine would stay for a while to check his work and plan for the next day, and Simon would keep reading, until one day, he asked Draco to play.

Draco did not particularly want to play with this strangely-dressed, muggle-loving boy, but he was alone in the Manor without other children so often that he said yes. And as it turned out, Simon was great fun. He was a quick, bright boy, always thinking up interesting games and telling funny jokes (some of them quite disgusting, much to Draco’s delight). Soon, Draco was begging Ms. Pepperdine to let Simon stay for longer and longer, and then he was asking his mother if Simon could come over on the days that Ms. Pepperdine wasn’t even scheduled.

His mother was tolerant of this, and looking back, Draco thought she must’ve known that he was lonely. Simon was a pureblood, at least, even though his family fell under the same blood-traitor umbrella as the Weasleys. Their blood was technically pure, but they were weirdly unconcerned with keeping it that way. Still, he was better than the other children who lived nearby, like the Quimby boy across the river, who was a half-blood with a muggle for a mother, or the little girl down the long lane who was a squib, and whose family was poor.

When summer arrived, and Simon no longer had school taking up his time five days a week, he came to the Manor in the mornings, sometimes with Ms. Pepperdine, sometimes not. Simon and Draco ranged around the property, building forts and making bridges over the river with sticks and rocks (thankfully, the river was quite shallow in places, or they probably would’ve drowned). They tried to catch the gleaming white peacocks that haunted the hedge mazes and swam and fished in the muddy-brown pond. And sometimes, when they were tired, they sat in the shade of the enormous oaks on the big hill and told each other stories. Some of the stories were real ones, and some were made up on the spot.

It was the best summer of Draco’s life. The days were long and bright, and full of endless possibilities. The sprawling Malfoy estate, which Draco had always taken for granted, was suddenly a wonderland, full of neglected stone foundations and mysterious copses, hidden glades and trickling creeks, and crooked headstones that were surely haunted.

And Simon was his best friend; they’d decided. They’d cut their palms and mixed their blood together and taken a very serious oath. They told each other secrets and riddles and did pinkie swears. When Simon’s dog Mathilda was hit by a car, Draco listened to the story and then hugged him as he cried. When Draco’s grandmother died, he didn’t cry at all until he told Simon, and then it was like a faucet had been turned on, but Simon didn’t seem to mind.

Draco adored him and thought of little else. Simon was smaller than he was, with curly brown hair and a dusting of freckles over his nose. Draco liked looking at his face, especially in the sun, when his brown eyes looked almost gold. His whole life was Simon, and when they weren’t together, Draco was counting down the minutes until they could be.

And then one day – an ordinary summer day, just like all the others – they were out in the meadow picking daisies to make chains for their mothers. It was particularly hot out, so they took a break on the big hill beneath the oaks, spreading out and trying to work up the energy to head to the pond for a swim. They were holding hands.

It was something they did, sometimes, especially since the day they’d taken the blood oath. It felt special, for those scars to touch. Touching another person felt good altogether.

Draco’s parents weren’t physically affectionate except for the occasional kiss on the cheek from his mother or pat on the back from his father. Carrying on the way other families did was beneath them. But Simon and his mother hugged all the time, and he even held her hand when they walked up the drive together, and so when he held Draco’s, it never seemed strange. Draco grew to like it.

And it all would have been fine, except that Draco’s father, having gotten the sudden urge to bring Draco along with him to Diagon Alley, had come outside looking for him. And he found his son sprawled out in a pile of daisies, holding another boy’s hand and looking smitten.

He asked Draco to please come with him, in that supremely calm voice that always meant trouble. Simon trailed along after them, his dark eyebrows furrowed. Draco didn’t know what Father was angry about, necessarily, but he could tell that he was. He wondered if he’d somehow found out that Simon went to a muggle school.

But his father never said anything about it at all, just took Draco to Diagon and sent Simon home. He hardly spoke to Draco as they ran errands, but that wasn’t unusual. His father only spoke to him when he needed to, and wasn’t one for idle chit-chat. Draco began to wonder whether he had actually been angry at all; perhaps he’d imagined it.

But his mother brought it up the next day. “Darling,” she said at breakfast, adjusting the napkin on her lap before taking a sip of tea. She always ate one piece of toast and drank a cup of tea with lemon, not milk. “You’re getting bigger now. I know you’re an affectionate boy, and you care about your friends, but there are things that simply aren’t done. You cannot hold Simon’s hand the way you did yesterday. Do you understand?”

“No,” Draco said, confused. He was being honest, not trying to back talk. “Why?”

His mother looked uncomfortable. “Well. It just isn’t the way boys behave together. It’s rather improper.”

That seemed stupid. “But I love him. He’s my best friend.”

She frowned at this, and Draco wished he hadn’t spoken. “Well, yes, I know he’s your good friend. But friendship and love are not the same thing. It’s okay to say he’s your friend, but it’s not okay to say that you love him.”

“Oh,” Draco said. He wasn’t exactly sure what the difference was, but he figured it must be an important one.

“You know, he has to go back to school in a week or two anyway. I think now’s a good time to get used to seeing less of him. There are other children who are much more suited to being your friends. Simon isn’t really our sort anyway.”

Draco wanted to say he’s my sort and I do love him, just as much as I love you, but he bit his tongue. Because Draco tried to do what his parents wanted him to do; he wanted to make them proud. He did all the work his tutors assigned him right away. He tried to be neat and tidy and keep his fingernails clean and his hair brushed. He said please and thank you and called grownups Sir and Madam. He charmed away dirt from his robes.

He was a good boy.

And if his mother said boys weren’t supposed to hold hands, well, then, maybe they weren’t. And if she said Simon wasn’t a suitable playmate anymore, then perhaps he wasn’t.

Simon never came to Draco’s house again. Ms. Pepperdine still came for his lessons, but Draco was afraid to ask her about Simon, lest she get angry with him. His mother had probably talked to her, he decided, and told her how Simon and Draco had been doing things they shouldn’t.

And then, a month or so later, Draco had a new French and Latin tutor and Ms. Pepperdine was gone. The new tutor was Mr. Biddle, whose breath always smelled like cabbage.

Draco still thought about Simon sometimes. Not often, and honestly, he could hardly picture him anymore. He remembered what he’d thought of the way he looked, how he’d liked his freckles and the peeling sunburns he’d get on his shoulders sometimes. The scar had mostly faded, but there was still a trace of it, faint and silvery, across Draco’s left palm.

He wondered if Simon ever looked at his scar and thought of Draco and that endless summer at the Manor. He wondered if Simon was afraid of the looming war, or if he was entirely separate from it, and gloriously oblivious. Dragging a finger along the line of his own scar, Draco hoped it was the latter.

It seemed to Draco that he had always been a bit…wrong. He’d always been too soft, too quick to develop feelings for people – friends and otherwise. He’d always had a porcelain-thin shell, and it took so little to upset him. His mother said he was emotional. His father said he was weak.

And here he was, doing it again. Letting his feelings get the better of him. He was the same lonely boy who’d spread out under the oak trees and clutched at Simon’s hand. It was pathetic.

And yet, it was New Years’ Eve. And this might be the last one he ever saw, given the current state of things. So, he really didn’t want to spend it alone. The thought was entirely too depressing, and it made him start thinking about what the point of any of this was – what the point of Draco was – and those thoughts never went anywhere good.

He’d been thinking about Potter almost every moment since that day in the Room of Requirement. He’d seen him at one or two meals. But Potter hadn’t come looking for him, hadn’t even bothered to glance up and see him in the Great Hall. Draco supposed he couldn’t blame him. But he wondered if perhaps Potter would forgive him, if he was nice, if he hinted at the possibility of more snogging. He wasn’t sure whether he’d pushed too far to be forgiven – it was possible – but his desire to not be alone (and, if he was honest, to be with Potter again) outweighed the possible rejection.

He made his way to the Gryffindor tower. It was almost lunchtime, and he was hoping to intercept Potter on his way to the Great Hall.

His palms were damp and his breath felt shallow. He didn’t like the feeling, but he didn’t know how to make it go away, and he wasn’t going to run back to the dungeons like a coward. He’d been to the tower a handful of times (not past the fat lady's portrait, but to the landing in front of it), to snoop with Pansy or Greg and Vince. It was still deeply uncomfortable for him, even with everyone gone, especially alone as he was. And more than that, he was worried that Potter would tell him to piss off.

When Potter finally stepped out of the portrait, he seemed distracted, lost in his own thoughts. He nearly walked right past Draco without so much as a glance. “Potter,” Draco said.

His head jerked up, then, his mouth falling open a little in surprise. He closed it quickly. “What are you doing here?” he asked, looking unhappy about it.

“I came to apologize,” Draco said. Best get it out of the way. He wasn’t exactly sorry for his behavior, but he was sorry that he’d put Potter off of him so completely. He’d wanted Potter to stop with all the hero nonsense, not stop talking to him altogether. And he definitely hadn’t wanted Potter to stop touching him.

Potter scowled. “Apologize for what?”

Draco let out a heavy sigh. He had options. Quite a few things to apologize for, that was for certain. He wondered what had offended Potter the most. “For trying to hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean half of what I said, you know.”

Potter looked away, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You were wrong that day. I don’t hate you. Mostly. And I don’t want to hurt you. That’s not why –” He shook his head. “That’s not why I did any of that.”

“I believe you,” Draco said easily.

Potter nodded, still not looking at him. “Okay. Well. I guess I’ll accept your apology.”

“Good,” Draco said, stepping closer. “Listen.” He saw Potter glance at him nervously before looking around, like someone was going to come charging around the corner at any minute and see them. “Greg’s got a bottle of Ogden’s stashed away in his trunk. If you want, you could come by my room later and we could drink it. Celebrate the new year.”

Potter was quiet for a moment. “You want to celebrate the new year by drinking Ogden’s with me.”

Draco gave a careless shrug. “Not much else to do. I don’t fancy sitting around by myself.”

“You’re a bit mad, you know that?”

“Yes,” said Draco.

“You make no sense.”

“I’d imagine not.”

Potter sighed. “Okay, why not. Not like I have anything better to do. Why don’t you go get your Ogden’s and come back here? We can hang out in my room.”

“Now?” Draco asked.

“No time like the present, yeah?”

“It’s noon. But, I guess not. All right.” He turned towards the stairs.

“And Malfoy,” Potter said.

“Hm?” he said, turning. He felt flushed and strangely light.

“Don’t do that again. If you treat me like you did the other day, I’m not going to hang out with you anymore.”

Draco wanted to spit out a retort, something about how he’d act however he damn well pleased and didn’t even want to hang out with Potter anyway. Instead, he nodded, and went to fetch the bottle.

Potter’s room wasn’t too different from Draco’s. There were four beds settled into the four corners, each with a trunk at its foot. There were four wardrobes and a little sink on one wall with a mirror over it. There was a big rug at the center of the room, thickly piled.

There were some differences. The bedding and rugs were red and gold, of course, rather than green and silver. And there was a hideous Chudley Cannons pillow and blanket on one bed. But otherwise, it was mostly the same.

Regardless, it was fucking bizarre to be in there, like a dream you might have after eating too much treacle tart.

Potter and Draco were on the rug on the floor, leaning against Potter’s trunk. They were passing the bottle of Ogden’s back and forth and taking sips on occasion. They’d played a game of chess, and Draco discovered that Potter was awful at chess, a fact that he found hilarious. He didn’t realize Potter was awful at anything, and it was reassuring to see he wasn’t entirely perfect. Although, actually, now that he considered it, he had watched Potter attempt to brew potions before, so maybe he had known that.

Potter asked him if he wanted to play Exploding Snap and he said no, because Exploding Snap was for children. Potter pointed out that they were still technically children, and Draco said no, they were most definitely not. Or at least he wasn’t.

“Well, what do you want to play, then?”

Draco was thoughtful. Truthfully, his brain was already a little muddled from the Ogden’s, and he felt a bit like taking a nap. Perhaps they could nap at some point. He could also go for some snogging. He glanced over at Potter’s pink mouth. Yes, snogging would do.

“We could ask each other questions,” Draco said. “And if you don’t want to answer, you have to take a swig of whiskey.”

Potter laughed. “I’m not going to want to answer anything.”

“Then you’ll be very drunk,” Draco said, grinning.

“Fine,” Potter said. “But I get to go first.”

“Fine,” Draco said.

“What’re you doing in the Room of Requirement? What’s the cabinet for?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Knew you were going to ask that. And no, I’m not telling you.” He grabbed the bottle from Potter’s hands and took a gulp. “My turn. Do you really like muggles?” He kicked himself for asking it – of course Potter did; it was a waste of a question.

“Well, yeah. I mean, they’re just people. Some are grand.” He picked at fibers of the rug with one hand. “I don't like the muggles I live with. My aunt and uncle and cousin. They’re awful.”

“Oh,” said Draco, surprised. “Why?”

“That’s an extra question,” Potter said, raising a dark eyebrow at him.

“Don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Potter gnawed on his bottom lip. He did that too often; it was distracting. “They hated me, honestly. Hate me. Whatever. They don’t like magic, and I’m magic, so…yeah. They were never very nice to me. I dunno.”

“You grew up in their house?”

Potter nodded.

“Tragic, Potter. And I’m only being partially sarcastic.”

Potter nudged him with his knee “Okay, what about you? Do you really hate muggles?”

“Of course,” Draco said.

“Do you know any?”

“Well. No.”

Potter laughed. “Then how can you hate them?”

“Because they – no. This is too many questions. My turn again.” He closed his eyes and thought. “Have you always been attracted to blokes?”

Potter turned pink up to his ears. “Um. I’m not sure. I think maybe so. But I didn’t really, you know, call it that or think it through all the way. How about you?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “I had a crush on another boy when I was seven. Also didn’t call it that, incidentally.”

“Seven. Huh. I don’t think I had a crush on anybody until I was at least…thirteen, fourteen. Somewhere in there. I didn’t think about it. You know, sex.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking about sex at seven. I was just overly fond of him. Liked his freckles too much.”

Potter laughed. “Who?”

“Just a boy who lived nearby.”

“You still see him?” Potter asked.

Draco shook his head and the smile he forced himself to make made his face feel sore. “No. Not since the day my father caught us holding hands. I only knew him for a year. Less than that, actually.”

Potter’s eyes caught his, and they were searching. Looking for what, Draco didn’t know. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Draco waved this off. “It made me realize I had to keep some things to myself. Better to learn that lesson from my father than from everyone at school or from people who have it out for my family. It could’ve been used against me.”

“It shouldn’t be like that,” Potter said, softly.

“Nothing in the world is the way it should be, Potter. Everything’s fucked.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he said, looking stubborn.

“Well, no, you wouldn’t. Because you’re you. I happen to have a more realistic view of things.”

“It’s a jaded view. Some things are bad, sure, but it’s up to us to make them better.”

Draco laughed, and it had a sharp edge to it. He told himself to behave or Potter wasn’t going to talk to him or snog him anymore. “I don’t know whether to admire you or pity you.”

Potter frowned. “Neither. I’d rather you just know me.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. “Okay, then. How would I do that? What would make me really understand you, Potter? What would let me know you?”

Potter scrubbed his hands over his face, laughing. “Nothing like being put on the spot.”

“You started this whole line of conversation.”

“Guess I did,” Potter said. “Okay. Well.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t like being me most days.” He gave a little, nervous laugh. “How’s that for a start? I wish I didn’t have to be the one to fight…you know. And I’m not saying his name for your sake, just so you know. I'd happily say it. I don’t care.”

“Yes, yes, the world knows you aren’t afraid of him,” Draco said. “Go on.”

“I wish I could just…play Quidditch and suck at Potions and figure out what I want to do after school without this huge thing hanging over my head all the time. I want to think about stupid, superficial things just like everybody else. And I wish to Merlin people wouldn’t be weird around me. Nobody’s normal with me, you know. They either hate my guts or they think I’m this big deal, that I’m something I’m not.”

He picked at the rug again, then rubbed his nose, and Draco almost thought he was finished, but he kept talking. “Here’s one: Ron and Hermione were my first friends. I didn’t have any friends when I was younger. Everyone thought I was strange. I was strange. I had this scar on my head, and none of my clothes fit. My aunt hardly ever took me to get my hair cut so I cut it myself and it was always scraggly and uneven. I don’t think I was always very clean. It’s – “ he curled up around his knees, hugging them. “It’s really, like, mortifying to even remember it. Even now, when I meet people, there’s always part of me that expects them to see me the way I was back then.”

He was on a roll now, and Draco didn’t dare interrupt him. He felt frozen anyway, like he was nailed to the floor. Harry Potter was spilling his darkest secrets and Draco couldn’t entirely believe it. “That’s why I’m so protective of them, probably. Ron and Hermione, I mean. When you were mean to them - when anyone is mean to them – I get so mad. I love them, and I’d –” he paused. “I’d rather die than let someone hurt them. And the Weasleys are more of a family to me than my own family, which is pretty pathetic, right? But they’ve always made me feel like part of things. And I’m really fucking angry at Dumbledore, because he never tells me anything, or at least, never enough. Sometimes I think he cares about me and sometimes I think he’s just using me. And I fucking hate Snape. He’s so cruel - for no reason! That’s why I hated you, too. Because you were cruel. I don’t understand why people are mean sometimes. I’ve never, ever wanted to hurt somebody just because I could. Why would you want to? I honestly don’t understand.”

Draco waited, wondering if he was supposed to speak or whether Potter was just going to go on ranting. When he didn’t, Draco cleared his throat. “I don’t hurt people just for fun, Potter. It’s not fun.”

“Then why?”

He shrugged. A strange thing was stirring in him. A desire. It wasn’t just the desire he’d been experiencing, the one that made him want to rip Potter’s clothes off and suck his neck until he broke every blood vessel beneath the surface of his skin.

It was something else entirely. It made him want to talk, to share, to show Potter pieces of himself. It was a desire to be known. Not to be seen the way he wanted to be seen, but the way he actually was.

And that was so stupid. Nothing in the world was stupider. He might as well give Potter step-by-step instructions on how to destroy him. It amounted to the same goddamn thing.

And yet.

“I’m usually nastiest when I’m feeling…cornered. Or wounded. Pansy always says I go feral when I’m threatened. I suppose she’s not wrong.”

“Were you feeling threatened the other day?” Potter asked quietly.

“Yes,” Draco said. “Because you kept asking me about things I can’t talk about. And part of me wanted to tell you, and that wasn’t okay. Because I can’t. I really, really can’t.”

Potter nodded. “What about at the start? When we were younger and it was all petty, stupid shit. You didn’t feel threatened then.”

Draco laughed. “I did, a bit. You – you made me feel like a complete tit, Potter. I held my hand out to you on the train. I thought we could make an alliance of sorts. You were important, and I was important. Or at least I considered myself to be important back then. And you embarrassed the hell out of me in front of an entire train car full of people I didn’t know. It was humiliating.”

He shook his head, horrified at all he was saying, but not so horrified that he was going to stop talking. He understood why Potter had kept going on and on. It was cathartic, letting things out like this. It felt weirdly good. “And Weasley. I’d known of his family, and it felt fucking awful to see you want to befriend him instead of me. I may have taken that personally. And then every time I saw you, I had to think about it. About how you didn’t think I was good enough to be your friend.”

Potter considered him. “Can’t say I ever would have suspected you felt like that. I just thought you were a dick.”

“I’m not saying I’m not a dick. I’m just saying I had my reasons.”

Potter nodded. “I suppose I didn’t help matters any. I wasn't nice to you, either.”

“Why?”

Potter shook his head. “I dunno, really. It just always felt kind of good?” He laughed. “I think I really did sort of hate you. I can’t think of anyone else I’ve ever disliked quite that much. Maybe Snape, but even him…it’s not the same. It felt good to hate you.”

“Likewise,” Draco said. And it was true. Thoughts of bringing Potter low had filled his waking dreams for years. He’d sat through countless lunches and Potions classes with his head full of images of everyone laughing at Potter, of Potter being made a fool. Publicly, of course. It had brought him a perverse sort of joy.

“What’s your favorite color?” Potter said.

Draco burst out laughing. “What?”

“We’re getting way too serious. I’m trying to lighten things up.”

“In the most asinine way possible, but okay. Um. Blue,” Draco said.

“I’d have thought green,” Potter said.

Draco shook his head. “No. Blue. And you?”

“Blue,” Potter said, grinning.

“Oh, look. We have so much in common,” Draco said, taking a big swig from the bottle. Potter laughed so hard he snorted, which made them both laugh even harder.

“Favorite animal?” Potter said.

“Animal? Who the hell has a favorite animal?”

“Me,” said Potter. “Or, well. I have two, I s’pose. Snakes and dragons.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, how original. Liking dragons best. You and ninety-five percent of wizarding children.”

“Didn’t claim to be original. Just want to be like everyone else, actually, if you’ll recall.”

“Fair enough. Let’s see…what do you think about when you wank?”

Potter’s eyes widened. “Wow. Okay. That’s a bit different from colors and animals.”

“I like to keep you on your toes,” Draco said, smirking.

Potter shook his head, a little smile still on his lips. “Okay. Um. Not much, really. I don’t – I always try to keep my head really empty. Just think about how it feels, or whatever.” 

“Interesting,” said Draco, setting down the bottle of Ogden’s.

"And you?"

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m asking, you twat.”

Draco stuck his tongue out at Potter and then wondered how to respond. “I haven’t, really,” Draco finally said. He hadn’t meant to say it. That wasn’t sexy or interesting. Yet he kept talking. “Last summer everything was…well, let’s just say I had no desire to risk being caught doing it, or getting, um, questioned about it later. I wanted to keep those sorts of thoughts out of my head. And now, when I get the urge, I tend to talk myself out of it. I don’t know why. The habit carried over when I got back here. Getting off with you was the first time I’d gotten off at all in forever.”

He thought over what he'd just said and cringed. He'd somehow managed to sound depressing, desperate, and boring, all at once. Excellent job, Draco.

Potter reached past him, his dark hair tickling Draco’s nose, to grab the whiskey, and then sat back again. He took a long swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s kind of messed up. Probably not healthy. I can help you with that again. You know, if you need help.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to be shocked. “Why, Potter, you dirty slag," he managed.

“I'm heroic, remember? I see a problem and I want to fix it.” Potter set down the whiskey around the corner of the bed, out of the way, where it couldn’t be knocked over.

“Uh-huh. Sure,” he said, and let Potter push him back onto the rug and kiss him breathless.

Chapter Text

Your breath into my mouth. You reach—then bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
You wrap your name tight around my ribs

-Benjamin Alire Saenz, To the Desert

Malfoy was not a good person. Harry had to keep reminding himself of this as they kissed, because he kept forgetting. Because it seemed impossible to connect this soft, pliant creature to Malfoy, who called Hermione a Mudblood and made fun of Ron for being poor and had distributed what had seemed like a thousand ‘Potter Stinks’ badges just for fun.

The boy beneath him seemed entirely different from that one. He had been sarcastic today, and teasing, but not cruel. And he’d been open, telling Harry about his memory from the train at the beginning of first year, and about his seven-year-old version of a crush. And now, he was all soft sighs and willing mouth and gentle hands, and Harry couldn’t remember all the reasons he’d thought Malfoy was an arsehole. Or, rather, he could remember them, but they didn’t seem real or relevant.

“What will happen when everyone comes back?” Harry asked, pulling away slightly. “Will we just stop talking?”

Malfoy’s eyes fluttered open. “What?” he asked. His pupils were dilated, and he seemed to be in a sort of trance.

“You said before that this couldn’t continue when everyone got back. Are we going to pretend none of it ever happened at all? Go back to not speaking to one another?”

“I don’t know,” Malfoy said, one of his hands carding through Harry’s hair. Harry leaned into the touch instinctively. He hadn’t known how much he would enjoy this part of it – not the getting off part, but simply touching someone else so freely, and being touched in return. He worried that the world would seem colder when it stopped being like this. “Realistically, you won’t want your friends to know. And I don’t want my friends to know either.”

“Why? You’re embarrassed of me?”

“No, you pillock,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. “Because it’s none of their business. And besides, it could possibly get back to the wrong people. You-know-who’s people. And don’t tell me you’re actually going to tell Granger and Weasley. There’s no way. They’d be furious with you.”

Harry considered this, and tried, for half a second, to imagine explaining these mad snogging sessions to Ron and Hermione. And then he had to stop thinking about it because it made him so violently uncomfortable. “I suppose I won’t.”

“See? It’s the situation, Potter. And it’s only a bit of snogging. It’s not as though we’re anything more than that.”

“Of course we aren’t!” Harry exclaimed.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Thank you for your overzealous agreement.”

He felt the fire leave him as quickly as it had come. “Sorry,” he said, leaning his forehead against Malfoy’s “It’s just that I only realized I wanted to snog you a few days ago. I’m not sure I’m ready to go around…you know.”

“Dating me?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t remember asking you if you wanted to date me, actually.”

“No, I know,” Harry said, shaking his head a little. “Shit. Sorry. It’s…my issues with myself. I’m sorry.” He felt like a complete arsehole now.

But Malfoy only sighed. “It’s fine. Let’s drop it.” He tried to pull Harry back down to his mouth, but Harry resisted.

“Still, though,” he said, because he was a stubborn wanker who couldn’t let things go. “Are we going to stop talking when our friends come back? And stop doing whatever it is we’re doing?”

“Do you want to stop?” Malfoy asked. He was looking at Harry closely, measuring his response.

Harry gathered his courage. “Not really, no.”

“Oh.” Malfoy’s eyes went wide. The color was so unique, a sort of dove grey in the center and smokier around the edge of the iris. Harry decided he liked looking at them.

“But if you want to stop, we will. Obviously,” he said quickly. “And I’ll understand. It would probably get complicated anyway.”

“It already is complicated, Potter. But I don’t really want to stop either,” Malfoy said. He looked shockingly serious, his small mouth in a straight line, a furrow between his pale brows.

“How would we do it?” Harry asked.

“We have the room,” Malfoy said.

“Yeah. That’s true,” said Harry. The room where Malfoy was doing Voldemort’s dirty work. Harry shoved down another wave of ‘oh, fuck, what am I doing’, and wondered whether every second guess he was swallowing down was eventually going to come back up all at once and choke the life out of him. “We could slip each other notes when we want to meet.”

Malfoy nodded. “That sounds easy enough.”

“Alright. Let’s do that, then,” Harry said, and brought his mouth back to Malfoy’s The kiss turned fierce and hungry rather quickly, and then the whole world was gone. The whole world outside of Harry’s room faded, and nothing existed besides Malfoy’s warm, wet mouth and his deft hands. Everything was so lovely when it narrowed down to these things, so hot and thrilling. It didn’t matter that Malfoy wasn’t a good person, or that Harry ought to hate him, or that one or both of them might be dead before the rapidly approaching year was over. All of that was separate from this, and too far away to matter.

“We could take off our shirts,” Malfoy whispered after a while.

“Erm,” Harry said, wishing he had a different body. He was on the scrawny side, and he had an embarrassing patch of hair on his chest. Just a small one, but none of the other guys he knew had any hair on their chests at all. Despite his reservations, though, the thought of his bare skin touching Malfoy’s was too tempting to resist. “Okay.” He sat up and put his hands in the air and Malfoy gently tugged his jumper over his head, and then took off his own shirt as well. After that, they both stared, taking the measure of one another.

Malfoy was just as painfully thin as Harry suspected. “You weren’t always this skinny,” he said, touching Malfoy’s chest with gentle fingers. Despite that, he was lovely, in a way. His shoulders were broad, and his hips were narrow, his skin smooth and alabaster-pale and flawless. His nipples were rosy and small, his belly button concave. He had a birthmark just below his collarbone on the right side that looked like a tiny pink firework. Even the Mark almost looked good on him, so dark and furious against his soft, dewy skin. Not that Harry would ever in a million years say that. It was disturbing to even have thought it.

“Merlin, you and Professor Snape won’t stop with the skinny business,” Malfoy said, suddenly pouty. “I’m fucking stressed out; it’s not like I want to look like this. I just don’t have an appetite.”  

“You still look good, though,” Harry said, because he did. “I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t.”

Malfoy’s cheeks were flaring up now. “Shut the fuck up. I know perfectly well what I look like.”

Harry kissed his shoulder and then his throat. “Your skin’s really lovely.”

“Shut up,” Malfoy said again, quieter this time, and with less conviction.

“And your shoulders are gorgeous. And then there’s your belly button.”

Now Malfoy snorted out a laugh. “My belly button?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, leaning down to kiss it. “It’s cute.”

“Salazar, you’re ridiculous,” Malfoy said, but he looked pleased. He climbed onto Harry’s lap and wound his arms around Harry’s neck. And it felt incredible, to touch his chest to Malfoy’s. His skin was hot, and he felt gloriously solid.

Harry put his hands on Malfoy’s hips, felt the curve of the bone there and sighed happily. “This is nice.”

Malfoy nodded, tracing the line of Harry’s shoulder, looking entranced. “You’re rather handsome like this.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, but he liked the way it made him feel. He didn’t consider himself a particularly vain person, and if anyone else had come along and told him that he looked handsome with his shirt off, he’d have probably died of embarrassment and been one thousand percent certain they were either lying or taking the piss. But Malfoy was touching him like it was true, or at least like he believed it, anyway. And he was looking at him like it was true. So instead of being mortifying, it made him feel lighter, and braver.

He caught Malfoy’s mouth with his, and this time it was Malfoy who pushed him down, so that he was lying on the rug, soft fibers tickling his back. Kissing Malfoy was heady enough, but now with all this skin touching, he felt like he might die form the pleasure of it. It was all so achingly good.

“Do you want to take off anything else?” Malfoy asked, pulling back a bit, his grey eyes searching Harry’s.

“Oh, um. I dunno.” His heart was suddenly thumping so loudly he was sure Malfoy could hear it. “Maybe…maybe my jeans? But not pants, at least not yet.” He didn’t want to be a baby about it, but all of this was so new and strange.

Malfoy nodded, kissing Harry’s mouth once, briefly, and then reached down to unbutton his jeans. Harry was glad he’d worn decent-looking blue boxer briefs today; he certainly owned less attractive ones. Malfoy slid the jeans off, tossing them aside, then wiggled out of his own trousers. Harry had a glimpse of endlessly-long, shapely legs before Malfoy came back to kiss him again.

Their bare legs tangled, their socked feet touching. And even though their pants were still on, Harry could feel so much more now. Every time Malfoy shifted above him, he felt it, and it sent a wave of sensation through his entire body.

Malfoy seemed to like it, too. He was moving much more deliberately than he had been before. His legs were on either side of Harry’s, and he was moving up and down with purpose, sliding over Harry’s body, over his prick. Too soon – much too soon – Harry was reaching down between them to grasp the base of himself to keep from finishing. “Sorry,” he said, feeling like a git. “Sorry.”

Malfoy just laughed. “Go ahead. If you do, we can take a nap and give it another go.”

Harry let go and Malfoy started moving again. “What about you?” Harry asked against his mouth. Malfoy licked Harry’s lips, his tongue, the way he did sometimes, teasing and shameless.

“Yes, soon.”

“Okay,” said Harry. Surely he could last as long as Malfoy. He felt a little spark of competitiveness flare up in him and laughed.

“What?” Malfoy asked, nuzzling at this throat.

“Nothing,” Harry said. “I like this.”

“Feels good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

Another deep, wet kiss, and the feel of Malfoy’s arse under his palms, and then Harry couldn’t hold back anymore. But Malfoy was right there with him, and in the end, he didn’t know who had succumbed first, so he counted it as a tie.

Malfoy cleaned them with a flick of his wand, and Harry summoned his pillows from his bed and settled them under Malfoy’s head and his own, then summoned his blanket and tucked it around them. Malfoy yawned, and Harry yawned in response. “I’m so tired,” Malfoy said.

“Sleep, then,” Harry said. He moved Malfoy’s hair away from his face, which seemed so much less pointy when he was close enough to kiss it, and snaked an arm underneath Malfoy’s neck and pulled him close. Malfoy burrowed in even further, like he was trying to tunnel his way into Harry’s body, and let out a contented sigh. Within minutes, he was out, a funny little whistle sounding every time he exhaled. Harry smiled as he listened to it.

It was the second time he’d held Malfoy while he slept. Just like last time, it did something to Harry, although he couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly. There was something about seeing him so defenseless, feeling his very mortal, fragile body draped over his own. Something about the way his face softened and relaxed, making him look younger and sweeter. Harry felt it working some magic deep in his chest, the way it had the first time.

It was stunningly easy to see how this could all blow up in his face. Malfoy could easily succeed with his plans, and it could have devastating consequences for Harry and everyone he loved. Or he could fail, and then Voldemort would kill him, and Harry would be left to mourn yet another person. Either way, it would hurt.

There was another option, though, that he couldn’t help but hope for. Harry was an optimistic person – he knew this about himself – and sometimes his optimism wasn’t realistic. Hermione had reminded him often enough that things weren’t always going to work out exactly the way he wanted them to, and that even the best plans sometimes failed (and that Harry and Ron’s shoddy plans were much more likely to fail, which was why Hermione had to come along and make better ones). And he knew that, of course he did. His whole life had been a complete shitshow for eleven years; he knew things weren’t always perfect. But the hope in his heart was buoyant and irrepressible anyway. He didn’t know why – it simply was. It had always been like that.

So now, here in his room, in the mostly empty castle, holding Malfoy while he made that silly whistling sound, he hoped for the third option. The one where he convinced Malfoy, eventually, somehow, to work with him and with Dumbledore. Malfoy would know things, important things. He might not know all of Voldemort’s plans, but he’d know a part of them, at least. And if he was willing to offer up information, Dumbledore would help him, and might even help his mother. Dumbledore wasn’t one for holding grudges; he’d take Malfoy under his wing if Malfoy demonstrated a change of heart.

And then Malfoy would be safe. And then he would get a glimpse of something beyond his narrow pureblooded world and would grow and change. And when they won the war – because they would win the war, one way or another; Harry had to believe that or what was the point – Malfoy would be on their side. And then maybe…maybe…

But Harry was letting his thoughts run a bit too wild now. It was ridiculous to think of anything beyond a few snogs happening between him and Malfoy. He could focus on convincing Malfoy to change sides, though. That wasn’t ridiculous. He knew Malfoy was afraid of what he was supposed to do. He could see it in his eyes whenever it was mentioned. He did not want to do it. So, there was hope.

And Harry always preferred to hope.

Harry eventually drifted off to sleep, too, and when he woke it was dark and Malfoy was wrapped around him like a blanket. “Hey,” he whispered. “Draco. Wake up.”

Malfoy stirred and looked around, confused, and then seemed to put the world in order again and relaxed. “What time is it?”

“Not sure.” Harry cast a Tempus. “Little after six.”

“Want to go to supper?” Malfoy murmured.

“Yeah, sure. Or I can bring it up here for both of us if you’d rather.”

Malfoy considered this. “You might as well bring it up. That way I can lounge about for a while longer.”

“Lazy arse,” Harry teased, leaving the little circle of warmth and feeling the cold air bite at him everywhere. He shivered. “It’s freezing.”

“Well, you’re only in pants,” Malfoy reminded him.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“A bit,” Malfoy said, tugging the blanket up higher.

Harry went over to his wardrobe and pulled out the jumper Mrs. Weasley had just given him for Christmas. It was blue – his and Malfoy’s favorite color – with a green ‘H’ on it. “Here,” he said, tossing it Malfoy’s way. “You can wear this. It’s a lot more comfortable than that shirt of yours.”

“Thanks,” Malfoy said, eying it. “Do all your clothes have the first letter of your name on them in case you forget it? Or…?”

“Funny, you git,” Harry said as Malfoy pulled it on. When he poked his head out, his hair was wild and staticky, and the neck of the jumper was big for him, so his collarbone showed. Looking at him like that made Harry feel a little sick to his stomach, in a weirdly good way. He tried to smile and found that his mouth was wobbly.

“What?” Malfoy said, looking down at himself.

“Nothing,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It’s nothing. What do you like, anyway? Or not like, etcetera, when it comes to dinner?”

”No broccoli or cauliflower. Oh, and no brussels sprouts, blech. No nuts in anything; they're disgusting. Extra dinner rolls. Extra dessert, unless it has nuts in it. Then no dessert." Malfoy looked thoughtful for a moment. "I think that’s it.”

Harry nodded, repeating it back to himself in his head. “Got it. Okay.” He pulled on his t-shirt and jeans and a hoodie and slipped his feet into trainers. “I’ll be right back.”

“Hold on, Potter, come here,” Malfoy said, beckoning.

Harry approached, and Malfoy pulled at his hand, so that he was kneeling on the floor next to him. “Love bite,” Malfoy said, muttering a quick spell and pointing his wand at Harry’s neck.

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling himself get hot. “Thanks.”

Malfoy looked slightly evil as he grinned. “No problem. Hurry up and get back here so I can give you some more.”

Harry’s body seemed to like that idea.

The rest of the night went by too quickly. They kissed as the clock struck midnight, laughing about how their friends would never in a million years guess what they were doing to usher in the brand new year, and then fell asleep soon afterward, curled up together on the floor. Harry woke a bit later and stumbled over to his bed, dragging Malfoy with him. He woke again just as the sun was coming up, and stared at Malfoy for a while, at his flushed pink cheeks and his mess of white-blond hair, at his pale, long eyelashes and his creamy skin, luminous in the morning light.

It was the last day. After today, everything would go back to normal. Everyone would come back to the castle, classes would resume, Dumbledore would call Harry to his office and Malfoy would return to his work in the Room of Hidden Things.

He found that he didn’t want it to go back to normal. He wanted to stay here, in this world where it was only him and Malfoy and endless, hushed hours. He tucked his head under Malfoy’s pointy, pretty chin and tried to ignore the curl of dread in his stomach as he fell back to sleep.

Draco felt it when Potter finally fell asleep on his chest. He’d been tense for a while, his body rigid. But he’d finally relaxed against him, and now he was snoring a little. Draco opened his eyes and stared at the golden morning light coming in through the window. Potter’s hair – his mad hair – was tickling Draco’s chin, but that was all right. He didn’t mind it. This was the last time he would feel it, maybe ever. Even if they met in the Room of Requirement like Potter’d suggested, they wouldn’t be sleeping together there. There would be no cuddling.

He sighed and stroked Potter’s back absently. He didn’t know what to make of any of this, and tomorrow, before he could understand it or even convince himself that it was real, it would be ending. He suspected that when his friends returned, Potter would come to his senses and tell Draco that whatever was happening between them had to stop. And the thing was, Draco knew it should. It was so stupid, what they were doing. Mad, pointless, and dangerous besides. Potter didn’t even like him, for Salazar’s sake. How could he? No, he was just thinking with his prick, getting swept up in the feeling of learning someone else’s body for the first time, just as Draco was.

It wasn’t as through Draco liked Potter, either. He was tolerable, when he was on his own, and when they weren’t talking about important things. But he was still an arrogant twat who didn’t understand the way the world actually worked, who let himself be used by the likes of Albus Dumbledore, who befriended Mudbloods, and actually thought he could stop the Dark Lord. He’d spent the whole first half of the year trailing around after Draco and trying to catch him doing something nefarious.

He hated Harry Potter, even if he liked getting off with him.

But that sentiment – something that had defined him since he’d started school at Hogwarts – suddenly felt like a lie. And Draco had no idea how to make himself believe it again.

Chapter Text

“Mercy is weakness. Offer it to your enemies and you might as well fall upon your own sword.”
― Sabaa Tahir, A Torch Against the Night

“Darling!” Pansy cried as she stepped into the Common Room. Draco was spread out on one of the green couches, reading the assignment for Potions that he was supposed to have read over the break, but hadn’t quite managed thanks to the Room of Requirement and Potter.

She sprinted towards him and grabbed his arms, yanking him up so that she could hug him, his Potions book poking him in the ribs where it was sandwiched between them. He saw some of the younger students looking over at them with barely-concealed fascination. All the Syltherins (besides the ones who actually knew them) thought Pansy and Draco were together. They did not attempt to clear up this misconception, since it was rather beneficial. Draco knew the younger Slytherins were intimidated by him, and he also knew that they were intimidated by Pansy, so as an imagined couple, they were downright feared. Both of them viewed this as a good thing.

“How are you?” she asked, her hands on his cheeks, her dark eyes probing. “You don’t look nearly as depressed as I’d expected.”

“It was fine,” he said, keeping his face neutral. “I had time to relax.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” she said, not appearing to be satisfied. He braced himself for a litany of additional questions. “Any progress in your endeavors?”

“A bit,” he said. “Not as much as I’d hoped. But some.”

She opened her mouth to ask something else just as Greg slapped Draco on the back. “Draco!” he cried. “How was it, being here over the break? Did it suck? Did you get the box of chocolates my mum sent you?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “I wrote her a thank you owl today.” He’d meant to sooner, but he’d been altogether too distracted. Being with Potter had been a little like being drunk – time and reality seemed to blur and spin when he was around.

“Did your mum send you anything?” Greg asked.

“No,” Draco said. That had bothered him more than he cared to admit, mostly because he knew she’d have sent him gifts if she’d been able. He could only hope it was a matter of self-preservation on her part rather than a prohibition by the Dark Lord or the other Death Eaters. Or, a worst-case scenario: she was being held prisoner in her own home. He preferred not to consider that possibility for too long.

Greg made a sympathetic face. “Oh, that’s shite.”

Draco shrugged.

“How about you, Greg?” Pansy cut in. “Did you see Millicent at all over break?”

Thank Merlin for Pansy’s ability to manage a conversation. Greg turned red, Draco’s Christmas struggles forgotten immediately. “We met up one day on Diagon,” he said.

Pansy squealed, guiding him away. Draco felt relief, but not for long – Theo Nott had just come in through the entrance and was making a beeline for him. Draco smoothed out his hair and cleared his throat, feeling wholly unprepared to see him.

“Hi,” Theo said when he’d drawn close. His cheeks were pink, the way they always were around Draco, and he was lugging a small, handsome leather trunk. He set it down and shoved his hands into the pockets of his charcoal trousers. “How’s it going?”

“Well enough,” Draco said. “How about you? Did you have a nice Christmas?”

Theo nodded. “My father was at your house quite a bit. He said you weren’t there.”

“No,” Draco said. “I stayed here. Found out last minute that I wasn’t supposed to go home.”

“Oh,” Theo said, looking surprised. “I assumed you'd wanted to stay.”

Draco shrugged, not really wanting to discuss it. “Long story,” he said, and Theo, being an agreeable sort of person, let it go.

He looked down at Draco’s Potions textbook. “Getting some last-minute reading done, eh?”

Draco nodded. “Didn’t do much studying over the break, to tell you the truth.”

Theo gave him a shy smile. “You’re the top of our year in Potions. I’m sure you’ll have it mastered in no time.”

 He was fucking adorable, he really was. “Theodore Nott, are you flirting with me?” Draco couldn’t help but say, his voice low and teasing.

That got Theo even pinker, but he was apparently in a bold sort of mood. “And what if I am?”

Draco, surprised, felt his mouth widen into a smile. “Then I think I might like it.”

Theo looked away, grinning. “You know, I was going to head to the library until supper. I didn’t do all of the reading, either. If you’d like, you could, um. Join me?”

Draco considered this. The library wasn’t exactly a date. And even if it was, there was literally no reason he couldn’t go. Potter had made it very clear that there was nothing between them – that it was just snogging. And cuddling, his unhelpful brain supplied. And sleeping twined up together, and soft, intimate caresses, and staring into one another’s eyes for far too long.

If Theo had worked up the nerve to make this move before the break, Draco would have been thrilled. But now, despite the fact that he ought not to have felt guilty over any of it, he did. And he hated that he did. “I’d love to join you. Unpack, and then come get me, yeah? I’ll just be here.”

“Excellent,” Theo said, looking bright-eyed and cheery at the prospect. “I’ll be back in a jif.”

Draco fell back onto the couch, watching him go. Trust Potter to fuck up Draco’s life without even knowing it.

Later, in the library, Theo was sitting in the seat next to him rather than across from him. He was also pretending he wasn’t aware of his knee brushing Draco’s, but Draco knew he was. Theo was very self-contained, not the sort to be casual about physical contact. If he was touching Draco, it was deliberate.

Theo smelled familiar, like the French cologne most of the Slytherin boys had taken to wearing in third year, and like the cedar satchels that most of them kept in their drawers, with a hint of ink thrown in for good measure. He didn’t have the cold air and soap smell that Potter had. The way Potter smelled, by objective standards, shouldn’t have been nearly as pleasing as it was. And yet, Draco found himself missing it, longing to breathe it in again. Which was ridiculous. And stupid.

He pressed his knee closer to Theo’s, and Theo glanced up at him before staring back down at his book. A moment later, he cleared his throat. “I need to find something in the stacks,” he said, and rose very deliberately, and walked towards one of the quiet corners that tended to be used for extremely non-academic purposes. Draco sat there for a moment, dumbfounded – because when had Theo Nott become so shameless? – and then decided he wasn’t going to pass up something that he’d thought about for at least the last two years just because Potter had deigned to fool around with him a few times. He got up and followed, and found Theo in a dusty back row, fingers skimming over a line of texts.

“Thought you might need help finding something,” Draco said, stepping close to him.

Theo’s dark eyes met his. “I might,” he said.

Draco took another step closer. “What do you want?”

He looked terrified for a moment, and Draco thought he might bolt. Instead, he seemed to steady himself. “I think you know.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” Draco said.

He watched Theo’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I like you, Draco.”

“Okay,” Draco said. “And what is it you want from me now, since you’ve lured me back into the stacks?”

Theo shook his head. “I don’t – I’m not totally sure. I just thought – people come back here, and…well, you know what they do.”

“Yes, I’m aware of what happens back here. But that doesn’t really answer my question.”

“I thought you might let me kiss you,” Theo managed.

Now or never, then. Potter was threatening to get in the way of this; even now, Draco couldn’t help but think of him. And that simply wouldn’t do. “Then why don’t you give it a go, hm?”

Theo took a step closer and licked his lips. And then, still looking nervous as hell but quite determined, he leaned towards Draco, and his dark lashes fluttered closed. And then his lips were brushing tentatively over Draco’s, his hand settling carefully onto Draco’s sleeve.

Theo’s lips were thinner than Potter’s, and the kiss contained none of the fierceness or desperation that his kisses with Potter had. It was nice, and soft, and a bit romantic, but Draco didn’t feel the urge to tear Theo’s clothes off or rut mindlessly against him or bruise him with his fingers and his mouth.

Theo pulled away after a while, and met his eyes. “Was that okay?”

“It was lovely,” Draco said, kissing him once more, briefly. “Why now, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I suppose it was something Pansy said right before break. She indicated that you might be interested. And urged me to do something about it.”

“Of course she did,” Draco said, smiling. “The meddlesome witch.”

“I’m glad she told me,” Theo said with unexpected earnestness. “I don’t know that I’d have worked up the courage otherwise.”

Draco grabbed his jumper and tugged him close again, kissing him harder. Theo made a surprised huff and then kissed back. After a moment, Draco pulled away, his hands on either side of Theo’s neck. “I’m glad she did then, too.”

Theo kissed him again, another soft, tentative thing, and Draco nearly growled in frustration. Where was the fire? The passion? It was as though Potter had taken every bit of it and left Draco with nothing but apathy. Kissing Theo Nott – adorable Theo Nott with his blushes and his attractive swotty-ness – should have, by all accounts, made him feel more than this.

“We should get back to Potions,” he finally said, trying to muster up a rueful smile.

Theo seemed to sense something was off, looking at Draco carefully before nodding. “Okay,” he said, taking Draco’s hand and squeezing it before heading back towards their table, Draco following close behind.

Draco fell into his chair and only then allowed himself to frown while staring down at the pages of his textbook. After a moment of reading but not taking in a damned thing, he looked around the library and froze when his eyes met bright green ones. Potter was there, with his two constant companions. Granger and Weasley were laughing together, but Potter was stone-faced, outright staring at Draco.

Draco gave him a withering look before turning back to his text, his heart thudding dully in his chest. He ventured another peek over at their table a while later, and Potter still hadn’t averted his eyes. He did not look pleased, either.

Draco raised his eyebrows and mouthed “What?” and Potter finally looked away, scowling.

Lovely.

Theo excused himself to go to the loo half an hour later, and before he was even past Madam Pince, Potter was gripping the edge of Draco’s table and looming over him. “What the fuck is this about?” he said, his voice vibrating with rage.

“What is what about?” Draco asked with feigned nonchalance.

“You and Nott coming back from the stacks together.”

Draco’s initial impulse was to lie, but fuck that. He had nothing to feel ashamed of. “He wanted to kiss me. He likes me. I’m fairly certain he’d like to be my boyfriend if I’d let him. I won’t, for obvious reasons.”

Potter blinked, looking suddenly disarmed. “What reasons?”

“Only a handful of people know I’m gay, Potter,” he hissed.

Potter shook his head, sending his mad mop of hair flying, and barked out a laugh. “Oh, right. Of course it would have nothing to do with me, or anything that happened between us. How fucking silly of me.”

“Why would it have anything to do with you? You made it very clear what this was.”

“What it still is, according to what we agreed to. Because we agreed we didn’t want to stop. But I guess you do now, right? Since I'm not the only willing body in the castle anymore?” Potter was practically spitting out his words, his expression murderous.

“Please remind me of when I indicated any such thing,” Draco said. “That’s right; I didn’t. Trust me, I’ll let you know when I’m finished with you.”

Potter stared at him, the muscle of his jaw jumping as he clenched his teeth together. “Then meet me up in the room.”

“When?” Draco asked.

“Now.”

“Now? No! I’m not going up there now.”

“Why, because you’re on a date?”

“Because I'm studying with Theo and it’s rude.”

“Now, Malfoy, or I’m not going to meet you up there at all. Not ever again.”

Fuck you, was what Draco ought to have said. Instead, he stood, glaring daggers at Potter all the while, and marched out of the library. He ran into Theo in the hall. “Forgot something,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sure,” said Theo easily.

Draco stomped up to the seventh-floor corridor and walked in front of the empty wall three times. The door appeared and he yanked it open.

It was not his room.

Instead of the massive, dusty storage space, he was standing in a small, bare room, nothing but stone walls and a stone floor. He had no time to contemplate this before the door was flung open behind him and Potter was practically throwing him against the wall and kissing him hard enough to hurt.

Harry was so angry he was shaking. He was so angry that his jaw was aching from clenching it so tightly.

Malfoy had snogged Nott in the library not twenty-four hours after lying on Harry’s floor and in his bed for basically two days straight. Harry wanted to kill him. He wanted to kill them both. Instead, he was doing this.

And it felt good. It felt dangerous, like someone might start throwing punches at any moment. “Was it like this?” he said, gripping Malfoy’s arms too tightly. “With that fucking ponce?”

“No,” Malfoy snarled, his mouth bright red. “It was a lot sweeter.”

That hit Harry hard, because plenty of their time together had been sweet. Hot, yes, and a bit desperate, but there had been moments, like after they’d come or when they’d first woken up, where it had been gentle and close and sweet. “Fuck you, Malfoy” he managed.

“You didn’t want to, remember?” Malfoy said, wrenching himself out of Harry’s grip. “I offered. But you were too much of a prude to take off your pants.”

Harry froze, staring in disbelief. “You said that was okay.”

Malfoy grimaced. “Harry –” he began, but in a flash, Harry was at the door, flinging it open. “Harry!”

Fuck him. Fuck him. He was the same prat he’d always been, cruel and horrible and fucking evil. Harry’d been out of his mind to think he could ever be anything else.

In DADA the next day, while Professor Snape was busy ripping Neville a new one, a paper crane fluttered onto Harry’s desk. Harry refused to look over at Malfoy, but did unfold the note, too curious to ignore it.

Tonight at 10? Just to talk.

Harry stuck it underneath his textbook, but not before Ron managed to see it. “What did he say?” Ron whispered, his blue eyes shining. Much as Ron gave Harry shite for talking about Malfoy so much, he was always up for a good verbal sparring with the git.

“Nothing,” said Harry. “Just his usual garbage. I don’t care.”

Ron seemed dumbfounded by this. “Want me to say something to him after class?”

“Mr. Weasley,” Snape intoned, raising his voice. “I assume you’ve already memorized Westerburg’s theory on nonverbal spells, since you’re ignoring my lesson in favor of chatting with Mr. Potter. Please summarize it as succinctly as possible for the class.”

Ron turned white under his freckles. “Erm.”

Harry knew the answer, but he also knew that if he rescued Ron from Snape’s wrath, Gryffindor would only lose more points.

“Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley. Pay attention or it’ll be more.”

Ron glared down at his desk, the matter of the note forgotten, all his rage redirected to Professor Snape. Harry relaxed, and tossed the note into the bin on the way out.

Harry considered Malfoy’s invitation during lunch, and then again in the library, and then during supper. Just to talk, it had said. Maybe Malfoy was going to apologize again. That would be alright, Harry supposed. He wasn’t sure whether he’d forgive him, but it would feel good to hear it, regardless.

But, on the other hand, maybe he was going to tell Harry – officially – that the thing between them was finished, in which case Harry had no desire to hear him out. He could, he supposed, beat him to it and call things off first. That would feel good. Sort of.

Ah, no it wouldn’t. It would still feel awful.

Fucking hell. He wished he’d never done any of it. He wished he’d stuck to figuring out what Malfoy was doing and then stopping him. Everything had been simpler then, his objectives clear. Now everything seemed jumbled and confused, and he had no idea how to sort through it.

He was in his bed, red curtains closed, when ten o’clock came and went. He had to fight the urge to get up and go to the Room of Requirement, because every cell in his body seemed to be jangling with the desire to run all the way there. Instead, he let the minutes slip past, and eventually fell asleep, thinking of the way Malfoy looked in his sweater, his hair sticking up everywhere.

Potter wasn’t coming. That much was clear.

Draco turned his attentions to the cabinet instead of indulging in the ache in his chest. He’d let himself get much too distracted. His mother’s life and his own were at stake. He could not afford to forget it, not even for a moment.

He worked for hours, trying a barrage of cleaning and repair spells, fiddling with the placement of the shelves and the direction the cabinet was facing.

He made his way to the dungeons in the darkest hour of night, while the rest of the castle was fast asleep, narrowly escaping Mrs. Norris. In his room, Vince was snoring so loudly it was practically rattling the furniture. Draco cast a Muffliato over him and climbed between his own green curtains. He fell asleep thinking of Potter’s little patch of chest hair. He’d become unreasonably fond of it by the end.

“Here, Harry,” said Luna at supper the next day, handing him a plain envelope. “From the Headmaster.” She regarded him with her unnervingly wide and pale eyes for a moment, and he noticed her earrings were shaped like little cabbages.

“Thanks, Luna,” he said.

She nodded. “If I can help you, let me know.” She set his hand on the sleeve of his robes, concern written across her face.

“I will,” he said, and thought that he was glad to have Luna as an ally, regardless of her odd taste in jewelry. “Thank you.”

He was to meet with the Headmaster at eight that evening, according to the note. He glanced over to the Slytherin table out of habit more than anything, and caught Malfoy watching him curiously.

“Harry, please, come in. You know Minister Scrimgeour, I presume.”

Harry stared at the stern-faced man standing beside the Headmaster, hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes, hello,” Harry said, immediately wary. He did not particularly like the Minister, although he didn’t despise him like he had Fudge. But he most certainly did not trust him.

“He’s approached me several times this year, hoping to speak with you,” Dumbledore explained. “I’ve told him he has five minutes of your time, since you are, at present, very busy with your studies.” Dumbledore’s sharp blue eyes flickered over to Scrimgeour, but his face remained pleasantly bland as he glided toward the door to his office.  

“Alright,” Harry said, folding his arms over his chest.  

“It’s good to see you, Harry,” Scrimgeour said, effecting a smile once Dumbledore had closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone.

“I’m sure,” Harry said.

“I’ve wanted to speak with you for some time,” Scrimgeour said. “It’s been incredibly difficult to find you. Percival Weasley and I stopped by the Burrow, but you had already gone. I did, however, speak with your friends.”

“They told me,” Harry said. Ron and Hermione said that Scrimgeour had been nosing into Dumbledore’s business and Harry’s whereabouts.

“Well, then you already know that I’m interested in your activities since the summer, as related to You-Know-Who and his followers. Your Headmaster’s been gone quite a bit from school, has he not?” He glanced at the door, his voice almost a whisper.

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry said stubbornly. “He doesn’t report to me.”

“Of course not,” Scrimgeour said, his eyes flickering to the door again. “But the two of you have met privately on several occasions from what I hear. I’m assuming you know, generally, of his plans.”

“I don’t,” Harry said.

Scrimgeour looked frustrated. “Mr. Potter, it would benefit us all if you and your Headmaster worked with the Ministry on such things.”

“Did you ask him, then? To work with you?” Harry asked.

“We’ve discussed it, of course.”

“Then he doesn’t want to work with you, because otherwise you wouldn’t be asking me about it.”

“He’s…used to dealing with things in his own way. Not exactly a team player, our Headmaster. But I’d hoped you would prove to be more sensible. Attuned to the larger picture.” He stepped closer, his eyes searching Harry’s. “I think it would be quite helpful for you would make an appearance or two by my side. So that the public knows we’re working together to eradicate the threat.”

“You’re imprisoning innocent people instead of actually solving the problem. Why would I help you?”

Scrimgeour drew back, shocked. “Look, Potter, if you’re referring to Mr. Shunpike, then you know we cleared that up quickly.”

“You arrested him under false pretenses. You all knew he wasn’t ever involved.”

“We can’t know who is involved, can we? That’s the problem.” His eyes were hard now, and decidedly unfriendly.

“I’m not going to pretend like I support you, because I don’t. Dumbledore doesn’t trust you, and neither do I.”

Scrimgeour frowned. “Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” Harry said.

The Minister stared at him for a moment longer. “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Potter. Both of you. This is only going to hurt our cause in the end. We ought to be combining our efforts.”

“No thank you,” Harry said, sticking his chin out.

Scrimgeour sighed and made his way to the door. “Didn’t need the five minutes after all,” he said to Dumbledore as he passed.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, giving him a kindly smile that only made the Minister’s frown deepen.

When he was gone, Dumbledore turned to Harry. “Are you ready to begin your next lesson, then, Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry said, taking a seat in front of his desk, feeling more like himself than he had in weeks. “I am.”

When he finally slipped into his bed, Harry’s head was filled with swirling thoughts of Professor Slughorn and Tom Riddle’s Uncle Morfin’s wretched fate. It wasn’t as though he’d forgotten that war was afoot, but the notion had seemed less immediate, somehow, in the last few weeks. Tonight’s meeting brought the looming danger back to the forefront of Harry’s mind.

The situation was dire, and everyone, from the Minister of Magic to Stan Shunpike was choosing sides. Harry had chosen to place his allegiance with Dumbledore long ago. He had – well, not forgotten it, but ignored it, a bit. He swore to himself, there in the dark, that he wouldn’t let that happen again. He was Dumbledore’s man, because Dumbledore, unlike everyone else, knew what had to be done to stop Tom Riddle. Even if he was maddeningly slow in sharing his plans with Harry.

He needed to tell the Headmaster about Malfoy’s cabinet in the Room. He would tell him, he decided, the next time he was called in for a lesson.

The next morning, when he accidentally met Malfoy’s eyes from across the Great Hall, Harry looked away. It had been a temporary insanity, he decided. And it was over now.

Chapter Text

“I was delighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all happiness is fleeting.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

“I can’t believe how busy I am, honestly,” Hermione said, dropping into the seat across from Harry in the library. “We’ve only been back in class for two weeks.”

“I know,” Harry said, returning to his doodles in the margins of his Potions text. Not long ago, he’d loved reading all the Half-Blood Prince’s scribbled notes, but lately he couldn’t manage to be entertained by even that. With a start, he realized he’d been sketching a serpent that looked suspiciously like the one on Malfoy's arm, and quickly marked over it.

“Our teachers are trying to kill us,” Ron said, taking the seat next to Harry’s. “That’s the only explanation for all this reading.”

Hermione glared over at him before returning to her book. Whatever temporary truce they’d struck up over hols seemed to have disappeared rather quickly. Ron, irritated as he was with Lavender, was still dating her, and Hermione was stewing over it.

“What’re you studying, then?” Ron asked her.

She held up her textbook so he could see the front, and then set it back down, not looking at him.

“Great, thanks. Glad we’re friends,” Ron muttered. He sighed and settled in to read, and ten minutes or so passed in blissful silence. “Malfoy was being fucking weird today,” Ron said suddenly, looking at Harry.

Harry tried not to react. “Yeah? What did he do now?”

“I was talking to Lavender about how Ginny doesn’t seem very interested in Dean anymore, and how she was flirting with you over Christmas –”

“She was not,” Harry said. At least he didn’t think she had been.

“She was so!” Ron said. “Hermione, back me up here.”

“She was,” confirmed Hermione.

“Anyway,” Ron continued, “Malfoy was totally eavesdropping, and so I called him out on it, and he says – you know, in his stupid fucking posh voice – ‘As though I care who Potter fancies’. And then I said, you obviously do, since you’re listening to me talk about it, and he goes, ‘I couldn’t care less. He could marry her, and it wouldn’t bother me at all.’”

Hermione was looking now, and huffed out a laugh at that, shaking her head in disbelief. Harry tried his best to smile like it was ridiculous. “And then he says,” Ron continued, “‘You probably love it, don’t you Weasel. Your sister and your best mate, how sickeningly sweet.’ And then he tells me to tell you that he doesn’t care. And I was like, what? Why would I tell Harry that? And then he stormed off, and Parkinson was there, and she kinda looked at me and shrugged before following him, and I almost felt sorry for her, I swear, because the git is off his fucking gourd. He’s completely lost it.”

Harry’s swallowed thickly. “Weird.”

“So weird!” exclaimed Ron.

“If it was anyone else, I’d say it sounded like they fancied Harry and were jealous,” Hermione remarked.

“I know!” Ron said. “But it’s Malfoy, so there’s got to be some other explanation. Maybe it’s just him being a twat about my family again, I dunno.”

“I’m sure he’s not jealous,” Harry said, sounding strangled.

“Obviously. Duh,” Ron said, giving Harry a look. “I heard he was here over break. Did you see him at all?”

“No,” Harry said immediately, then realized that sounded suspicious, because he would have run into Malfoy at some point even if they hadn’t been snogging the whole time. “Or, well, he might’ve been in the Great Hall for dinner and whatever, but I didn’t notice.”

Hermione’s eyes were on him, then. Shit. “You didn’t notice whether Malfoy was in the Great Hall,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Um.” Oh, Merlin. He’d dug himself a hole. “No.”

“Hm,” she said, frowning.

“Oh, maybe he ate all his meals alone in his room, the fucking wanker. I heard he didn’t want to stay, so he was probably pouting,” Ron said.

“Hm,” said Hermione.

Harry became very interested in Potions, then.

“Harry,” Hermione said a few moments later.

“Yes?”

“You’d tell us if Malfoy did something horrible to you, right? Or if you’d caught him doing something nefarious?”

“Of course,” Harry said. But that was a lie, because Malfoy had done something horrible to Harry and he hadn’t told either of his best friends. Although, to be fair, he couldn’t exactly tell them without having to divulge the whole sordid thing.

“Hm,” Hermione said again. He decided he didn’t like when she said that.

But she was quiet afterward, turning back to her reading. He felt her eyes on him occasionally, though, and he was afraid of what she saw.

“What on earth possessed you to say those things to Ronald Weasley?” Pansy asked when she’d nabbed Draco off the Common Room couch and dragged him into her room.

Draco’d hoped they were going to never speak of it again. He was, apparently, not getting his wish. “Just giving him a hard time,” Draco said, not meeting her eyes.

“You sounded like a jealous ex. Tell me you haven’t been nursing some silly crush on Potter since the night of Slughorn’s party. Please, darling.”

“Definitely not. No. That wasn’t…it wasn’t a crush, Pans. It was just an acknowledgement that Potter can be attractive when he dresses nicely. Which is almost never, lucky for me, ha!” His cheeks felt hot. Salazar, he hoped he wasn’t blushing.

She raised a brow at him. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I…” he shook his head. “No.”

“Okay, then answer this: why haven’t you and Theo been spending more time together since your library snog? I thought that was going to be the beginning of your great romance.”

“Oh, well,” Draco began. He cleared his throat. “I told him I like him, too, but that I have too much on my plate. Which I very emphatically do, considering our current workload and my tasks for You-Know-Who and the looming war and all.”

She was distracted by that, thank goodness. “Oh, sweets, I know,” she said, reaching up to pat his hair. “I know how much pressure you’re under. I’m not trying to add to it. But you are being a bit strange. You must admit that your outburst in front of Weasley was…odd.”

“I know,” he said, running a hand over the nape of his neck. “It’s the stress. It’s making me crazy.”

“I suppose it was irritating to hear that Potter spent his hols flirting with the Girl Weasley while you were stuck here, alone.”

“Yes,” he said, grabbing onto her proffered explanation. “Yes, very irritating.”

“You know I'll help you,” she said softly. “I’ll do anything you need. Just ask.”

“I know, darling,” he said, pulling her close and breathing in her soft, floral scent. She would. They all would. Except perhaps Blaise, who seemed intent on cheerfully pretending the war didn’t exist. But Greg and Pans and Vince would all do whatever he asked. Unfortunately, nothing they might do would help at all, not with any of it. Not where his tasks were concerned, and not where Potter was concerned.

Try as he might, he couldn’t manage to get Potter out of his head. Potter did not appear to have the same problem – he hardly spared Draco a glance in recent days. But Draco couldn’t stop thinking about him. About how, for a little while, he’d had Harry Potter’s full attention. He’d touched Harry Potter’s bare skin, slept next to him, kissed him too many times to keep count.

And Merlin’s tits, he longed to do it again. The more time passed, the more he became certain that he could snog Theo until the end of his days and never feel the way he’d felt with Potter. And that fucking rankled, because why Potter, of all people? And it hurt, because he’d lost the chance to see what might become of that intensity between them.

He felt horribly guilty, too, for the way he’d spoken to Potter in the Room. Calling him a prude had been…a low blow, even for Draco. And given how he’d felt when he heard about Potter flirting with the Weasley girl, he couldn’t exactly fault him for being angry about Theo. It was, really, a natural reaction after what had gone on between them. If the tables had been turned, Draco was fairly certain he would’ve resorted to physical violence.

He wished for a time-turner, so he could go back and erase everything that had happened since hols ended, and do it over. But he couldn’t. That was the problem with having a temper: when you said something in a fit of rage, you couldn’t take it back once the rage subsided, and all you were left with was the fallout.

Malfoy was jealous. Over something ridiculous, but still. Malfoy didn’t know that. He had no idea that Harry’s mild attraction to and vague curiosity regarding Ginny had all but disappeared the moment Malfoy had kissed him. Their supposed flirtation over break had been a few quiet conversations and nothing more. Harry was terrible at knowing when people were flirting with him, so maybe it had been flirting, but certainly hadn’t been anything of importance.

But Malfoy was jealous, and that made Harry’s heart leap with wild, ridiculous hope. He wished it wouldn’t. He wished his body didn’t care as much as it did about this development. But it did. Oh, it did.

That night, he took himself in hand and, for the first time ever, let his imagination take over rather than simply enjoying the sensation. He thought of Malfoy, and all that warm, pale skin touching his own, his grey eyes bright, his smile lazy and hungry. He thought of the way it felt when he moved over Harry, the fabric of their pants sliding together.

Harry threw his free arm over his face, muffling a groan. It was better, like this. So much better than it was when he turned his thoughts off. He could practically feel the ghost of Malfoy’s long, pale fingers on him, could imagine the way he smelled, like cedar and expensive cologne and that silly raspberry-scented shampoo.

He came hard not long after, spilling into his hand, crying out softly into the sleeve of his pajamas. And then, after, panting into the muffled quiet between his curtains, he discovered the problem with doing it like this. Instead of a shallow sort of satisfaction in the aftermath, it felt like there was a black hole where his heart ought to be, a sucking hole that was dragging everything down into darkness. Because things between him and Malfoy were fucked, and they weren’t even talking. And Malfoy was a blasted Death Eater and had a terrible cruel streak that continued to manifest itself at unexpected moments and leave Harry feeling gutted.

And yet, Harry missed him. He missed him rather brutally, and wanted, more than anything, to touch him again, even if it was only for a little while.

And Malfoy had been jealous. So there was that.

The next day at breakfast, Draco looked over at the Gryffindor table – habit – and caught Potter’s eyes. It had been days since Potter had even glanced his way, and Draco felt a shock at the unexpected contact in every inch of his body, from the roots of his hair to his toes, and definitely in his cock. And Potter didn’t look away, not immediately, and Draco drank in the sight of him, the bright green gaze and the pink, soft curve of his mouth. His hair was a wreck and his collar beneath his robes was too big (like usual) and not even straight. And that didn’t matter at all, because he was looking at Draco, and setting Draco’s chest on fire in the process.

10 p.m. tonight, was all the note said. Potter had just slipped it to him as they’d all been filing out of Potions, and Draco held it in shaking hands. It had been three weeks since hols ended, three weeks since he’d kissed Potter, which seemed like a negligible amount of time, but had felt like a century. A very dull, depressing century. But now everything was rushing past, all brilliant color and roaring intensity. 

That night, Draco stepped into the shower at nine, and took his time cleaning every nook and cranny, moisturizing his skin, rubbing aftershave into his cheeks and his neck. He put on his softest blue jumper and took care to ensure that his hair gleamed and settled perfectly into place.

As he made his way through the common room, Blaise whistled. “Looking good, Malfoy,” he called, laughing. “Who’s the lucky Slytherin?”

“Not meeting anyone. Just off to work on something,” Draco said, offering him a weak smile. Pansy, beside Blaise, narrowed her eyes.

“I’ll be back late,” Draco called back to them. “Don’t wait up.”

At ten sharp, the door to the Room opened and Potter slipped in. He closed it behind him with a quiet snick and leaned against it, pushing his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. “Hi,” he said.

“Hello, Harry,” Draco said, feeling all his defenses crumble in the rush of pleasure and happiness that swept through him. He reached Potter’s side in three long strides and took his cheeks in his hands. “It’s good to see you.”

Harry’s smile was as shaky as Draco felt. “You too.” He gulped. “You were jealous. Over Gin.”

Draco laughed. “Yes. It made me want to throttle you. But you were jealous over Theo.”

“Of course I was.”

“It’s over with him.”

A little shiver swept over Harry. “Nothing ever even happened with Ginny.”

“Good,” said Draco, drinking in every detail of his face. He liked it more than he should. He liked it too much. He liked his stupid scar and his thick, untamed eyebrows and his dark lashes. He liked the round sweep of his cheekbones and his pink mouth and his stubborn jaw. He didn’t know that he’d ever liked a face quite this much.

“Are you planning to kiss me, or are you just going to stare at me all night?” Harry said with a chuckle.

“I like your face,” Draco said. Because why not? Harry was here. He’d asked Draco to meet him here, and he was here, and his warm cheeks were under Draco’s hands. “It’s a very nice face.”

“Tosser,” Harry said, turning his head to kiss Draco’s palm.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said.

“Stop being such a dick, and then you won’t have to say that all the time,” Harry said, smiling.

“I can try. No promises. It’s sort of in my nature, you know. Being a dick.”

“I’ve figured that out, yeah,” Harry said.

“You still wanted to meet me here, though. Even though you know how I am.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I think I might be mental.”

“You definitely are,” Draco said. He leaned forward to kiss him once, softly, and then Harry chased his mouth and they were, in an instant, right back to where they had been before.

Totally lost.

Chapter Text

“I know what happens at the end of falling - landing”
― John Green, Will Grayson

It was different now.

The thing between them had nearly been snuffed out, and their decision to keep it burning instead had changed their entire dynamic. There was nothing in particular that Harry could point to – nothing major, anyway. It was a million little things, none of which were dramatic on their own. But when you added them all up, it amounted to something quite profound.

Harry thought about this one day when Malfoy interrupted him to kiss the pads of his fingers one by one, stopping to nip at the webbing between thumb and pointer finger, his eyes teasing. He thought about it when Malfoy, sitting astride him, made him promise he wasn’t interested in seeing Ginny, and had no plans to take up with anyone else, either. He thought about it when Malfoy’s notes about meeting times began to include ridiculous signoffs, like “Your Favorite Snake” and “Your Devoted Servant” and once, amusingly, “Your Cranky Juliet”.

And now, he was thinking about how things were different while staring at Malfoy, who was spread out next to him in nothing but a pair of dark briefs, looking wholly unselfconscious as he explained how it didn’t matter that they’d only gotten off together with their pants on, because it probably felt better than actual sex with anybody else. “Not that I’d know,” he added absently. “Since I’m a fucking virgin.”

“I think most people our age are virgins,” Harry said, not seeing what the big deal was. He’d never thought it mattered very much. None of his friends had sex. Well, Ron and Lavender almost did before break, but the bloom was off that rose and Harry didn’t think it was going to happen now. Nobody else was even close.

“Most people our age aren’t contemplating the fact that they might not be alive for much longer, Potter,” Malfoy said, swirling the light from the tip of his wand in patters across the ceiling. It was late – the middle of the night, really – and they were in the Room, spread out on a dusty old rug. “And anyway, plenty of my friends have had sex.”

“Like who?” Harry cried, finding this fact oddly distressing. “And of course you’re going to be alive.” He leaned over to kiss Malfoy’s temple. “For years and years and years. Don’t talk like that.”

“Why not?” Malfoy looked at him, all traces of laughter in his eyes gone. “It’s true. I’m only being realistic. You should, too. It’s not as though your odds are any better than mine.”

“Wow, thanks,” Harry said.

Malfoy’s hand came over to his. “I hardly want it to be that way. I’d very much prefer it if we both lived to a ripe old age. But we are – both of us are – pawns in a war. Which has shifted the odds of either of us living to see the age of eighteen in a decidedly unhappy direction.”

Harry shivered, and not from the cold. “I’m not a pawn,” he managed.

“Again, with the denial,” Malfoy said, sighing. “Fine, how about this: we’re teenagers who’ve been tasked with essential wartime duties by adults who ought to know better. Well, adults who ought to know better and terrifying, undead dictators.”

Harry snorted. “Do you really find him that terrifying?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, meeting his eyes. “I don’t think I slept a single night that he was there.”

“Why?”

Malfoy hummed thoughtfully. “Oh, so many reasons.” He took Harry’s hand again and trailed kisses over his wrist. “Your veins are greener than mine. Mine look blue. See?” He held up his own wrist, and Harry traced the veins there. He thought about how the blood in them kept Draco alive, kept his heart pumping. It was a miracle, in a way, that blood and bones and chemicals somehow added up to Draco Malfoy.

Harry really didn’t want Draco to die. And he didn’t want to die, either. Not now, maybe not ever, if he could help it.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “And your wrists are smaller, too, even though your arms are longer.”

“I’m delicately-boned, Potter. I’ve an aristocratic build,” Malfoy said archly.

Harry snickered. “I guess you do,” he said. “Have your friends really had sex?”

“Well, some of them,” Malfoy said. “Pansy did last summer. With Blaise. Who already had the year before, with one of the older girls. Daphne has, I think. She was dating Miles for a long time, and I think they did.” He burst out laughing. “And Vince accidentally shagged his cousin.”

“What?”

“Oh, Salazar, it’s so funny,” Malfoy gasped. “He didn’t know they were related. He only found out later, when his mum asked why Vince was writing to her niece.” Tears were streaming down the sides of his face he was laughing so hard, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh along with him. “Oh, Merlin, Harry, you should’ve seen his face.”

Finally, after too long (when something really got Malfoy going, he took ages to calm down), he collected himself. Harry was staring at him, feeling warm everywhere. “What?” Malfoy asked.

“I like listening to you laugh.”

“Potter, you’re getting so sentimental in your old age,” Malfoy said, brushing Harry’s hair away from his face.

“According to you, I’ll never live that long,” Harry said, running the tip of his nose over Malfoy’s throat. It always smelled so good.

“Prove me wrong, then,” Malfoy said, and when Harry looked up, he was smiling. He had wide variety of smiles, some of them teasing, some chilly, some downright dangerous. But this soft, small one was Harry’s favorite. “You probably can – you’re excellent at being contrary.”

Harry kissed him again, this time as gently as he could manage. “Tell me what you have to do,” he said, taking Malfoy’s face in his hands, looking in his eyes, willing him to understand. “Please. Let me help you. I swear I’ll keep you safe.”

“Harry. You know I can’t,” Malfoy said, closing his eyes. It always ached a little when Malfoy said his name, and Harry felt the sweet pang sweep through him.

“You can,” he said.

But Malfoy only shook his head and pulled him closer.

“You’re staring at Potter again,” Pansy said one morning at breakfast.

“Just plotting his demise,” Draco said off-handedly.

“Uh-huh,” Pansy said. “I’m buying that less and less you know.”

Draco just rolled his eyes and took a bite of his toast.

“At least you’re eating again,” Pansy said.

“Plotting Potter’s demise requires a lot of energy,” he said.

Pansy laughed into her tea.

“What’s so funny?” asked Greg, settling in on Draco’s other side.

“Pansy’s just being her usual annoying self,” Draco said. “And how’re you this morning, big man?”

“Okay,” said Greg. “You seem like you’re in a good mood.”

“Doesn’t he just,” Pansy said, snapping a sausage in two with her teeth.

Skip Potions with me? Potter’s note later that morning said. He’d slid it into Draco’s hand as they passed in the hall, his fingers rough against Draco’s palm. Quidditch, thought Draco. That’s why Potter’s hands were always so calloused. Draco remembered when his were rougher, despite the spells he’d cast to smooth them out. He missed Quidditch suddenly, even though he’d hardly thought of it this year. He wondered what it would have been like, facing off against Potter on the pitch with this thing between them. He imagined it would have been entertaining.

The minutes slogged by until Potions, when Draco slipped upstairs to the seventh floor. Potter was already there, sitting cross-legged on their dusty rug and messing with a cuticle. “Knut for your thoughts?” said Draco.

“Thinking about something I’m supposed to do. For Dumbledore,” he said, looking up. Draco stared back at him, surprised. Potter never talked about his dealings with Dumbledore, at least not with Draco. “I have to convince somebody to do something. I’m not good at convincing people.”

“I beg to differ. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re different,” Potter said, leaning back on his elbows. “You’re easy to convince, because you want things from me.”

“Oh, I most certainly do,” Draco said, pouncing on top of him and nipping at his neck. He laughed, that deep chuckle that Draco liked.

Then it was all skin and mouths, and doing what they seemed to do best together.

After, Draco cleared up Potter’s love bites. Well, all except for one on his shoulder that wouldn’t show. “I’m leaving this one,” he said, grinning. “Leaving my mark.”

“I feel like I should get to mark you, then,” Potter said, grabbing his glasses and shoving them back onto his face.

“Oh, I never get rid of mine. Nothing below my collar, anyway,” he replied.

Potter tilted his head, green eyes regarding him. “You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious,” Draco said. “Look.” He pulled at his collar, revealing a small, purpling bruise.

“Is it weird that I like that?” Potter asked, looking a bit dazed.

Draco shook his head. “No. Because I like that you like it.”

Potter tugged at him, so that Draco was kneeling over him. “Let’s not go back yet.”

“Do you plan on keeping me in here forever? I’ve already missed one class thanks to you.”

“Forever? Nah. Just a few months, maybe. Do you think the Room would give us food?”

Draco laughed. “It might.” He pulled gently at Potter’s little patch of chest hair. He wanted to bury himself in that hair, honestly. Inhale it and rub against it and just live there. He loved it far, far too much. It wasn’t healthy, how much he thought about it. “You know, we really should. It would serve them right.”

“Should what?” Potter asked, his fingers at Draco’s shirt buttons.

“Run. Hide. Go somewhere far away, like Alaska or Columbia or Nepal. Live amongst Muggles and forget this whole bloody war. It would serve those bastards right if we just up and left. Let them fight their own battles.”

“What would we do there?” Potter asked, looking amused. “In Alaska or Columbia or Nepal?” He slid Draco’s shirt off for the second time since they’d arrived and busied himself with kissing over Draco’s skin.

“Oh, I don’t know. I could open up a shop of some sort. Maybe one that sells books. I like books. And you could…I don’t know, become a baker or a cobbler.”

“A cobbler?” Potter asked, incredulous.

“Is that not a Muggle job?”

A laugh. “I mean, I think it was, like, a hundred or so years ago.”

Draco slid a hand over the front of Potter’s pants. They didn’t do this much, usually just using their bodies to create friction. Potter tended to stiffen up when Draco tried, and not in a good way. He groaned now, though, and the vibration sent shivers down Draco’s spine. “Do you like this?” Draco asked softy.

“God, yes,” Potter said, his eyes closed tight, the conversation about cobblers forgotten. But Draco found he wasn’t ready to let it go.

“Would you go with me? If I asked? To Constantinople?”

“It’s called Istanbul nowadays, you weirdo,” Potter said, biting down on another moan. “And I thought you wanted to go to Columbia.”

“Whatever. It’s probably all the same,” Draco said. Potter laughed. “Well? Would you?”

“Do you think we would be happy there?” he asked, his eyes fluttering open, that new-leaf green almost blinding in its brilliance.

Draco paused his stroking to remove Potter’s glasses and set them aside. “Yes,” he said.

“I think we would, too. And I’ve always wanted to try my hand at cobbling shoes.”

“Then we’ll go,” Draco said, laughing, and returned his hand to the front of Potter’s pants. “Let’s leave tonight.”

“Let’s leave now. Or, well, as soon as you’re done doing what you’re doing.”

“You like what I’m doing, then? Sometimes you don’t.”

“I always do,” Potter said with a whimper. “Sometimes it makes me nervous, but I still like it. I like everything we do in here.”

“Me too, love,” Draco said and then stilled. He hadn’t meant to say that.

But Potter pulled him down on top of him and fitted their bodies together. “That can’t be what this is,” he said softly, his hands in Draco’s hair, his hard prick grinding against Draco’s.

“Of course not,” Draco said. “I didn’t mean –”

“Is that what this is?” Potter interrupted.

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Draco said.

“God, it is, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Draco said, rather desperately.

“Kiss me,” Harry said.

Draco did.

It was easy then, all skin and mouths and motion. They were good at this part.

“Harry, what do you think?” asked Hermione, who was sitting on the sofa next to him in the Common Room.

He had no idea what Hermione was talking about. He’d been thinking about Draco calling him ‘love’. Had he meant it? He’d seemed embarrassed after, but never took it back. Or maybe he just meant it in the way old ladies at the shops said it. Sort of generically. But Draco was very precise about the words he used. Deliberate. “Huh?” Harry asked, realizing Hermione was still looking at him.

“Never mind,” she said. “Your head’s in the clouds again.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll listen.”

“It’s alright,” she said, patting his hand. “It’s not important. And you’re smiling, so you ought to keep thinking about whatever it is that you’re thinking about.”

He settled his head onto her shoulder. “I’m thinking about someone.”

She giggled and patted his cheek. “I figured. Ginny?”

“No,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “Who?”

“Just somebody.”

“Well. Tell her to be nice to you or she’ll have me to contend with.”

He was quiet after that, thinking.

Not everything was going well, even when Harry was walking around smiling at nothing like a stupid arse. He had no idea how to convince Professor Slughorn to give up his real memories, or what Draco was doing in the Room when Harry wasn’t there with him. He still was shite at occlumency despite his lessons, and he still was struck with pain around his scar sometimes. He still felt Voldemort on occasion, felt his dark thoughts, his fury.

But despite how not-perfect everything was, Harry was so happy he didn’t know quite what to do with himself. It made no sense, really. Nothing about what he and Draco shared was good for him. But it felt good for him. It made him feel so light and airy that it was as though he might up and take flight if the urge struck.

10 p.m. tonight, Draco’s note said. No silly pen name this time. Harry got a strange feeling holding it, like some anxiety of Draco’s had settled into the texture of the parchment and transferred to Harry when he’d taken it in hand.

He was there early that night, at a little after nine. He paced, and worried, and then told himself he was being ridiculous. Draco would come in here and kiss him and tell him he was being stupid for worrying at all.

“You’re early,” Draco said, yanking the door open at half-past.

“So are you.”

“I’m always early,” Draco said. “You never are.”

“What is it?” asked Harry, taking hold of Draco’s hand. “Tell me.”

Draco blinked at him, his grey eyes solemn. “How did you –” he began, then shook his head. “Can we sit?”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry said. His fear was growing, shifting, spreading.

They settled onto their rug and looked at one another. Draco was trembling, Harry realized, fine little tremors running along his body. “What is it?” Harry asked again, running his hands over his thighs nervously.

Draco opened his mouth and then closed it again. Then, wordlessly, he held out a piece of parchment, unable to hold it very steady. Harry took it and opened it up. It read:

Message Received.

Chapter Text

“If by my life or death I can protect you, I will.”
-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Draco couldn’t look at Potter’s face as he unfolded and read the note. It wouldn’t have taken long to read, of course – it was only two words. But Potter said nothing for what seemed like ages, and Draco found himself incapable of speech.

“You fixed it,” Potter finally said.

“Yes,” said Draco.

“Is this the only message they sent you?”

He was too observant, and knew Draco too well already. “No.”

“Another one after this?”

“Yes.”

“Will you show me that one?” Potter asked.

Draco closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Draco, please.”

He reached into one of his robe pockets and grasped the second piece of parchment, the one that had appeared less than an hour after the first. And then he pulled it out and offered it up, penance in the form of admission. This note, unlike the first, was in the Dark Lord’s own hand. Potter made to take it from Draco, but immediately flinched and withdrew when his fingertips made contact with the paper. Draco stared at him, confused, and then Potter clutched at his scar and cried out.

“What is it?” Draco managed.

Potter didn’t reply, just cried out again and began to shake, still clutching at his head, and Draco’s heart seemed to freeze in his chest.

Draco took him by the shoulders. “What? Did it do something to you? It wasn’t…was it cursed? Harry, please say something.” He felt sick. He pulled at Harry’s hands, trying to examine his face. Except for the pained expression and eyes squeezed tightly shut, he looked relatively normal, just pale, his scar standing out starkly against his skin. Draco drew him close. “Talk to me, please,” He rocked Harry back and forth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Harry pulled away. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice weak. He sucked in a deep breath. “It’s not cursed. It’s the thing I told you happens. With my scar.”

Draco stared. “It does that to you?” he managed. He sucked in a shaking breath.

He nodded. “Sometimes. Hurts like hell.”

“Oh, Merlin, I thought – I thought –”

“No, god. No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Harry said, some of the color returning to his cheeks. “I take it the note was from him?”

Draco nodded, his body still humming with tension.

“Could you tell me what it says?” Harry asked, adjusting himself, his shoulders finally relaxing. “I’d rather not touch it again.”

Draco nodded again, feeling light-headed. This was all too much. The note, Harry's pinched, pale face when he'd touched the second one. The enormity of what he was doing. But he'd come too far to stop now; he had to press on. “I’m to conduct a second test on March tenth at midnight. And then…” He hesitated. “It said time is running out, and reminded me that I still have another task to complete.”

Potter pushed his glasses up, frowning. “Why did that upset you? If you already knew about it?”

“Because I’d hoped…” he began. He’d been so stupid. “I’d hoped that once I finished fixing the cabinet, I would be relieved of the second task. It’s…it’s impossible. I’ll never be able to do it. I’ll either be killed in the attempt, or killed afterward once I’ve failed.” He felt his eyes fill. That was the truth of it. He wasn’t getting out of this one alive. And the Dark Lord knew that perfectly well. “And I don’t want to do it,” he said, the truth of that also washing over him. “I really, really don’t want to do it.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?” Potter asked. He didn’t make a move to reassure Draco, or to comfort him. He simply regarded him steadily.

“I can’t,” Draco whispered.

“You can. You can choose to tell me. You’ve weighed the risks by now, surely. But don’t say you can’t, because that’s not true.”

This was Harry Potter, Draco thought suddenly. This was The Boy Who Lived. Determined, dogged. Fearless. “If you don’t tell me, it’s because you won’t,” he finished.  

Draco swiped at his cheeks. Circe, was he actually going to do this? This was betrayal. Betrayal of the worst sort. It was treason, against the Dark Lord himself. “I’m –” He choked on a sob and hid his face in his hands and tried to breathe, but began gasping instead. “I’m supposed to kill him!” 

The room felt like it was going funny, coming in and out of focus. He shut his eyes tightly and Potter took his face in his rough hands. “Breathe,” he said. “Here, bend over a bit, head down. Now breathe in slow. Then out.”

Draco tried, but was having trouble pulling the air in. Potter’s hand was on his back, rubbing circles over it, and he tried to feel only that. “In,” Potter said. “Slow. Then out, nice and slow. Good.”

Slowly, Draco realized he was filling his lungs again, that his breaths weren’t quite as shallow. He opened his eyes and saw that the room had gone still once more. Potter’s eyes were on him, his hand on Draco’s back. Draco straightened up and wiped his face.

Then Potter was pulling him close, and Draco settled his face in Potter’s warm shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of him. “You’re okay,” Potter said, his hand still on Draco’s back. “It’s all right.”

Draco felt himself drifting. Not to sleep, but his mind felt like it had broken free and was floating aimlessly, tethered to nothing. A strange calm was sweeping over him, or maybe his body simply couldn’t muster up the energy to panic any longer.

“Who?” Potter asked after a long time.

“Dumbledore,” Draco whispered into his shoulder.

Potter let out a gust of air and said nothing more. After a while, he settled onto his back on the rug and pulled Draco down with him, holding him tightly against his side. Draco listened to the steady beat of his heart through his robes and felt the rise and fall of his chest. He tried to match his breaths to Potter’s, to synchronize their inhalations. If they could, even for a moment, be as one, perhaps Draco would be imbued with some of Potter’s courage.

“Draco,” he whispered, kissing Draco’s forehead. “It’ll be okay. I swear it.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Yes,” Potter said.

Draco had known that. He’d known all along.

“But it will be okay. He’ll help us. And I’ll die before I let anything happen to you. Do you understand?”

Draco nodded again, feeling numb. He was so tired – he’d been up all night – and he felt like all the sick energy that had been circulating through his veins since he’d received the first note late last night was finally pouring out of him, leaving him boneless and mindless and unable to think or feel much of anything.

“Draco. I mean it.”

“I know, Harry,” he whispered. His voice sounded far away.

“I have to tell him.”

“I know.”

“Fuck,” he said, squeezing Draco closer. “You’re trusting me with this. And I – damn it. Okay. Look. Maybe I don’t have to tell him. Maybe we can figure something out without –”

“No,” he interrupted. “I knew that you would before I told you.”

“What?”

“I knew you would tell him. And I still told you. I made a choice.”

Potter was quiet for some time. Then: “Draco?”

“Yes?” he said, thinking of his mother. Even if Potter was able to keep him safe, he would never be able to protect her. Not when she was there, with all of them. With the Dark Lord. He’d made a choice, and they would kill her for it.

“You’re going to be okay.”

He wouldn’t. But he wouldn’t have been okay anyway, so perhaps it didn’t matter. “I know,” he said, and Harry kissed his temple.

“You’re very brave.”

He flinched at that. “Don’t you dare fucking patronize me, Potter,” he rasped. “I’m the worst sort of coward and I’ve just sentenced my mother to death.”

“I’m not patronizing you. I meant that. You’re brave for telling me. You’re doing the right thing. Dumbledore will protect your mother; I know he will, he –”

“Stop. Please, just stop,” Draco said. “I can’t bear to listen to you say these things.”

“But it’s all true,” Potter said, his voice plaintive now. “You have to believe me. I wouldn’t lie to you. Tell me you believe me.”

Draco closed his eyes tightly and felt fresh tears slip out, seeping into the fabric of Potter’s robes. “I believe that you believe it,” he said.

Potter was quiet, then. The whole word seemed quiet, nothing but steady heartbeats and breath.

He’d only been in the Headmaster’s office a handful of times, and it was always intimidating. It was dimly lit and cramped and cluttered. There were oddities lining the shelves, and some of them looked suspiciously dark, considering the source.

The Headmaster himself was sitting back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap, a lemon candy in his mouth, clacking against his teeth as he sucked on it. He did not look upset, which unnerved Draco more than anything.

“My boy, you demonstrated incredible bravery in coming to me,” he finally said.

Draco looked at Harry, thinking he hadn’t gone to Dumbledore, that he didn’t even particularly trust Dumbledore. He’d gone to Harry. Although he had known that amounted to the same thing, so perhaps it was merely a matter of semantics.

“I’m sorry that you’ve had to shoulder the burden of all this for so long,” Dumbledore continued. “That must have been quite difficult.”

Draco bit down on the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to cry.

“You’ve been charged with things that no child should have ever been asked to do. And I understand the pressure you’ve been under. Harry’s told me about the threat against your mother’s life and your own life.”

Draco gave a jerky nod, still not trusting his voice. Blue eyes that were surprisingly warm met his over the square edge of spectacles.

“The cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things,” he said. “I understand it is a means of conveying messages back and forth. I believe it also serves other purposes, does it not?”

Draco managed a squeaky ‘yes’.

“Would you mind elaborating?”

Draco glanced at Harry. “It’s a door. A door that they hope to use to enter the school undetected.”

Harry’s eyes widened and he let out a little gasp. Dumbledore, on the other hand, looked entirely unsurprised. Draco wondered if was even possible to surprise the man. He seemed omniscient.

“Do you know when this will occur?” Dumbledore asked.

Draco shook his head. “We’ve not finished testing it. I’m going to send a bird soon, to see if it lives through the transfer.”

Dumbledore nodded. “You will go through with this test as planned. We’ll not do anything to alert them to the fact that you have defected. They never need to know it, as far as I’m concerned. If you should choose to openly ally with us, I would welcome it, but until then, we will do everything possible to carry on as though nothing has changed.”

Draco felt something tight in his chest unfurl. Perhaps it was possible, like Potter had said. “How?”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled and he gave a little smile. “You needn’t concern yourself with that. As long as you tell me when they plan to invade Hogwarts, I’ll handle the rest. For all intents and purposes, it will appear to them as though you’ve succeeded in both tasks.”

“Both tasks, Sir?”

Dumbledore nodded. Draco wondered how he would manage to convince them of the second one. Perhaps he was planning to go into hiding. Although that would eventually be discovered, wouldn’t it? Unless he hid until the war was over, but that seemed improbable.

“If you should decide that you wish to defect openly, you must tell me straight away,” the Headmaster continued, his voice grave now. “That will require us to take a starkly different approach. You would be under the protection of the Order, of course. Hidden by us if you wish to be hidden.”

“But my mother.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I know. I understand that you are worried for her. You are right to be worried for her.”

“Even my father, if he is released.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed. “Once released, he would be in danger as well.” He tented his fingers together, looking thoughtful, his bushy, white brows furrowed. “It may be possible to get your mother out and bring her somewhere safe. It would be difficult. But not impossible, I should think. But that discussion needn’t take place unless you decide to openly oppose him.”

Draco shuddered at the thought, and Dumbledore noticed. “You do not have to,” he said, his hand coming to cover Draco’s for a moment. It was dry, and wrinkled, the skin thin as parchment over knobby bone. “You never have to. It is entirely your choice. I understand the risks, believe me. I would not cast judgement upon you either way.”

“I’d rather not be open about it. For now, anyway,” Draco said. Merlin, just the thought sent him spiraling.

“Fair enough,” Dumbledore said. “Then we will proceed as though nothing has changed. You will keep all your appointments, and you will keep me informed of their plans. Does that sound acceptable?”

Draco nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“I cannot express the extent of my gratitude, Draco. By coming forward with this information, you’ve saved countless lives. To think of Hogwarts being invaded…” He shook his head. “Well. Thanks to you, we will be able to protect the students and the faculty. Even if we let them take the school, that is a small price to pay for the safety of so many.”

“You’d let them take the school?” Draco asked, incredulous.

“I’d rather not, but it may be necessary. If that’s what it takes to convince…” Dumbledore glanced at Draco’s sleeve, right where the Dark Mark lay hidden, “…him of your allegiance, then that is what we’ll do.”

“Oh,” Draco said, trying to ignore the sweeping guilt that washed over him then. It would be easier for them all if he was openly treasonous. By hiding behind a facade of loyalty, Draco was causing everyone all sorts of problems. But he couldn’t bring himself to openly defy the Dark Lord. At least not yet. This quiet defiance was terrifying enough.

“Don’t let yourself feel guilty, Draco,” Dumbledore said. Honestly, the man knew everything. It was wholly disconcerting. “You have done more than most in your position would have done. I know it was a great risk to come to me. It speaks to a strength of character that I did not anticipate, and I’m sorry for that. If I had recognized that in you, I might’ve been able to help you much earlier and you wouldn’t have had to go through all of this alone.”

“I haven’t been alone, Sir,” Draco said, glancing at Harry. “Or, at least, not as of late.”

Dumbledore’s bright eyes – so bright for a man of his advanced age – considered them both. “I should have expected this from the two of you, I suppose.” He let out a little chuckle. “He never anticipates it. No matter how many times it interferes with his plans, no matter how many times it is his undoing. He never takes love into the equation.”

Harry turned pink and looked uncomfortable.

“There is love in friendship,” Dumbledore said to him, his voice gentle. “In true friendship, there is always love. And love is the most powerful force in the world. One that you must never, ever discount.”

Chapter Text

“There is such a shelter in each other.”
― Nick Laird, Pedigree

They were in the Room perhaps a week after their meeting with Dumbledore. Malfoy’s head was on Harry’s chest, Harry’s arm trapped underneath him. He was being quiet tonight; he’d been quiet ever since he’d divulged all of his secrets to Harry. It made Harry nervous. He didn’t know whether Malfoy’s silence was contemplative or resentful or a result of guilt or fear. He had no idea how to interpret it, and mostly found himself hoping Malfoy wasn’t angry with him.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked.

A soft sigh tickled his skin. “Occlumency,” he replied. “That I really need to brush up on it before seeing any of them again – Aunt Bella, Uncle Rudy, Dolohov, You-Know-Who. I have so much that I’ll need to hide now. Before it was just…hiding my wanking thoughts.” Malfoy chuckled, and Harry chuckled along, grateful to hear it. “Now it’s a lot more than that.”

“True. At least you can do it, though. I’ve always been total shit at occlumency. Snape tried to teach me, and it was a disaster,” Harry said.

“It takes a lot of practice,” Malfoy said, tugging at Harry’s chest hair gently. He did that quite a bit – brush his hands over the little patch, pull at it, nuzzle his face into it. Harry, oddly, liked it. For the first time, he found that he didn’t mind that part of himself. “My mother and father started working with me on it when I was nine or ten, I think? Before I went away to school, at any rate.”

Harry wondered, as he so often did, how his life would be different if he had been raised by his parents. Would they have taught him things like occlumency? He was positive he’d be a better wizard if he’d had their guidance. As it was, he felt like a live wire most of the time – all spark and power, and limited success in channeling it. “I’ve only had those lessons with Snape. Well, besides the stuff we’ve gone over in DADA.”

“The DADA lessons are worthless. Occlumency takes intense focus and concentration – difficult in a crowded classroom – and you’re not going to get better when you’re working with someone who’s crap at legilimency, you know?”

“Makes sense,” Harry said.  

“I’m surprised your lessons with Snape didn’t take, though. He’s very good,” Malfoy said.

“Dumbledore made him do it,” Harry explained. “I don’t think he wanted to. He wasn’t very pleasant to work with.”

Malfoy laughed. “He can be a real prick when he wants to be, I know.”

“Oh, you do not know,” Harry said, tickling him. “He fucking loves you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Malfoy said, squirming out of the way of Harry’s fingers. “He’s tolerant of me.”

“He was even willing to help you with your tasks,” Harry said, recalling their conversation at the Christmas party. “Why didn’t you ever let him, by the way?”

“Oh,” Malfoy said, looking surprised. “Well. I don’t completely trust him. There were rumors, last summer, that he was a spy for Dumbledore. Granted, I think Selwyn or somebody started them, and they were probably just jealous that the Dark Lord favors him. But either way, I wasn’t about to put my life in his hands. Although now I’m a spy for Dumbledore, so…” he trailed off.

“I never know what to think of his loyalties either,” Harry admitted. “The Order trusts him, but I really don’t.”

“So he is with the Order, then. Interesting,” Malfoy said. “And of course you don’t trust him. You hate him.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “That’s true.”

“He is one of the best at legilimency and occlumency, though,” Malfoy said. “I’ve worked with him before, too.”

“Did Vo – did he do that to you? Look inside your head?”

“Oh, Merlin, yes,” Malfoy said, sitting up a little to look at Harry. “He does it to everybody, any time he pleases. In meetings, you’ll suddenly realize he’s slipped in without you noticing, that he’s poking around in there while everybody else is talking. Or, worse, when you’re alone with him, he hardly bothers with asking questions. He just looks, finds what he needs, and dismisses you.”

“Oh my god. That’s awful,” Harry said. 

“It is,” Malfoy agreed. “Some of the others are just as bad. Not as skilled, necessarily, but entirely without compunction when it comes to trespassing in other people’s minds. Uncle Rudy, for one. And Dolohov has a real talent for it. Aunt Bella used to, but she’s not really herself anymore. She’s lost a lot of her finesse.”

“Bellatrix Lestrange? Why? What’s happened to her?”

“Mental distress plus illicit substances, I think?” Malfoy said offhandedly. “I don’t really know. She’s cracked, though. Very different from the way she was when I was a child. She used to be one of my favorite people in the world.” He sighed.

“Is she his lover? People say that, you know,” Harry said.

“I don’t think so,” Malfoy replied, thoughtfully. “I’m not positive, but I don’t think he does that with anyone. I’ve never heard of it, anyway. He leaves that to his henchmen. Ugh, some of them are absolutely foul.”

“Like who?”

“Greyback and all the weres in the days leading up to the full moon. And Dolohov and Yaxley are pretty terrible. Uncle Rudy has his moments as well.” Malfoy spoke of it mechanically, dully, like he was talking about an unpleasant weather forecast.

“What do they do? Do they assault women?” Harry asked, feeling sick.

“Women, yes. All those not under the Dark Lord’s explicit protection. Not just women, either. Men, too, if they think they can get away with it. Children, if they’re around. Most families kept their children far from the Manor last summer.”

“But you were there,” Harry said, dread curling in his gut.

“Yes, but my mother looked out for me and she has – or at least had – his protection. And Bella, crazy as she is, would’ve killed anyone who did that to me.”

“Did they ever try?” Harry didn’t want to know. He didn’t, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking, feeling his whole body tense in anticipation of Malfoy’s response.

“Yes,” Draco said, averting his eyes. Harry saw that he looked embarrassed, as though he was the one who’d done something wrong.

“Who? Tell me,” said Harry, his fury mounting.

Draco gnawed on his lip. “Dolohov, a few times,” he replied after a moment. “Uncle Rudy. But Bella –”

“Your uncle?” Harry cried.

Malfoy looked up at him, his eyes solemn. “He’s not a good man, Potter.”

“God,” Harry breathed. “And Bellatrix saw? Or what?”

Malfoy nodded. “She came in and Crucioed him on the spot. She’s still good with a curse, despite everything.”

“God,” he repeated. He wanted to murder Lestrange and Dolohov with his bare hands. How dare they? How dare they try to take advantage of a trapped, terrified boy, simply because his father was no longer around to protect him?

He kissed Malfoy’s head, then kissed it again. “That’s horrible. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Nothing ever happened,” Malfoy said.

“But still. You had to live with the fear of it hanging over your head. I fucking hate that.”

Malfoy shook his head. “That wasn’t the worst part,” he said.

“What was?”

“Him. Poking around in my mind. Throwing a silent curse at me for saying the wrong thing, or because he didn’t like my expression, things like that. Or, worse, the fear of what he might do. Like when he decides to turn everyone against someone who has displeased him.” He paused, stroking Harry’s chest. “He was angry at Avery for the Department of Mysteries debacle and let it be known, and Avery was on the run from the other Death Eaters until late July. They would’ve killed him, but he got back in the Dark Lord’s good graces before they could.”

What the fuck. Harry’d never imagined that the Death Eaters were a wholesome and friendly bunch, but he hadn’t known they were like this. Cannibalizing their own, basically. “You can’t go back to that,” Harry said. “You can’t.”

“My mother is there. What do you think will happen if I announce my defection? What do you think they’ll do to her?”

Harry swallowed. “Is your mother one? A Death Eater?”

“No,” Malfoy said. “She never took the Mark. She was never asked to. I think – I think they know she doesn’t really want it. Better to not offer it, you know, in that case. But it was always fine for her, before, because my father was held in such high esteem. He was his right-hand man, really, but now…”

“Now he’s in Azkaban,” Harry said.

“Yes, and as a result, he’s lost the Dark Lord’s favor.”

“Why do you think he’s still protecting your mother?” Harry asked after a while. “You-Know-Who, I mean.”

“To keep me and my father on a leash,” Malfoy answered immediately. “If he hurts her or kills her, he loses his leverage over us. And make no mistake, once my father is released, he’ll be eager to earn back his favor. He’ll be very useful, to the Dark Lord, at that point. Ready to do anything for him. And as for me…” he leaned on one hand, tilting his head, shining white-blond hair falling softly across his forehead until he brushed it away. “I’m his weapon here at Hogwarts. His only weapon. He needs to keep me close, and what better way than threatening me using her?”

It made sense, in a twisted, awful way. It was frighteningly logical, tactical, even, the way Voldemort handled all this infighting among his followers. Using them against one another to keep them in line, to keep them loyal to only him.

“No one trusts anyone, do they? Amongst the Death Eaters.”

“Oh, Merlin, no,” Malfoy said. “Not at all. Husbands and wives, perhaps, but no one else. And, actually, Rudy and Bella are enemies more often than not, so maybe not even that, although my parents do trust one another and are loyal to each other.” He let out a breath. “To their detriment, as you can see.”

“You’d think they’d all run,” Harry said. “Once they saw what it was.”

“But there’s power to be had, Potter,” Malfoy pointed out. “Power and glory and violence. And half of them are strung up on Pleasure Draughts most of the time. And then it becomes easier to manage it all, I suppose.”

Harry pulled Malfoy close. “You can’t go back. I won’t be able to stand it.”

“We’ll see,” Malfoy said, hedging. “A lot can happen in a few months.”

“It’ll kill me. I mean it.” It would, too. Having to constantly be afraid that Draco was hurt, was being tortured, raped, whatever else they could think of to do. He did not think he could handle that for long.

“Harry,” Malfoy said. He tilted his head up, his eyes soft. “You can’t fight all my battles. There are some I’ll have to face alone.”

Harry shook his head, but Malfoy stilled him with a kiss. “It’s lovely to have someone worrying for me, though,” he said, trailing more kisses along Harry’s jaw. “And to have someone to talk to about all this.”

“You tosser, it’s not lovely,” Harry said, closing his eyes tightly. “I hate it so much. I want to murder them. Literally. All of them.”

“Harry,” Malfoy said, low and teasing. “Forget about it and touch me, will you? You’re being so protective it’s making me hard.”

Harry laughed despite himself and opened his eyes. He gazed into Malfoy’s clear grey ones, which were, all of a sudden, surprisingly steady. “You’re a horrible slag, you know that?”

“It’s your fault,” Malfoy said, biting Harry’s nipple. “I’m not like this all the time.”

“Lies,” Harry said, climbing over him and covering him with his body, resting on his elbows to look down at that pointy, dear face. And Malfoy looked so happy to be underneath him then that he managed to forget about the rest of it for a little while.

After, Malfoy was being quiet again, but Harry suspected it was only tired contentment and not anything worse that was keeping him from speaking. “Would you help me?” Harry asked. “With occlumency, I mean?”

Malfoy grinned over at him. “Would I like the chance to look through your head? Is that what you’re asking?”

Harry stood and stretched. “No,” he said, pulling his trousers back on. “I’m asking if you’ll teach me how to keep you out of it.”

“But it will require a bit of poking around, at least at first,” Malfoy said, standing up and throwing on his robes without bothering with the rest.

Harry rolled his eyes. “I guess. Although this enthusiasm is really making me have second thoughts about asking.”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t like to poke around in my head,” Malfoy said.

Harry thought about that. He absolutely would. It was true.

“See?” Malfoy said when Harry didn’t reply. “You would!”

“Fine, I would,” Harry said. “You git.”

“Oh, hush. You love me,” Malfoy said.

Harry paused. That word, again. It seemed like it was everywhere lately. “I might,” he said quietly.

Malfoy put a hand to his mouth and turned to the side, but not before Harry saw him smile. He made his way over to Harry, then. “Goodnight, Potter,” he said, giving his cheek a kiss.

Harry, buttoning up his shirt, chased him for a kiss on the mouth. “Goodnight, Malfoy. Try to actually sleep tonight, would you?”

“As though I like staying up all night!” Malfoy grumbled before he opened the door. He paused, standing still for a moment. “I might, too,” he said, not turning back. “By the way.” He slipped out, shutting it behind him.

Harry couldn’t quite keep the smile off of his face, then, either.

Chapter Text

“Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Midnight, said the note. Harry frowned at it. That was later than they usually met. And he was tired today, from being in the Room with Malfoy until late last night. He'd hoped to get to bed early tonight. He would be there at midnight, though. Of course he would.

He tried to catch Malfoy’s eye during lunch, but Malfoy was studiously avoiding his gaze, talking to Parkinson, their heads bent together. Instead, he managed to make eye contact with Theodore Nott, who was sitting a few seats away, frowning at Harry. He startled, quickly returning his attention to the food on his plate.

“You’re thinking of her, aren’t you?” Hermione said quietly, looking up from her DADA textbook for a moment. Her eyes were dancing, bright. “When are you going to tell me who she is?”

Harry nearly choked on his sausage roll. “Erm. I dunno. Not yet.”

“Has Ron realized that you and Ginny aren’t going to happen?”

He shook his head. “No. And I'd rather you didn't tell him.”

She snorted. “I think he’s going to figure it out eventually, Harry.”

“Well, yeah. But not any time soon.” Between the impending demise of his relationship with Lavender and the tension between him and Hermione, Ron was busy these days. Hopefully too busy to pay close attention to Harry and the fact that he was not making any attempt to woo Ginny. “What about you and Ron? When are you two going to…you know.”

She looked down at her plate and scowled, all good cheer disappearing from her face. “How about never?”

Ah, so it was that sort of day, then. Harry glanced over at Ron, who was looking a bit peaked as Lavender twirled his hair around her fingertip. “He doesn’t like her anymore,” Harry whispered. “You know that, right?”

“She’s still his girlfriend. She’s still –” she glanced over at them, lip curling. “All over him.”

“Only because he’s afraid to break up with her.”

“That’s pathetic,” Hermione said, pursing her lips. “If it’s even true.”

He sighed and wished they would figure their shit out. It wasn’t easy being the referee in this fight.

Harry woke up with a start. He was lying on his back on top of the covers, still wearing jeans and a hoodie, the curtains of his bed wide open. The last thing he remembered was reading Potions, and then he realized the book was still on his chest. He’d fallen asleep reading, then. He cast a quick Tempus. It was one in the morning. “Bollocks,” he mumbled.

He grabbed his cloak and hurried out of the room and down the quiet corridor. Out of the Common Room and to the seventh-floor corridor as quickly as his legs would carry him. He passed before the blank wall three times and flung open the door to the Room.

It was empty. “Draco?” he called, even though he knew Draco wasn’t here.

Well, he was an entire hour late. What did he expect?

He returned to the hallway with a sinking heart and stood there, thinking. He could go back to bed now and explain what happened tomorrow. Or, he could try to see Malfoy tonight. He wanted to see Malfoy tonight. He knew the Slytherin password from overhearing it a few weeks ago, when he’d followed some younger students in one evening to talk to Malfoy. It might still be the same, he reasoned. It probably was.

On the other hand, he was much more likely to be caught in the Slytherin dormitories than here. He needed to consider that, to think rationally.

Yes, rationally.

Oh, screw it. He wasn’t going to get caught. He’d just need to be very careful.

He stepped silently through the corridors and down several flights of stairs, all the way to the dungeons. He was almost to the Common Room entrance when he heard voices speaking urgently, in snarling, angry whispers. “I know what I saw,” said the first. Harry didn’t quite recognize it, although it was vaguely familiar.

“You’re mad,” said the second. And that voice was unmistakable. Even when it was whispering, he knew it was Malfoy’s. “He must’ve gotten it from someone else. I certainly wouldn’t have had anything to do with it.”

“I saw you give it to him! Why are you lying?”

“I’m not –” Draco hissed. “And keep your fucking voice down.”

“Then why were you sneaking around so late?”

“I was doing what I’m supposed to be doing. For him.”

“Maybe you're not working for him at all - maybe you're working with Potter instead! He has a right to know that, doesn’t he? I ought to tell him!”

“What’s wrong with you?” Draco said. “For fuck’s sake! They’d kill me if you said something like that, and then they’ll kill you once they found out it wasn’t true.”

“I knew there was somebody else. I just never, ever thought it would be –”

“You are out of your goddamned mind!” Malfoy cried. “Sweet Salazar! I’m not screwing around with Harry Fucking Potter!”

“It makes sense,” Nott said, calmer now. “It would explain why you lost interest so soon. And he’s always staring at you, you know. All the time. Just caught him at it today.”

“If he’s staring at me, it’s because he wants to catch me doing something I shouldn’t be doing. Getting me in trouble is his favorite bloody pastime.” Malfoy said.  “And I didn’t – I didn’t lose interest. I told you, I’m not in any position to be starting something like that right now. I don’t know how long I’ll even be at school. As soon as my father –”

“Shut up about your father, Draco! Merlin, nobody cares about him anymore!” Nott interrupted.“There’s been no attempt to break him out, and what do you think that means? The Dark Lord could have done it, easily. But he knows your father’s worthless, that your family’s nothing but a bunch of lousy traitors –”

The voice was cut off by a loud smacking sound, and that was followed by a gasp. “Fucking hell!”

“Do not ever say anything like that again. My mother and father have ties to the Dark Lord that your family could only ever dream of. They are his most loyal supporters. They were the first in line to welcome him back. If you ever insult them again, I will make sure the Dark Lord hears about it. I don’t think he’ll look kindly upon a mouthy little upstart insulting members of his inner circle, do you? Do you think he’d appreciate you saying he was a fool to bestow his Mark upon me?”

There was something mumbled that Harry couldn’t hear. And then: “I’m going to get to the bottom of it.” Then footsteps were coming closer, so Harry hugged the wall, his invisibility cloak shielding him. Theo Nott slowed, looking around at both sides of the corridor. He shivered, and then kept walking, fast, until he’d stepped through the doors to the Common Room.

Harry hurried towards Malfoy, finding him around the corner. He’d slid down the wall and was sitting on the floor, curled up around his knees, his eyes wide and worried. Harry crouched in front of him and pulled the cloak down to reveal his face and Malfoy looked at him impassively, his eyes going blank. “So nice of you to show,” he said.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Harry said. “I fell asleep.”

Malfoy huffed and turned away. His cheeks were stained pink.

“I threw away the note, and Nott found it,” Harry said, feeling sick. He usually crumpled them up and hid them in his pockets, but this one had nothing personal on it, so he’d just thrown it into the bin. He hadn’t counted on being watched.

“Yes, you idiot. You did. And he did.”

“There’s no way to prove the note I threw out was the one from you. I could’ve had more than one note, or – or, I don’t know, maybe we were meeting to have a duel? We did that before, didn’t we?”

Malfoy raised a pale brow at him. “How convincing, Potter. I’m sure Theo will believe it.”

“He’s only doing this because you called things off with him. That’s the only reason,” Harry said. It seemed so unfair, so maddeningly petty.

“It won’t really matter what his reason was when I’m being Crucioed to death by the Dark Lord, now, will it?” Malfoy said.

“What can I do?” Harry asked. “Tell me.”

“Nothing,” Malfoy said, rising to his feet. He looked past Harry instead of at him, his eyes so much colder than they had been lately. He took several steps towards the Slytherin Common Room entrance. “Or, actually,” he said, turning back around. “How about you stay the hell away from me for a while until this blows over or I figure out a way to ensure that Nott keeps his mouth shut.”

“Okay,” Harry said, quietly. Merlin, he felt like such a bastard. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Draco.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are,” Malfoy sighed. “That’s not the point. The point is that this could get ugly.” And then he was gone, leaving Harry to pull the cloak back up over his head and wallow in misery over what he’d done.

Draco slipped into Pansy’s bed, pulling her close. She was fast asleep, warm and soft, like a heated blanket. But after a moment, she stirred. “Draco?”

“Pans, I need to know if I can trust you,” he said. He shouldn’t be talking about it. She was a decent enough occlumens, but not nearly strong enough to withstand any invasion by the Dark Lord. But she and her parents were at the periphery. There was no reason to think she would get involved in this at all. In fact, he knew that her parents were considering moving to Belgium until the whole thing blew over.

“Of course you can trust me, you wanker,” she whispered, rubbing her eyes. She yawned.

“Even if I was doing something you might find...wrong?”

“Are we talking murder, here?”

Well, yes, he thought, but no. That’s not what he wanted to tell her. “No, it’s something else. Something that could get me in trouble with the Dark Lord.”

Pansy had been sleepy-looking, but now she seemed to wake up instantly. “Oh, Salazar, what?”

“Give me your word, Pans. That you’ll keep this between us, that you’ll do whatever it takes to keep it a secret.”

She blew out a breath, making her fringe flutter. “I swear it. I won’t tell anyone and I will do everything I possibly can to keep it secret.”

“The thing that you’ve teased me about?” he began.

“Holy fuck,” she said, her eyes widening. “You are shagging Potter.”

“Well, no,” he said. “But I am snogging him a lot.”

“Damn it, Draco.”

“I know. It’s worse.”

“How could it possibly – ugh, go on.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m supposed to let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and kill Dumbledore. Those are my tasks.”

Pansy’s entire face went starkly white at that. “Oh, no. Draco. Oh, Salazar. But you – oh, you can’t –”

“I know. I was trying to work up the nerve to do it, but I’ve been…well, you’ve seen how I’ve been.”

“How could he ask that of you?” Pansy said, touching Draco’s cheek. “Even if you could stomach killing Dumbledore, he’s too powerful. You’d fail, and probably be killed in the process.”

“I know. I think he – I think it’s on purpose. Because of last spring.”

“Oh, sweets,” Pansy said, pressing her forehead to his. Her eyes were shining, full of unshed tears. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

“Well, I think I’ve, um. Possibly solved the problem?”

She sniffed. “But how?”

“I told Potter and Dumbledore.”

She bolted upright, and he thought he’d never seen her look quite so appalled. “No.”

He nodded. “Potter…he’s grown to care about me, I think. And he kept saying he would help me, and so I finally told him.”

Pansy was shaking her head. “Not good, Draco. This is not good.”

“No, I think it’s okay,” he said, willing her to understand. “Dumbledore promised to help. He’s going to take care of everything, make it appear as though I’ve done everything I was asked to do.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” he said, wishing that Dumbedore had told him. At the time, he’d been so relieved to share the burden, to let someone else take it, he hadn’t even cared that he had no idea how it was all going to work. But now, looking at it through the lens of Pansy’s perspective, he realized he ought to have asked questions.

“And you just…trusted him? Believed that he was going to do what he said? Circe’s slit, you’re not stupid! How could you do this?”

“Dumbledore may be a lot of things, but I don’t think he’s a liar.”

She shook her head at him mutely, like she couldn’t comprehend this level of idiocy.

“Pans, he was very convincing.”

“I’m sure he was,” she said. “But you’re smarter than that. The man doesn’t care about you. He cares about winning the fucking war! Good gobstones, I shouldn’t have to explain this to you.”

“Stop yelling at me, please,” Draco said quietly. He couldn’t take it, not on top of everything else.

Pansy sucked in a breath and he realized she was crying openly now, even though she looked furious. “Somebody needs to!”

He put his face in his hands. “I’ve already done it. There’s no point.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Anything else I should know? Are you terminally ill? Secretly a Veela?”

He snorted. “No.” Oh, wait. “Well…Theo suspects. He saw me pass a note to Potter regarding a meeting time and then Potter threw it out and Theo opened it.”

“That’s all it said? A meeting time?”

He nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “That’s not so bad. We can work with that.”

Harry was running a bit late for breakfast, having been up half the night, fretting. He felt leaden and slow, his brain fuzzy. He wanted nothing more than to stay curled up in bed, dreaming the day away, but he also wanted to look at Malfoy. To gauge how he was.

Right before he made his way through the enormous doors of the Great Hall, he was yanked off-course by something catching hold of the back of his robes. He blinked at Pansy Parkinson, who had fixed him with a narrow-eyed gaze. “Erm,” he said.

“Don’t play the fool with me, Potter. You know exactly what sort of trouble you’ve gotten him in, and now you’re going to help me fix it.”

“He told you?” Harry cried.

“Only because he was at his wits’ end last night. Fuck knows he doesn’t need more stress, but he certainly got it. Theo needs to be handled.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “How?”

“You are going to walk by the Slytherin table and I’m going to yell something at you. And you’re going to play along. Got it?”

“What’re you going to yell?”

“I don’t want to tell you, because I don’t want it to sound rehearsed. You only need to respond like you would have before…” she closed her eyes and sighed. “Circe help me,” she muttered. “Like you would have before you started snogging Draco regularly. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, embarrassed as all hell now.

“Good. Do it now, before people start to leave.”

He nodded, and then she swept through the doors. He waited a minute before coming in, walking right by the Slytherin table, pretending not to see them all glaring at him.

“Hey, Potter!” Parkinson yelled.

Harry turned to her and raised his brows, as though he couldn’t bother wasting words on her.

“Heard you never showed last night. You bloody coward.”

Harry watched as Malfoy looked over at her in alarm, and then out at Harry.

“Fell asleep,” Harry said, shrugging. “Didn’t sound all that interesting, to be honest. I’ve already beaten Malfoy loads of times.”

“You haven’t,” Draco snapped, straightening up and looking less confused. “Admit it, Potter. You’re a coward.”

“As though I’d be afraid of you. I’ve faced your boss, Malfoy. You’re hardly intimidating.”

“If that was true, you would’ve shown up,” Malfoy said. “Instead of hiding.”

Harry let a laugh fall from his lips. A short bark of one. “Right. Hiding from you. That’ll be the day.” He left, then, because he saw Ron standing up at the Gryffindor table, looking ready to run over to Harry’s side.

“What’d they say?” Ron asked when he’d sat down across from him. Lavender was next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder with her eyes closed in apparent bliss, and Harry had no desire to sit next to the pair of them. Merlin only knew what went on under the table.

“Nothing. Just being tossers.”

“Fuck them,” Ron said, scowling.

“Whatever,” Harry said, adopting a bored expression. “Not worth it.”

Ron looked him over (as much as he could with Lavender nuzzling his cheek with her nose, at any rate). “You know, you’ve seemed weirdly mature lately, Har. I don’t know whether to be impressed or disappointed.”

Harry laughed. “Disappointed, probably. Maturity is overrated.”

Ron nodded. “It is.”

There was no note exchanged at all that day. And yet, at ten, Harry and Malfoy were both in the Room, looking at each other. “Did it work?” asked Harry.

Malfoy nodded. “It did.” He made his way to Harry and wound his arms around Harry’s neck. “You genius.”

“Pansy’s idea.”

Malfoy didn’t look all that surprised, although he sighed dramatically. “Of course it was, the bint. You’re not mad that I told her?”

Harry shrugged. “No. Not really. Can you trust her to keep her mouth shut?”

“Pansy?” Draco asked. “Yes. Unless she’s being tortured or something, she won’t say a word.”

Harry nodded. “You’re not mad at me?”

“No. Sorry if I acted like it last night. It was a rough night all around.”

“Why?” asked Harry, pulling Malfoy over to the rug. They spread out, Malfoy’s arm around Harry this time, Harry’s head resting on Malfoy’s chest.

“The bird came back. Dead. I’m having trouble deciding whether that was a problem with the cabinet or a threat. Could be either.”

Harry kissed his chin, below his ear. “I’m sorry.”

“Ugh, Potter, stop saying that,” Malfoy said. “You’re the good one, remember? I’m the one who should always be apologizing.”

“You’re a good one, too,” Harry said, surprising himself.

“I know I’m not, at least not as you define it.”

“Define what? Good?”

Malfoy nodded.

“I don’t know how I define it,” Harry said, sitting up to look at Malfoy. “But I think you are. Or at least, you’re getting there.”

“Whatever, I don’t care,” Malfoy said, shutting his eyes. “It’s not as though we live by the same standards.”

“What standards do you live by, then?” asked Harry, wanting everything to be easy between them again, but also wanting to know.

“I don’t think I’m exactly clear on that anymore,” Malfoy said. “Which is disturbing.”

“Muggles?” Harry asked.

“Still don’t trust them.”

“Or have any actual experience with them.”

“Or that.”

“You’ve stopped saying the m-word,” Harry pointed out.

“Look,’ Malfoy said, his eyes opening. The look in them was wary, guarded. “This is not about what’s right and wrong, not for me. This is about living through the war, and getting my mother through it in one piece if I can manage it. I haven’t had some earth-shattering epiphany. I haven’t changed all my opinions. I’m still me. I’m just…doing what I have to do to survive.”

Harry stared at him, wondering if that could be true. It seemed so unlikely; Malfoy seemed very different now, at least to Harry “I think you might be changing without realizing it.”

Malfoy’s pale brow furrowed. “I hope not.”

“I like it,” Harry said simply.

“Oh, well. Then everything’s grand, isn’t it? Merlin knows I live to please you.”

“Shut up, I’m just saying that I think I might…I don’t know. Respect you.”

“Stop,” Malfoy said. “Just stop. I can’t stand talking about this stuff.”

Harry sighed. “What do you want to talk about, then?”

“Nothing. I didn’t come here to talk. I came here to feel your prick against mine. That’s all.”

Harry didn’t like the way that made him feel. But it did sound rather appealing anyway. “Fine,” he said. He kissed Malfoy, who seemed to have no patience with him tonight. His soft kiss was swallowed up by ferocious, hungry ones, by Malfoy’s teeth swiping at his jaw, his throat. “I don’t understand you,” Harry said quietly, feeling all the blood rushing down to his cock.

“Yes, yes, Potter. I’m an enigma. Now pull off my robes, would you?”

Harry slid them over Malfoy’s head. He only had on pants underneath today. Sometimes he did that. Weird pureblood thing. Harry felt naked without clothes on under his robes. He shed them quickly, though, and sighed at the feel of Malfoy’s skin on his. He never tired of it. There was something absolutely transportive about the sensation, always taking Harry out of his head, regardless of circumstances.

He slid himself over Malfoy, feeling the hardness of Malfoy’s cock through their pants and stifling a moan. “You could take my pants off,” Malfoy said.

Harry shook his head. “I don’t want to do that yet.”

“When?” Malfoy asked, grinding his hips into Harry’s. It came out like a whine.

“When I know what this is. When I know who you are,” Harry said.

“That could take forever,” Malfoy said.

“This feels really good, though,” Harry pointed out.

Malfoy nodded, bringing their lips back together. “You always feel incredible.”

Harry warmed at the praise, then wondered if this was all he would get from now on. They seemed, suddenly, so far away from ‘I love you’. Harry’s doubts had managed to increase exponentially, and he wasn’t even sure why.

Malfoy’s hands were on his arse, pulling him down, pressing them together. Harry’s nipples felt sensitive where they skimmed over Malfoy’s chest, their legs tangled up, their mouths wet and desperate. “Merlin, Draco,” Harry whispered. He wondered why it had to be him, for Harry. Why it had to be someone so difficult and complicated. Harry wondered whether he wouldn’t be happier with someone who didn’t have a hair-trigger temper, who didn’t use words like weapons. Someone who didn’t make him feel like he was riding a terrifying roller coaster. “You feel so fucking good.”

Malfoy buried his head in Harry’s shoulder as he came, his groan muffled. Harry felt his cock pulse against his own, and then he was coming, too, a rush of orgasm, dulling everything around him for a moment, turning the world blissfully, wonderfully hazy.

“I’m not different,” Malfoy said after long, quiet moments. “Just because I’m doing this with you. That doesn’t change who I am. Who I’ve always been.”

Harry stayed silent, trying, instead, to hold on to the feeling of simple nothingness that had enveloped him.

Chapter Text

“Is it good or bad?" she asked Issa. The wrong question, she knew. She just couldn't help herself.
"It's both, sweet girl," said Issa. "like everything.”
― Laini Taylor, Days of Blood & Starlight

An owl from Draco’s mother appeared at breakfast. It was the first one he’d received since November, and try as he might, Draco couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

Darling, it read. I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I think of you constantly and pray you are doing well.

Things here are much the same as ever. The roses are supposed to bloom early this year. I’ve removed the winter warming spells and have started to prune. I have high hopes for the Heirlooms this season.

If you can, please remember to write your father. He is eager to hear from you.

Your Loving Mother

It was strange for several reasons. First, the suggestion that Draco write his father, when his mother had specifically instructed him to never, under any circumstances, write to his father, lest the Ministry deem it suspicious and come after him. Excessively paranoid, in Draco’s opinion, but she had been quite firm about it.

Then there was the discussion of roses. His mother loved her roses, but she hadn’t gone out to the gardens at all last summer because of an odd quirk in the spell of protection the Dark Lord had cast over the house and its owners. Because the gardens weren’t included in the original parcel of land deeded to the Malfoy family from the crown, the spell did not extend to them. Draco wasn’t sure whether her returning to the garden indicated that she was no longer under the Dark Lord’s protection at all, or whether it meant something else entirely.

Another explanation crept into his mind, one that he didn’t like. He’d worried about it, though, particularly since Aunt Bella had started losing her mind. It was possible, he knew, that his mother had inherited the Black penchant for madness. Possible that the war and his father’s imprisonment had tipped her over the edge.

A more remote possibility was that this was some sort of coded message. Roses, Heirlooms, his father – try as he might to come up with some meaning, some connection, the contents of the note sparked nothing. If there was a message hidden in there somewhere, it was too well hidden.

Still, the parchment smelled like lilacs, like her, and so he kept it with him. That night after supper, he pulled it out and pressed his face into it. It made him feel, for an instant, like he was safe, like he was home, like the war and all that came with it was just an unfortunate nightmare that the dawn would chase away.

That evening, Theo was in the Common Room at one of the study tables, throwing Draco apologetic looks, as he had been since Pansy and Potter’s ruse in the Great Hall. He’d caught Draco in the corridor before Herbology that day and told him he was sorry for what he'd said, that he'd made a mistake, that he’d been jealous, that he had never truly believed Draco would betray the Dark Lord, and that he could only hope to make it up to him.

Draco had listened patiently and responded with unfailing politeness, assuring Theo that he wasn’t going to hold a grudge over a silly misunderstanding and that he still considered him a friend. When Theo asked him whether there might still be a possibility of romance between them in the future, Draco said he wouldn’t rule it out.

That was a fucking lie.

He would never forgive Theo for what he’d said about his family or for his threats. But at this point, it was more important to have Theo on the retreat and full of remorse (and consequently, keeping his nose out of Draco’s business) than it was to exact some sort of revenge. Somewhere down the road, Draco would have an opportunity. He didn’t need to strike back yet.

When it began to seem like Theo was working up the nerve to approach him, Draco decided it was time to leave the Common Room. He hadn’t the patience for Theo at the moment. Truthfully, he was in a sour mood.

The primary reason for his mood was that Potter hadn’t given him a note in three days. For them, three days was a prolonged absence. Draco, like a fool, had gone to the Room on the first and second nights, just in case, and had waited until nearly midnight both nights, hoping. Potter, of course, hadn’t showed.

Tonight, he had no choice but to go to the Room. He had been instructed to make a second attempt to send a living creature through the Vanishing Cabinet at eleven o’clock tonight. Earlier that day, he’d managed to lure a little finch into the castle and stun it. It was waiting for him in the Room, locked in an antique cage.

He made his way over to the cage once inside. It was an attractive piece, all filigreed gold. The bird, to his relief, looked perfectly well, jumping from one bar to another, pecking at the little seeds Draco had scattered over the floor. It was a siskin, commonly seen around the forest in the winter. There wasn’t anything particularly special about it, but it was cute, in a way, so small and cheerful with its bright yellow and black feathers. He certainly didn’t want it to suffer a painful death while being yanked through space. He hoped his latest round of tinkering with the cabinet had gotten out all the kinks.

He cast another gentle stunner at the bird and caught it before it fell from its perch. It was perfectly still in his hand except for the tiny flutter of its heart. He felt a rush of guilt as he considered how terrified it must be, to be in this strange place, looking up at a giant monster’s face, being gripped in its hand. “I’m sorry to scare you, little one. And I’m doubly sorry if this doesn’t go well for you,” he whispered, petting its head. “I hope you come back in one piece.” He set the bird down inside the cabinet and whispered Finite, closing the cabinet tightly before it could perk back up and fly out. He said the transfer spell and tapped the door with his wand, then waited for a moment.

When he opened cabinet door back up, the finch was gone, which was no surprise. He’d mastered sending things to Borgin and Burkes. The issue was whether the bird would survive the transfer.

Waiting for a return was always the worst part of these tests. There was no guarantee the return would be made immediately; once, he’d waited for four hours. It was easier with Potter around – they could while away the hours together, lose themselves in one another for a time. But Potter wasn’t around now, and Draco didn’t know when he would come back.   

He spread out on the rug, thinking that he couldn’t even blame Potter for staying away. Potter had every right to be sick of him; he was sick to death of himself, and amazed that anyone else could tolerate him at all. He hoped this latest chill between them would thaw soon, but in the meantime, he felt wretched.

Not that he’d come up with a solution to their most recent conflict. It wasn’t like he’d told Potter any untruths that night. He was the same person, no matter how much Potter wanted him to have changed. He was his parents’ son, a proud Malfoy, a believer in pureblood tradition. He believed in the old ways, and if there had been a rational, respectable leader at their helm, Draco never would have defected at all.

He’d come to realize recently that it was the Dark Lord who was the problem, that it was he who had tainted the cause and turned it vile. It was the Dark Lord who’d ruined everything with his insistence on promoting monsters like Dolohov and Uncle Rudy; with the Pleasure Draughts he provided; with the bloody, scorched-earth methods that he encouraged.

What Draco didn’t understand was how his father and his mother hadn’t grown weary of it by now. Or, honestly, why they hadn’t tired of the Dark Lord’s schtick the first time around. Perhaps he’d been different then, back when he’d been human. The thought made Draco shiver, because if he was no longer human, what was he? Not quite dead, not quite alive, but existing in some unnatural in-between state. He was an abomination.

Draco could only come up with one answer to the question of why his parents and all the other Death Eaters of sound(ish) mind stuck around, and that was their obsession with power. They were whores for it, all of them (yes, even his own father; Draco could admit that much), and the Dark Lord had power to spare.

But that was foolish, because while he was powerful, he was still only one man. And it wasn’t as though there weren’t other powerful wizards. Dumbledore was evenly matched to the Dark Lord and had probably been even more formidable when he was at his peak, and Potter was supremely powerful and growing stronger all the time. It was too bad he was such a careless slacker when it came to technique and the finer points of spellwork, because his raw power was undeniable. Sometimes, Draco could feel the magic crackling around him like static electricity. When he was angry, it was even accompanied by a scent like petrichor, like it was wiping the world clean in a single stroke.

The truth was, either Dumbledore or Potter could conceivably go toe-to-toe with the Dark Lord and win if luck was on their side. The Dark Lord was not all powerful, so it seemed foolish to trade autonomy and safety for his favor. Particularly foolish given that the Dark Lord was so fickle.

The door creaked open suddenly, and Draco sat up with a start.

“Hi,” Potter said, shutting it behind him. He ran a hand through his black hair before leaning against the wall, moving his hands to cushion his tailbone. “I didn’t know if you were finished. I know you were supposed to test the cabinet again tonight.”

“I already did,” Draco replied. He looked over Potter’s face, trying to assess whether he was angry. Potter was usually easy to read, but right now, Draco couldn’t pick up on any obvious clues. “Just waiting for a reply.”

“Hope it’s not another dead bird,” Potter said.

“I know,” Draco said grimly. “Or, rather, in a way, I hope it is, because then it’ll be longer until we have to deal with the real thing. But on the other hand, I hope it’s not, because…” he shrugged hopelessly. “Dead bird.”

“Right,” said Potter, taking a seat next to Draco on the rug, stretching out his legs in front of him. He was wearing jeans like he usually did in the evenings, and one of those jumpers with a hood and big front pocket. He honestly did not seem to give one flying fig about the way he looked, so it was a testament to his natural, innate attractiveness that he always looked so bloody delicious.

 Between the bright eyes and the pink mouth and the dramatically dark brows, Draco never tired of looking at him. He wondered if he’d always known Potter was beautiful. He suspected he had, that even his sexually-un-awakened self at eleven had realized it on some level. It took a moment to see it, because of the bad haircuts and the ill-fitting clothes, but once you did, you couldn’t unsee it.

There were certainly plenty of moments where Draco wished that he could.

And then there was his power, and his fearlessness, both of which drew Draco to him like a moth hellbent on incinerating itself. And there was his ridiculous adherence to what was ‘right’, which infuriated and fascinated Draco in equal measure. And though he wasn’t a swot like Theo, he was intelligent in his way. He was quick and observant, and good at reading people (although he seemed to have a weakness in that area where Draco was concerned). He was entertaining, too, funny in a smart-arsed sort of way. Draco still chuckled whenever he thought of Potter saying, ‘No need to call me Sir, Professor,’ to Snape. Draco had hated Potter then, but even he couldn’t deny that it was one of the funniest things he’d ever heard.

Hoping that Potter wasn’t angry enough to bat him away, Draco moved closer to him and traced his brows with a finger. “What?” Potter asked, swallowing thickly. He was always nervous, at first. His innocence in this arena was another thing Draco liked for some fucking reason, except when it meant he wasn’t going to let Draco take off his pants. Otherwise, it made Draco feel like he was in control, and he liked that. In all other parts of his life, he felt a bit like a puppet on strings. But when he was alone with Potter, when he was touching him, he was the one in charge.

“Nothing,” Draco said, moving his fingertips down the line of Potter’s nose and then to his mouth. “Just looking at you.”

“Well, that’s patently untrue. You’re not just looking at me,” Potter said, smiling a bit. See? thought Draco warmly. Mouthy.

“Alright, fine. I’m looking at you and touching you,” Draco said, kissing him. “Which is infinitely better than only looking at you.”

“You’re in a good mood tonight,” Potter said.

“I’m happy to see you, you pillock. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” said Potter. “I suppose it has.”

“Two full days,” Draco said. “And almost all of today besides. Not that I’m keeping track, mind you. Merlin knows I hardly even care.” He offered up a self-deprecating smile to show he was joking. And he was. He absolutely did keep track, and every day with no Potter seemed to pass with unbearable slowness.

“Uh-huh,” said Potter, chuckling. “I can tell.” He was getting that look he got sometimes, that made Draco feel like he’d won. It was a soft look, sort of hopelessly fond, and was almost always accompanied by a hard-on.

“Merlin,” Draco said, kissing his throat. “Sometimes I just want to eat you up.” Potter smelled nice, like he was freshly showered. A freshly-showered-Potter smell was just soap and skin, but his skin was naturally a bit sweet. Probably from all that damn treacle tart.

“Do you,” Potter said, breathing faster. And Draco loved this part. He loved this more than he’d ever loved anything. Making Potter’s heart race, making him shiver, making him want, and knowing that he, Draco Malfoy, was the only person who could give him what he craved. It made him feel invincible.

“Mmhm,” Draco said, kissing down further, shoving the jumper aside to bite at his collar bone. Potter tilted his head back and gave a little groan, and Draco pushed him onto his back.

He’d move slow tonight. Sometimes he just wanted to get off, but right now he wanted to make Potter lose his mind instead. Maybe it was Draco’s way of apologizing; maybe it was an attempt to get him to take off those damn pants. Or maybe it was a bit of both.

He straddled his hips and took his hand. Potter liked things like this, liked being romanced a little. He kissed his palm, up to the tips of his fingers, then slid two of them into his mouth. Potter watched him slack-jawed, eyes burning behind his glasses, hips moving to meet Draco’s, stomach muscles tensing. He was definitely hard.

Draco thought of their second kiss, the one they’d had when Potter was nervous. “Close your eyes, Harry,” he said softly.

Potter’s eyes fluttered closed, and Draco pushed the jumper up, baring Potter’s chest and his stomach. Potter, eyes still closed, yanked it over his head, which was a good sign. “Why thank you,” Draco said.

“Just trying to be helpful,” Potter replied with a crooked little grin. Draco took off his glasses, setting them carefully aside, and stroked his cheek and kissed his mouth before making his way down again, over his chin and his throat, down to his beautifully broad shoulders and his small, pebbled nipples.

He licked over one, his eyes on Potter’s face, gauging his reaction. He didn’t tense up or open his eyes, just let out another soft groan and arched his back. That was a very good sign.

So Draco kept it up, moving slowly on top of him, kissing Potter everywhere, running soft fingertips over his skin. Before long he was making plenty of noise, bucking his hips up, curling up his fists into the folds of Draco’s robes. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Take these off.” He finally opened his eyes, which just now looked bright as a fever.

“Eyes closed, Harry,” Draco reprimanded, giving his nipple a little pinch.

Potter yelped and laughed and closed his eyes. “But you could take those robes off, though.”

“This isn’t about me. It’s about you. Just relax.”

Potter growled in frustration. “How am I supposed to relax when you’re winding me up like this?”

Draco chuckled against his skin, making him shiver. “Just try, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said, breathless. “Okay.”

Draco licked over his bellybutton, lower than he usually went, then nipped at the skin of his hips. “Christ,” Potter breathed.

Trousers were fair game these days, so Draco, still kissing Potter’s skin, undid the button and slowly unzipped him before pulling his jeans down and off. He cast a warming charm over him, since it was chilly, and that made Potter smile. “Thanks,” he said. “That was nice of you.”

“Aren’t I always nice?” Draco asked, and Potter snorted.

Potter had lovely thighs, muscular and covered in fine dark hair. The muscles tensed as Draco kissed his way along them, over Potter’s knobby knees and to his calves.

“You have very well-turned ankles, you know,” Draco said, moving lower to lick one and making Potter smile again.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.

“Your ankles. They’re nice.”

“You’re so strange,” Potter said.

“You like it,” Draco said, kissing the back of a calf then giving it a little bite. Then up again, along the inner edge of the thigh, closer to the bottom of Potter’s pants.

Potter was a mess at this point, tensing up and shivering and biting his lip and furrowing his brow. “Fuck,” he whispered. Draco nudged the bottom hem of the pants up with the tips of his fingers, kissing and biting close behind them, until Potter’s cock was practically poking him in the eye. “Draco, wait,” he said, sitting up all of a sudden, his cheeks bright, his eyes a little unfocused.

“Yes?” Draco asked, raising a brow at him.

“What’re, um. What’re we doing?”

“Nothing you don’t want to do,” Draco replied, ghosting gentle fingers over his prick.

“Oh my god,” Potter groaned, his eyes closing again for a moment. “God, that feels good.”

“Let me, please?”

There was a soft exhale and Draco moved up to kiss his mouth. “Harry,” he said, trying again. “This isn’t just some silly thing anymore. I don’t know what it is, but it’s been nearly two months and we’re still doing it. Just let me try, at least. If you really don’t like it, I swear I’ll stop.”

“Do you…” Potter began, then threw an arm over his face, hiding his eyes. “Do you even care about me?” The last part came out in a rushed sort of mumble.

Draco stared at him. Fucking Potter. An open book if there ever was one, vulnerabilities worn on the outside. It was maddening. Everyone had questions like this, had doubts like this. But people didn’t go around saying them out loud, for fuck’s sake.

“Yes,” Draco said, and thought that perhaps, it might be the truth. He certainly felt something about Potter, to give up a chance with Theo, to tell him about the Dark Lord’s tasks. To wait up in this room for him every night regardless of whether they’d agreed to meet there or not. Sometimes, when they were here together, he thought things that worried him. Words like love crossed his mind, and he felt waves of affection so sudden and overwhelming he thought they might crush him under their weight.

“Tell me,” Potter whispered, still not really looking at him. “Tell me how you feel.”

“What the – sweet Salazar, that is a loaded fucking question! How am I supposed to answer that? How would I even go about explaining it to you?”

“Try,” Potter said, undeterred.

Draco huffed, frustration welling up in him. “What about you, hm? Why do I have to go through this…this interrogation while you sit back and ask questions?  What if I wanted to know how you feel?”

Potter blinked up at him, looking surprised but not cowed. “Then I’d tell you.”

Well, that hadn’t worked the way he’d hoped.  “Fine. Go on then,” he said. “Tell me.”

Potter pulled at him, turning him. After Potter’d repositioned them, they were both lying on their sides, their faces close together, Potter’s green eyes eating up the rest of the world. “It changes,” he began, sounding a bit hesitant. “Sometimes I feel so much I can hardly stand it. Sometimes, it’s all I can think about. And I feel so sure of it then, you know? That this is something important. Something really…good.”

He sighed, his breath tickling Draco’s lips. “And then other times, I feel like I hardly know you at all, and that I don’t even like what I do know of you, and that you obviously hate me, and that I’m fucking delusional for believing this is about anything more than getting off for you.” He paused again, dark lashes sweeping down over the bright green. “But regardless of all that, I never stop thinking about you. And I miss the fuck out of you when I’m not with you.”

Draco wanted to reply, but the words were stuck in his throat.

“I haven’t ever felt like this before,” Potter continued, each word stabbing Draco in the heart. “Not even close. So I don’t really know what it is, or what to call it, or what it means.” He cleared his throat. “So, yeah. That’s what I feel about you.”

“Harry,” Draco said, his voice rough.

Potter was looking at him steadily, like he was refusing to be embarrassed by any of this, despite how horribly embarrassing it was. Draco felt exposed, even though he hadn’t been the one speaking. He felt like his insides were on display, and part of him wanted to run out of the room screaming.

Instead, he gathered up his nerve.

“Well, I’ve never felt anything like this before, either,” he said. “It’s like you think I know what I’m doing, like I’m an old pro at this. But I really don't. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing, like, ever, when it comes to you."

Potter smiled a little at that, and Draco scowled at him. This was no smiling matter. This was a horrible conversation that Potter had foisted upon them. “Sometimes, I think I admire you, but then you’ll do something that I don’t fucking understand – like now, saying everything you’ve just said – and then I think you’re a bloody idiot for always showing your hand. But then I wonder if maybe you’re just brave. And I hate that you never make this easy, but I think if you did make it easy, I wouldn’t feel this way about you. I don’t know. I don’t fucking know, okay?”

Potter was staring at him, unmoving. “All I know,” Draco continued, feeling the air rush out of him as he spoke, “is that when I’m with you like this, the whole world makes sense. It seems like a good place, where good things might happen to me. And when you’re upset with me, I hate myself. The thought of you with anyone else makes me want to burn the school down. And if you decided you didn’t want to do this with me anymore, I might die.”

He moved his hand to Harry’s shoulder, gripping it tightly. Too tightly, probably, but Harry didn’t flinch. “So I don’t know, Potter. What would you call that, exactly? Is that love? Am I just obsessed with you? Fixated? Infatuated? You tell me. Because I don’t know what the fuck to call it.”

Harry stared at Malfoy, at his furious expression. He felt the fingers digging painfully into his shoulder. This was hard for him, but he’d done it, and it had been exactly what Harry needed to hear. Somehow, knowing Malfoy was in over his head, too, was just as confounded by this as Harry, was extremely comforting. “Maybe it doesn’t matter what we call it,” he finally replied. “So long as we both feel that way.”

Malfoy’s scowl wavered, his grip loosened. “Maybe not.”

“I’m whatever you are, though,” Harry said. “You get that, right? All those things you said, that’s how it is for me, too.”

“It is?” Malfoy asked, chewing his bottom lip.

Harry nodded. “Whatever this is, we’re in it together.”

A little frown. “I suppose we are.”

“Close your eyes, Draco,” Harry said.

That elicited a little smirk. “Why? Are you going to kiss me, Potter?”

“Just close them, you tosser.”

He did, blond lashes falling against pale cheeks. He was almost beautiful sometimes, like now, his sharp features relaxed, the sweeping lines of his high cheekbones illuminated by lamplight, his skin warmed by the glow.

Harry kissed him gently, then moved down the line of his long, pale throat, to his too-prominent collar bones. Less prominent now, though, than at Christmas. He’d gained some weight back, a fact that Harry was (undeservedly) proud of.  Harry pulled Malfoy’s robes up and over his head, finding nothing but pants underneath once again. It made things easier, he supposed, even though it seemed weird to him.

Malfoy let out a soft cry when Harry took one of his small nipples into his mouth, letting his fingers trail over the other. He moved back up to Malfoy’s mouth, which opened for him almost instantly. Harry could tell he was struggling to stay still, to refrain from jumping on top of Harry and rutting against him.  When he tugged at his pants, Malfoy’s eyes sprang open.

“Just relax,” Harry said, throwing his words back in his face and smirking at him. Malfoy grinned at that, looking pleased, and fell back onto the rug again. Harry held his breath as he tugged Malfoy’s pants over the curve of his rear. They were caught on his prick for a moment, and when they slid off, it sprang free, slapping against Malfoys’ stomach. “Oops. Sorry,” said Harry, wishing he was better at this.

Malfoy laughed a little desperately. “Well?” he said. “What do you think?”

Harry laughed, too, and it sounded equally desperate and unsteady. “Dunno. I’ve never seen anybody else’s up close. It looks a bit like you, I guess. Kind of pale and pink. Longish.”

Malfoy’s face and his whole chest flushed. “Do you like it?” he asked.

Harry stared at it, thinking: I’m face to face with Malfoy’s penis. “I do,” he said. He took a deep gulp of air and leaned back down to kiss Malfoy. They were both breathing faster now, and Harry’s mouth was dry with nerves. He reached down and took Malfoy’s prick in hand. “How do you want me to do this?”

“Whatever you do to yourself, I guess? Just do it like that,” Malfoy said.

Harry kissed him again and experimented a little with his grip, moving his hand up and down the shaft, marveling at how different it felt from his own.

Good lord. He was giving another bloke a hand job. And the bloke was Malfoy. Talk about things he hadn’t anticipated happening this year.

And then he stopped thinking about the novelty of it as he was swept up in the way it felt and sounded and looked. Because whether or not he was any good at this, Malfoy seemed to like it. He was falling apart under Harry’s touch, at any rate. “Fuck, Harry,” he whined. “Just like that. Salazar, I can’t ever get enough of you.” he bit at Harry’s throat and clutched at him. “Let me touch you, too. Please. Let me touch you.”

Harry gulped, and then decided why not? What was he waiting for? Godric knew he wanted Malfoy to touch him, wanted to feel Malfoy’s hand on him. What was the point in resisting? “Okay,” he said.

Malfoy wasted no time whatsoever. Harry’s pants were gone in a flash, Malfoy’s hand on him before he could even work up any hesitation over it. Harry heard himself make a weird keening sound and pulled more deliberately at Malfoy’s cock. It was so much, the feeling of someone else’s hand on him, the feel of Malfoy’s prick in his own hand, Malfoy’s mouth on his, their tongues twining together.

Suddenly Malfoy’s free hand was on his. “Hang on,” he said, going still. “I don’t want to come yet.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Okay. Should I –”

“Just give me a minute,” Malfoy said, pushing Harry onto his back and adjusting his grip on Harry’s prick. Then he brought his other hand to Harry’s bollocks, gently kneading them as he stroked up and down.

Harry groaned and pushed up into Malfoy’s hand again and again. It was getting a bit wet now, his precome slicking up Malfoy’s palm. It felt incredible. It was just a hand – well, two – but it was nothing like when he touched himself. This had him spinning, flying.

“One of these days, you’ll let me put my mouth on you,” Malfoy murmured in his ear, and that was just too fucking much. The tension building in his hips broke, and Harry came with a shout, spilling all over Malfoy’s hand, shuddering and clinging to him, kissing him as hard as he could.

Malfoy moved his hand to his own prick and Harry watched, entranced, as he worked his himself over once, twice, three times. “There,” he said, taking Harry’s hand and placing it where his had been. Harry felt his stomach bottom out. Malfoy’s cock was slick with come. With Harry’s come.

“Oh my god,” Harry said, pressing his forehead against Malfoy’s. “That’s…fucking hell. I can’t believe you did that.”

Malfoy’s grey eyes were on his, open and bright. “Why? D’you think it’s gross?”

“Gross? No! No, not gross. It’s really…the opposite of gross. It really, um. Turns me on?” Harry said. Merlin, he was getting hard again just thinking about it as he worked his hand up and down Malfoy’s shaft.

“Me too,” Malfoy said. “Like, a lot.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. He tried stroking him the way he liked it, a little firm and a little slow, all the way down to the base, lingering a bit just below the tip. Soon, Malfoy was writhing against him and kissing him messily, and then he came, throwing his head back and crying out, looking so beautiful and perfectly rumpled that Harry wished he could trap the moment in amber and keep it forever.

Harry rolled onto his back once Malfoy had finished, unable to stop grinning, and Malfoy’s hand drifted back down to Harry’s cock. “Already? Potter, you fiend.”

“Shut up,” he said. “I could hardly help it after what you did.”

Malfoy brushed Harry’s hair back behind his ear and kissed his cheek. “I think I might have to go with obsession.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, kissing him back.

“Mmhm. And now that I’ve seen your prick, it’s only getting worse.”

Harry let a lazy chuckle fall from his lips. “My prick’s that great, huh?”

“Better,” Malfoy said, throwing a leg over him. “Better than that.” He moved slowly over Harry, nothing between them at all, and Harry pulled him down so their chests were pressed together, pulled him close.

“You’ve never touched anyone else like that, have you?” Harry asked.

“No. You know that. I’ve never done any of this with anyone else before.”

“Good,” Harry said. “Don’t. I want it to just be me who touches you like this.”

“Then you don’t, either. No one else, Harry. Do you promise?”

“I promise,” Harry said. He meant it completely. He couldn’t even comprehend wanting to touch anyone else. Malfoy was the sun and the moon and the stars, and every other light in the world paled in comparison.

They started moving against each other. Malfoy was getting hard again, too, and it felt glorious to feel all that skin. Harry was losing himself in it again, in the feel and taste of it, when they heard a pop coming from the cabinet. A moment later, birdsong.

“Oh,” Harry whispered, turning towards the cabinet.

Malfoy stared at it too, his eyes widening as comprehension dawned. “Holy fuck. It worked.”

Chapter Text

“All the secrets of the world worth knowing are hiding in plain sight.”
― Robin Sloan, Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore

Harry watched as Malfoy stunned and then scooped up the finch with his hands. “You did a marvelous job, darling,” he cooed to it. “Gold star performance.” He was petting its head with his finger and Harry couldn’t help but feel a bit charmed by this.

“You and the bird have become friends, I take it?”

“Oh, fuck off, Potter,” Malfoy said, though not unkindly. “He’s had a rough go of it.”

“Uh-huh,” Harry said. Malfoy cradled the bird as they walked from the room under the cloak. At the end of the seventh-floor corridor was a window, and Harry pushed it open. Malfoy, after giving the bird a little kiss on the head that Harry did not remark upon, ended the stunning spell and set it on the ledge. After a moment, the bird let out a small chirp and flew out into the night.

“Come on,” Harry said, throwing the cloak back over Malfoy’s head. “Come with me. We’ll open it together.”

It was, of course, the message that had been in the cabinet along with the bird.

It was late enough that the Gryffindor Common Room was deserted, but it didn’t feel safe despite that, so Harry took Malfoy to his room, to his bed, closed the curtains and cast several silencing and privacy charms over them. Malfoy, looking at him with skepticism, cast another.

“What, you don’t trust mine?”

“I don’t trust any of your spellwork that’s not related to Defense,” Malfoy said. “You’re lazy with your spells.”

“I am not!” Harry cried. That remark was going to leave a bruise on his ego, no doubt about it.

Malfoy raised a brow at him. “You’re the most powerful wizard in this school, and you’re hardly passing two of your classes.”

“I am passing them, though.”

“You could do better,” Malfoy said, shrugging.

Harry scowled at him.

“Some people couldn’t, Potter. If you were stupid or untalented, I’d tell you that you were doing a fine job. That’s what I tell Greg and Vince, for example. But you’re not stupid, and you’ve got enough power in you to level a small city.”

Harry huffed, slightly mollified. He supposed he’d rather be powerful and underperforming than shite at it and doing his best. “Whatever, just open the note.”

Malfoy’s hands were shaking slightly as he broke the seal (a rather creepy skull, much like the one on Malfoy’s forearm, was pressed into red wax) and unrolled the parchment.

“Let me see,” said Harry, moving closer to the note. It was written in a precise, backward-sloping hand, and it didn’t cause his scar to burn or hurt, which meant it hadn’t been written by the Dark Lord.

“Merlin, Potter, back off,” Malfoy huffed. “You’re breathing down my neck.”

“Well, then angle it so I can see!” Harry replied, and Malfoy moved the parchment a bit.

They were both silent for a moment, reading. “Well fuck,” Malfoy said after a moment. “I hope the cabinet is still working right.”

Oh no, thought Harry, his eyes flickering up to Malfoy. They’d asked him to conduct another test. By stepping through the cabinet himself, sending himself to Borgin and Burkes. “Don’t go,” Harry said, feeling a shiver of fear run along his spine. “Just don’t do it.”

“As if that’s an option,” Malfoy said.

Harry shook his head stubbornly.

“Potter. Come off it. You know I have to.”

“Fucking hell,” Harry said, hating how it made him feel. “Fine, but I don’t want you to. What if they try to hurt you? What if they’re bringing you there to do something horrible to you?”

“No, they won’t hurt me. Not on purpose. That’s not what this is,” Malfoy said, looking thoughtful. “They need me to make the return trip. That’s the important part, the part that they'll all have to do soon. They need me alive so I can be their guinea pig, so I can let them know I made it back to the castle safely.”

Harry let out a breath. “I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Malfoy said, looking too stressed to pull off the nonchalance Harry assumed he was going for.

“If you were with us – openly, I mean – you wouldn’t have to do this,” Harry pointed out.

“That’s true, although my mother would have been fucking murdered by now,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes.

Harry didn’t reply. Honestly, what was else was there to say? Malfoy’s fear over his mother was always the trump card in their arguments over this. “Yeah, I know,” he sighed, feeling defeated.

“Aw, cheer up. You’ve got a handsome bloke in your bed. Your life is brilliant,” Malfoy said, smiling crookedly.

Harry snorted. “That’s true. I do have that.”

“Why, Potter! Did you just call me handsome?”

Harry laughed harder. “You tosser. You called yourself handsome. Although I suppose you are, a bit.”

Malfoy kissed him briefly. “Want to walk me back to the dungeons? I don’t want to go all that way without the cloak.”

“You can take it with you. So long as you don’t hold it hostage again,” Harry said, leaning against him. “Or…” He looked over at Malfoy, hesitating. “You could stay here. I could walk back with you under the cloak in the morning.”

Malfoy’s eyes flew up to Harry’s. “Oh. That – that sounds wonderful.”

“But?” Harry asked. There was a but coming, he was sure of it.

Malfoy opened his mouth and then closed it, shaking his head. “No. You know what? There’s no but. It sounds wonderful, and I’ll do it. I’ll stay.”

Harry smiled, feeling far too pleased by this. “Excellent. I’ve missed listening to you snore like a hippogriff.”

“I do not snore, you tosspot.”

“Do,” Harry said, pulling off his jeans and his hoodie and his t-shirt. Malfoy tugged off his robes and curled up next to Harry, letting Harry put an arm around him. He smelled so good all the time, Harry thought as he nosed at his hair.

“Are you sniffing me, Potter?” Malfoy asked.

“Yes,” said Harry. “You smell really good.”

“I didn’t put on anything different than I usually do,” Malfoy said, trying to smell himself and looking like a git doing it.

“I know,” Harry said, smiling over at him. “You always smell really good.”

Malfoy grabbed his hand and pulled it up to his face and kissed the back of it. “You always smell like soap. And a bit of sweetness that I’m assuming has to do with your horrible diet.”

Harry let out a too-loud laugh before covering his mouth. “You’re a bloody mother hen,” he managed to whisper. “Worrying about things like my diet.”

“Well. You do have a horrendous diet.”

“I know, I know,” Harry said, peppering Draco’s neck with kisses. “I need to eat healthier and study more. I get it mum.”

“Oh, hush,” Malfoy said, biting at Harry’s hand now.

Harry realized that once, he’d have never said anything about ‘mum’ around Malfoy, since Malfoy would only use it at as an opportunity to point out that Harry didn’t have one. But he hadn’t said any of those things since before Christmas. Harry smiled, thinking that maybe it didn’t matter that Malfoy thought he was the same person he always was.

It didn’t matter if he thought that, because Harry knew better.

“I got a letter from my mother,” Malfoy said suddenly, his playfulness fading instantly.

“Oh?”

“It was weird. She said something about her roses, which I happen to know she hasn’t tended since the Manor was taken over by the Dark Lord. And then she told me to write my father.”

“But I thought she told you not to write him?” Harry asked.

“She did. She always did. So…who knows?” Malfoy shook his head. “I have no idea what it means. If it’s supposed to communicate something different than what it says? Or if…” He paused, running his hand over his mouth. “I wonder sometimes if she’s not, you know. Cracking under the pressure.” He looked at Harry, his eyes bleak and full of guilt, like it was wrong to even say it.

“Don’t assume the worst,” Harry said. He took Malfoy’s hand in his. “Maybe it means exactly what it says. Maybe you’re supposed to write to your father.”

Malfoy frowned. “But –” He hummed, his brow furrowed. “Perhaps…it would make sense. It would be something they would do.”

“What?” asked Harry.

“I’m wondering if writing to my father is meant to be some sort of signal to him. If it will mean something to him that I’m writing at all.”

“Could be,” Harry said.

Malfoy nodded, looking cheered. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll send him an owl. They get owls in Azkaban, don’t they?”

Harry flinched at the thought of that wretched place. He also felt a aching sort of sadness, the way he always did, when he thought of how long Sirius had been there. He’d been there for almost a third of his too-short life. He had deserved to live for a long time after that, had deserved years and years of happiness and freedom. “I assume so,” he said.

Malfoy curled back up into him, and Harry relaxed, listening to his steady breaths. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “I’ve missed this part. We haven’t done this since Christmas hols.”

“I know. Why didn’t we? We could’ve been doing this every night,” Malfoy said, yawning.

“Dunno,” Harry said, answering with a yawn of his own. He kissed Malfoy’s head softly. “G’night, Malfoy.”

Malfoy kissed his chest in reply. “G’night, Potter,” he said, and was snoring after a moment.

Draco wadded up the parchment and tossed it into the bin. “Third time’s the charm,” he murmured, thinking a bit before dipping his quill.

Dear Father, he wrote. My sincerest apologies for not writing to you earlier. I thought of you often, of course, but Mother said not to write. She has now instructed me that it is acceptable to do so.

He chewed his lip. This was where he’d had trouble in the last two attempts.

Mother did not tend to the rose garden last summer, as conditions were not ideal. As far as I know, they are not ideal this year either, but Mother intends to give it a go. I don’t know whether you have discussed this with her, but perhaps you might have more insight into the matter than I do.

There. Confusing, perhaps, but his father might understand. He was aware of some of this, surely, as he had corresponded with Narcissa early on in his imprisonment.

I do hope your appeals are going well. We all – Mother especially – look forward to seeing you when this is all sorted.

Your Devoted Son, D.L.M.

He looked over the letter once, twice, then a final time to check that all his punctuation was correct. All looked acceptable. He folded the letter up and put it in a sealed envelope, then made his way to the owlery.

It was nearly a week before he received a reply. Potter was watching him from across the room when his owl dropped the letter onto Draco’s plate at breakfast. He unfolded it quickly and read, keeping it low, underneath the table. He felt Pansy’s curious eyes on him all the while, and Potter's too.

Dear Draco,

It is good to hear from you. I knew that your mother did not want you writing me here, and thus, was not expecting a letter from you. However, I was not entirely surprised to receive it. I knew it was possible that she might advise you to change course and was prepared for this.

Unfortunately, my correspondence with other friends and family members has dwindled as of late. Your uncle in particular has gone silent. Given that he is supposed to be looking after your mother’s well-being while I am away, this is concerning. Other friends who promised to do the same are similarly not being responsive.

All this is to say that while I know you are in school, and thus have a great deal on your plate already, I would appreciate it if you took some time to check in on her. You might also consider speaking with some of your friends, in hopes that their parents (perhaps the Crabbes?) might be convinced to call on her. I worry that she is all alone.

While I do not wish to alarm you, I would ask that you make haste pursuant to this matter. Please keep me advised of any developments as well.

There is nothing worth speaking about on my end of things. I have not been broken yet, and have no plans to let them break me in the future. This misconduct of justice will be sorted out soon enough.

I eagerly await my reunion with you and your mother.

Sincerely, L.A.M.

Draco stared at the words, at his father’s familiar, meticulous handwriting. His tone was the same as ever – confident, certain, in control. Except he wasn’t. The letter made it clear that he wasn’t. Uncle Rudy and the others had cut off contact with him, leaving him powerless behind bars. His network of supporters had dried up. They’d tossed him over, believing he had lost the Dark Lord’s favor.

And his mother was, most certainly, in danger. He was sure of it now. The only thing he could figure was that the Dark Lord had revoked his protection and she was alone and vulnerable. He was sick at the thought.

And he didn’t understand why the Dark Lord would have done it, either. Draco was nearly there with the Vanishing Cabinet. Why was that not enough to keep him happy?

He stood and stiffly walked from the Great Hall, not sure of where he was going, exactly, but only knowing that he needed to get away from everyone, to be alone and think.

He was lost in his thoughts and didn’t hear anyone approaching, so when a hand pulled at his arm, he whirled around, wand drawn.

Potter was there, eyes wide. “Easy, Malfoy. Just wanted to see if everything was okay.”

Draco pocketed his wand, sighing. “No, it’s not.”

Potter gave him a look of concern, reaching out for his hand again and squeezing it before pulling him around the corner and out of sight of the Great Hall doors. “It will be,” he said. “Tell me.”

“My mother. She’s in danger. Not sure what sort, but my father’s note…he thinks so, too. I need to do something about it, but I have no idea what that might be. I’m stuck here, none of my friends’ parents are going to be willing to stick their necks out for us at the moment…it’s all fucked. I have no one to help me.” He let Potter keep hold of his hand, his thumb circling over Draco’s palm now, warm and reassuring.

“You have me, you idiot,” Potter said, his green eyes earnest. “And Dumbledore. We should go to him with this. He’ll help, I know he will.”

“But why would he?” asked Draco, exasperated. “I’ve already told him everything he needs to know. He has no reason to bother with me anymore.” It seemed rather obvious. Draco had already given up what made him valuable – what was the point of him to the other side now?

Potter shook his head fervently, his other hand going up to Draco’s cheek, fingertips in Draco’s hair. “It’s not like that. He’s not like that. And fuck it, if he does refuse, we’ll think of something. You and me.”

Draco tilted his cheek further into Potter’s palm, letting his eyes fall closed, telling himself that perhaps Potter was right, and that Draco wasn’t stupid for believing him. He was about to agree when a sudden gasp sounded behind Potter. Draco’s eyes snapped open, and over Potter’s shoulder, he was met with Hermione Granger’s open-mouthed stare.

"Hermione, stop, please," Harry said. "Stop! Will you stop?"

She drew to a halt so quickly Harry nearly barrelled into her. She whirled on him, eyes dark and furious, mouth pinched, arms crossed. Her chest was heaving with, no doubt, the effort of refraining from hexing him. "Just let me explain," he said.

"Ha!" she cried. "As if you could. Unless you're under an Imperius or ingested some horrible love potion -" She stopped, peering closer at him. "Did you drink something you shouldn't have?"

"No," he said. "But -" 

She growled. "You're fucking insane Harry!" 

Hermione did not, as a rule, curse except to sometimes say, "Oh, hell" or, on a few occasions, "Damnit." Never the f-word. He gulped.

"You are, you've gone stark raving mad. There was no girl, was there? It was bloody Malfoy! This whole time! How could I have been so stupid! You were always staring at him, and I just assumed the two things - the staring and the mysterious love interest - weren't related, but of course they were! How could I have missed it?"

"Er, because I didn't want anybody to know?"

She narrowed her eyes further until they were two terrifying little slits. "How could you? How could you, when you know - you know what he's called me! You know all the things he's said, and you - how could you?"

"If you would just let me explain, please," Harry begged. 

"I can't listen to it. Or, at least, not yet. Maybe at some point. I'm too angry right now to even listen properly. I'll just want to smack you."

"You can?" he ventured.

She rolled her eyes. "I don't actually want to smack you. Just...metaphorically." 

"Let's go for a walk, okay? A walk around the lake and we can talk."

She sighed. "I really should cool down a bit first. I'm no good like this. At supper time, okay? You can tell me the entire awful story then."

"Okay," he said. He pushed up his glasses. "Only, don't say anything until then, yeah? Not even to Ron."

She gave him an eyeroll for the ages. "I'm angry. I've not suddenly been turned into a sodding moron, Harry." And with that, she stomped away, and Harry leaned against the wall and closed his eyes and let out a breath. His most closely-held secret was a secret no longer. 

He straightened, thinking he needed to write Malfoy a note telling him it would be fine. Malfoy had shot out of Harry's grip like a cannon blast when he'd seen Hermione, proceeded to turn starkly white and practically ran down the corridor in the opposite direction. He was proabably having a panic attack at this very moment.

Harry thought about Hermione's expression just now, and her words. She was angry, obviously. Very angry. But she was talking to him. Joking, even. That was good, right? That was a good sign. Maybe it would be fine.

And maybe Firenze and all the other centaurs would don ice skates tomorrow and put on an ice dancing performance at the lake.

"Fuuuck," he groaned, raking his hands through his hair. "Fucking fuck."

Chapter Text

“In the best conversations, you don't even remember what you talked about, only how it felt. It felt like we were in some place your body can't visit, some place with no ceiling and no walls and no floor and no instruments”
― John Green, Turtles All the Way Down

That evening was a chilly one. The snow was gone, but the air was frigid, and spring still seemed a long way off, despite it being almost April. Harry huddled up in his winter coat and dipped his chin behind the striped scarf Mrs. Weasley had knitted for him several years earlier as he and Hermione made their way towards the lake.

Beside him, Hermione was pulling on her gloves and adjusting her red hat. She seemed subdued, particularly when compared to earlier that day, when she’d seemed like she might spontaneously combust. “So. You and Malfoy,” she said, when they were far enough away from the castle.

He looked at her. It was still daytime, but the light was mellow, the sun sinking low in a coat of flame, outlining Hermione’s hair in orange. “Yeah. Me and Malfoy.”

“When? How?” she asked, her eyes flaring back to life. “Why?”

“Erm,” he said, trying to sort through his answers. “Started over Christmas hols. We were both here, alone. I was trying to find out what he was doing, and he wound up having a bit of an emotional breakdown when he didn’t realize I was there – I was under the cloak, so. So, I tried to…help,” Harry continued carefully. “And one thing led to another.” He scratched his head, trying to decide how to explain this without getting into all the snogging. Probably ought to leave off now, just to to be on the safe side. “As for why, I don’t know, exactly. I realize it seems strange. Really strange from your perspective. But it makes sense when I’m with him, somehow.”

She frowned at this, mulling it over. “Did you ever find out what he was up to?”

“Yes,” he said. “Something pretty big. He told me everything. He and I went to Dumbledore.”

She stopped, eyes wide now. “You’re telling me Draco Malfoy served as an informant for our side.”

“Yeah, he did. Told us Voldemort’s plans, at least the ones he’s involved in.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know.”

“But why would he do that?”

“He’s scared, honestly,” Harry said. “It’s not how I thought it was, for him. He and his mum have been having a difficult time now his father’s in Azkaban.”

“Oh, boo-hoo,” Hermione said, stone-faced.

“I’m serious,” Harry said, understanding her skepticism but struggling not to resent the tone. “All sorts of awful stuff was going on at his house over the summer, and it’s just gotten worse since then. The Death Eaters aren’t, like…soldiers. Or, well, they are, but they aren’t all that disciplined. There aren’t a lot of rules. It’s kind of a free-for-all, from the way he talks about it, and a lot of them are dangerous, willing to hurt anybody, even those on their own side. They throw curses around like it’s nothing, sometimes even killing curses. And it sounds like there’s quite a bit of, erm. Sexual abuse.”

She seemed to be taken aback by that last part. “Oh. I never would have – oh. That’s awful. And is Malfoy…is he at risk?”

Harry nodded. “And his mum.”

“Well, that’s – that’s completely horrific. Good god.” She shuddered.

“Yeah.”

They walked in silence for a few moments, Harry thinking, once more, about how much he wanted Draco to join their side so that they could protect him properly. He was so vulnerable at present, too vulnerable. Despite having been reassured that Draco’s upcoming trip to Borgin and Burkes would be fine, Harry still worried.

“Listen. I understand that you’ve seen an injustice and want to fix it. That’s in your nature. Mine too. I can sympathize with that, believe me. I can’t stand Malfoy, but I don’t want him to be…I don’t want him to be hurt, especially not in that way. But that doesn’t explain the rest. What is he to you? Is he your boyfriend?”

Harry felt himself get hot, despite the cold air. “Oh, I dunno, really. We’ve never called it that. But we’ve both agreed that we’re not, um. Seeing other people.”

She squeezed her eyes shut against the setting sun. "That's not nothing. You're basically togther, then.”

“Yeah, but it’s – he’s different than you might think. And he’s changing. He thinks he’s not, but I see it all the time. I think it’s hard for him, to admit that what his parents believe – what he always believed – is wrong, but I think he sort of knows. He definitely isn’t supportive of Voldemort anymore.”

“He’s not?” she asked, her voice laden with skepticism.

“No. Thinks he’s a psychopath.”

A mirthless chuckle. “Well, he is.”

“Yeah, he definitely is,” Harry agreed.

“But has he renounced the whole pureblood thing?”

Harry hesitated. “Not in so many words. But I think he’s questioning it. Like I said, I think it’s difficult for him to throw all of it over at once. It seems to be coming gradually, for him.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Good enough for…?”

“Me, for one,” she said primly. “I can’t support this thing when he thinks my very existence is an abomination.”

“I don’t think he thinks that anymore.”

“You don’t think he does. So he might.”

“No, no, he doesn’t. I’m sure he doesn’t,” Harry said.

There was another spell of silence, Harry scrambling around in his head for other ways to convince Hermione that Malfoy wasn’t as bad as they had thought, while Hermione was likely over there questioning Harry’s sanity. “He can be really nice sometimes,” Harry finally said.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I should hope he’s always nice to you. If you’re romantically involved with him.”

“He’s not always nice,” Harry said, laughing. “He’s a grouchy bastard sometimes.” He realized his voice was ridiculously fond, and he cleared his throat, feeling hot again. “He said that he’s at his worst when he feels threatened, and I see it so clearly now. When he’s relaxed and comfortable, he’s different. He’s funny, and he’s thoughtful, and he’s really quite…” he gulped. “Sweet.” Hermione stared at him, agog.

“But,” he continued, scrubbing at his hair again. Merlin, his ears were cold. He should have worn a hat. “When he’s feeling insecure – embarrassed or threatened or wronged, you know – he can be a right prick. Although, he’s like that with me a lot less now. I think we’ve sort of…gotten to a point where he’s pretty comfortable with me. So, it’s mostly just, you know. Good, or whatever.”

She was still staring, looking downright flabbergasted.

“Like, he had to use a bird the other day for his task for Voldemort,” Harry said, not sure why he was sharing this particular story with her. “And it made it back alive, and Malfoy must’ve been worried, because he was so cuddly with it afterward. Hugging it and petting it and talking to it. I can’t really explain –”

“Harry,” she interrupted. “Adolph Hitler loved German Shepherds. I don’t know that Malfoy being nice to a bird proves anything.”

“Malfoy’s not Hitler, ‘Mione.”

“Yet,” she said ominously.

“It might help if he talked to somebody like you,” Harry said. It was something he’d thought loads of times at this point. Malfoy needed to meet muggles, or, at the very least, get to know some Muggleborns. That was the best way to get him to see that they weren’t the monsters he’d been raised to believe they were. “Got to know you a bit.”

She made a face. “Ew. No thank you.”

“I mean it! You’re really clever, and you’re kind and honorable. You’re one of my best friends. Who knows, you might hit it off!”

She was giving him a glare now. “Harry, I am not talking to Malfoy.”

“What if I was there, too?”

She let out a breath. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Is that a yes?” Harry asked, giving her a cheeky grin.

“Don’t do that,” she said. “You don’t have any right to give me that smile. Not when you’re being such a ridiculous –”

“Please?”

“Thinking with your prick, that’s what this is. Just like Ron. The two of you –”

“Please, Hermione?”

She sighed. “I’ll think about it. Not making any promises. I’m only taking it under consideration.”

“Understood,” he said, nodding. Then, unable to help himself, he pulled her in for a tight hug and kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” he said, before giving her cheek another kiss. “Thank you.”

“I haven’t said yes!” she cried.

“Yet,” he said, letting go and waggling his eyebrows lecherously at her.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, laughing. “Please never do that again with your face. You look like a total creep.”

He chuckled, and realized, suddenly, that no matter what, despite everything, she was still in his corner. She was still his friend, would always be his friend. He slung an arm around her and she leaned against him and he kissed her hair.

“Did you like Ginny at all?” she asked. “I’m just curious, really. I don’t care either way, but do you like girls?”

“I don’t know,” he said, trying to be transparent as possible. “I think so? But maybe not as much. I’m definitely ah, curious about girls, but also way too nervous to actually do anything. With, erm, blokes – or, I don’t know, at least with Malfoy – I’m more interested than nervous. So it’s, like, the opposite. The interested part wins out instead of the nervousness.”

She snorted. “Gross.” She looked over at him. “Not because it’s another man, you understand. But because it’s him.”

“He’s not bad looking,” Harry protested.

“I’m not casting judgement on his looks,” she said. “It’s the rest of him that I’m judging. Seriously, seriously judging.”

He sighed. “Just spend a little bit of time with him. Just try. I know you don’t owe him that or anything, but maybe you could do it for me.”

“If I do this, it will be entirely for you,” she said.

He knew that. And he was grateful for it. “How’re things with Ron, by the way?” he asked, bracing himself.

“Oh, the same. Terry Boot’s asked me to go to Hogsmeade. I’m seriously considering it.”

Harry thought about this. “Maybe you should. If nothing else, it might motivate Ron.”

“Cormac didn’t motivate him,” she groused.

“Well, no. But Ron wasn’t ready to throw himself off the astronomy tower over Lavender’s pet names for him at that point in time.”

She giggled. “I’ll think about it.”

“Hey,” he said, laughing. “You and Terry could go to Hogsmeade with me and Malfoy. Like a double date!”

She bent over, riddled with laughter. “Oh, god,” she said, straightening up after a moment and wiping her eyes. “Can you even imagine? Merlin, what is this world coming to?”

“I dunno,” he said. “Madness.”

“Malfoy,” came a voice he knew, unfortunately, before he even turned around.

Granger was there, bushy hair all smoothed out, the way it was sometimes this year, mouth in a tight line, dark eyes assessing. “I’d like to speak with you.”

“That’s fine,” Draco said, unable to think of much else to say. Harry’d told him Granger wasn’t thrilled about the idea of them together, but wasn’t totally opposed, either. Draco wasn't sure how much of that he believed. “When?”

“Now.”

“But we have DADA now.”

“Yes, we do. But I think we can make an exception and skip just this once. You and Harry skip class together often enough.”

He shoved his hand in his pocket and looked down the hall. “Lead the way then,” he said, not wanting to keep looking at her. It was making him feel things. Bad things. Things like guilt and regret, but also irritation and even anger, that he had to apologize to this – this Mudblood, try to get on her good side. It was preposterous.

And now he felt guilty for simply thinking the word Mudblood. Wonderful.

Harry had better appreciate this.

He followed her as she walked at a brisk pace, her Mary Janes clacking against the stone. She gestured for him when they reached an empty classroom. “After you,” she said.

He walked in, trying to keep the scowl off his face. Greg didn’t like it when he scowled, and Granger probably wouldn’t either. He settled himself on the edge of one of the tables and looked at her. “Well?”

“Harry tells me the two of you are romantically involved.”

“Wow, don’t beat around the bush or anything, Granger.”

“I’m not here to make small talk with you, Malfoy. I’m here to figure out what your angle is.”

“My angle?”

“Yes. Why are you doing this?”

He scoffed at her; he couldn’t help it. “Why do you think?”

“I honestly can’t imagine. Harry seems to think you care about him, but I find that hard to believe.”

He thought that he might hate her, then. Her smug, know-it-all expression, her primly pursed lips. “Why? He’s your friend. You of all people ought to know he’s easy to care about.”

“Because I don’t think you know how to care about other people.”

“You know nothing about me, Granger. Literally nothing.”

“I know what you think of me. I know that.”

“That’s – what I think of you has no bearing on what I feel about Potter.”

“So you admit it. You’re still a pureblood prat. You know Harry’s mother was a Muggleborn, don’t you? Do you have a problem with that, too?”

“I – no, I don’t. Stop putting words in my mouth. And I knew that already, by the way. Everybody knows that,” he said. He felt like he was running through a minefield, like one wrong move could fucking kill him.

“Why do you hate us? Muggleborns, I mean.”

“I – I don’t hate you. Alright? Is that what you want me to say?”

“I want you to be honest!” she cried, looking upset for the first time. Rattled. “I don’t want the bullshit you’ve been feeding Harry, to get in his pants, or to mess with him or whatever it is you’re doing. I want the real answer.”

He stared at her, anger blazing up inside of him. He did not owe her this. He owed her nothing. She was nothing. She was an upstart, a try-hard. Always eager to show off. Annoying as hell. And she was a dirty Mu –

No, he mustn’t think it.

She was Harry’s friend. One of his best friends.

And she didn’t owe him anything, either. Not the chance to explain himself. Not this conversation. He had been cruel to her since he’d met her, and yet she was here, asking him these questions, because she loved Harry.

He could hate everything about her and still respect that.

“Granger, since I was a child, I’ve been told – by everyone I know, mind, with perhaps one or two exceptions –” he thought of Simon, then, and his mother, Ms. Pepperdine “—that muggles were a danger to our way of life. That Muggleborns were an abomination, that they went against the natural order of things. It was always whispered that Muggleborns had stolen their magic, somehow. From us.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a hand. “Let me finish. You’re the one who wanted to know.”

She shut it.

“I don’t agree with You-Know-Who or how he’s doing things. I have no desire to follow him. But I’m…” he hesitated, wanting to be honest with her. “Torn, shall we say, on the pureblood ideals he espouses.”

“Torn,” she repeated.

“I wasn’t torn or confused in the slightest until a few months ago, to be honest. I’d never really thought much about it. I just sort of accepted it as truth.” He tapped his fingers on the desk. “But Potter’s always talking to me about it, questioning me, and I suppose it’s made me wonder.”

“Wonder what?” she asked, leaning forward, brow furrowed, like she was about to start taking notes.

“Whether I might be wrong about other things. If I was wrong about You-Know-Who, it’s possible, isn’t it?”

She leaned back and let out a breath, then started laughing.

“I don’t see what’s so bloody funny,” he said, finally allowing himself to scowl.

“I can’t believe that you – Draco Sodding Malfoy – just admitted that you might be wrong about something,” she managed to wheeze out.

“I think I said I actually was wrong about something.”

“Oh, god,” she said, snorting again. “I think this must be a sign of the apocalypse. There’s no other explanation.”

“Look, if you’re just going to laugh at me –” he snarled, heading for the door.

“No, no. I’m sorry. I’m not…I think I was really nervous to talk to you, and I think the laughing is just, like, hysterics or what have you. I’m sorry.”

He turned and looked at her. She was wiping her eyes, a smile still on her face. “Really, I’m sorry.”

He felt his shoulders fall from where they’d been hovering near his ears. “Oh, it’s alright,” he said. “Nothing you can do about having a case of the giggles.”

She snorted again, and that set off another round of laughter. “See?” she said. “I’ve lost it. It’s nothing to do with you, even.”

He couldn’t help but laugh a bit. She was being ridiculous. “Is there anything else, then, Granger? More questions?”

She took a few deep breaths and tried to calm herself. “I – I don’t know. Probably. Listen, I think it’s good that you’re questioning things. Any belief worth having should be able to withstand a thorough examination.”

He considered this. “Yes, I think that’s probably true.” And then: “You know, I don’t just want to get in Potter’s pants, as you so delicately put it. And I’m not messing with him.”

“Then what do you want from him?” she asked. And she wasn’t joking now. She was very serious, her dark, too-observant gaze trained on his face.

“I’m – I’m not certain,” he said. “I’ve –” he ran a finger over something carved into the desk by a student. An outline of a dragon. One of Potter’s favorite animals. “I’ve grown rather attached to him. And I’ve no plans to be unkind to him, if that’s what you’re asking. He’s much more pleasant to be around when he’s happy, so I’m finding that I’m…going for that, lately.”

“Do you care about him?”

Do you even care about me?

“Yes, Granger. I do. He means a great deal to me, if you must know.” He looked away after a moment, embarrassed, sure his cheeks were pink and splotchy.

She cleared her throat and was quiet until he looked at her again. “Harry is the best person I know, Malfoy. He’s not just my friend. He’s literally the best, most well-meaning, most good-hearted person I’ve ever met. He’s faced a lot of horrible shit in his life, and he has more horrible shit in his future – it’s almost certain. And he meets all of it head on, with so much grace, and without feeling sorry for himself. He’s incredibly brave and he’s so selfless, and he has no idea how wonderful he is. Not a clue.”

She was still looking at him, her eyes filling up, her voice wavering a little. “So, if you’re planning on letting this thing between you play out, I need you to promise me that you won’t add to the horrible shit. Okay? I need you to promise me that you’ll show him, at least a little, that he’s worth caring about. Because he is.” She said the last part fiercely, almost angrily.

Draco felt his throat grow tight, his face hot. He shook his head for a moment, unable to speak. He looked off at the window, at the dust motes swirling in front of it, glimmering like tiny jewels in the sunlight. “I promise,” he finally managed, his voice sounding rough and unsteady.

She gave him a perfunctory nod and then she was gone, leaving him to consider what she’d said.

“What does Dumbledore have you doing?” he asked that night after Harry had smuggled him, again, into his bed. Harry had been kissing along his jaw, which usually would have made him wholly uninterested in talking, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his conversation with Granger.

“Not much,” he said, pulling away. His green eyes considered Draco. “Why?”

“Is it awful? I realized you know all about the things I’m facing, but I don’t know what you’re facing. You could be worse off than me. How would I know?”

“I’m not worse off than you, you git. And anyway, what’s the point of comparing our situations? They’re both crap.”

“I’m not trying to compare. I just…I want to know. I’m concerned for you, okay?”

Potter kissed him. “That’s nice of you to say.”

“I know, we’ve established that I’m always nice. Now tell me.”

He frowned. “Well, Vo – You-Know-Who wants to kill me. That’s a problem.”

“Right,” Draco said.

“And there’s a prophecy.”

“Oh, Merlin. You know you can’t really believe all of those.”

“No, but this one’s legitimate. It was in the Department of Mysteries. It’s what we – what we all fought over last spring.”

Draco felt sick. His father had led that effort. “What’s it say?”

“Basically that, um…” Potter's mouth twitched, and he looked pained, and Draco felt himself grimacing in anticipation of Potter's next words. “Only one of us can make it out of this alive. Either me or him. One of us will die by the hand of the other.”

Draco felt himself recoil. He thought of the Dark Lord’s horrific power, his honed skill, his ruthlessness. His absolute lack of scruples or compassion. “Holy fuck.”

“You can’t say anything to anyone,” Potter said in a rush. “I don’t know who you’d tell, but I haven’t told anyone. Not even Ron or Hermione. I just – they worry about me enough as it is, and there’s not much they could do about it anyway.”

Draco was surprised by that. “So why’d you tell me?” Draco asked.

“Dunno. You asked.”

Draco sighed. “I’ll be honest with you, I’m not a big fan of that prophecy.”

Harry laughed. “No, I’m not either.”

“Let’s make sure you’re the one to kill him, shall we?”

Harry laughed again and relaxed onto the pillow.

“Come here,” Draco said, pulling him close. “You shouldn’t have to deal with something like that. They shouldn’t have told you.”

“Dumbledore told me. And I’m glad he did. I’d rather know. I’d always rather know.”

Draco vehemently disagreed. If he was going to die a horrific, brutal death during the war, he’d rather be in the dark beforehand. He’d rather live his life, snog Harry Potter, gossip with Pansy, help Vince with his Potions homework and Greg with his Charms, make fun of Blaise for the number of sets of dress robes he owned (more than Draco, which was impressive). He’d rather do the things he loved until he couldn’t do them anymore. He’d rather his horrific death take him utterly by surprise. “You don’t deserve it.”

“None of us do, do we? All of us are just kids. None of us deserve to be living in the shadow of all of this.”

“You’re too noble, Potter,” Draco said, deciding to lighten the mood. “If I were you, I’d be angling to get my cock sucked for my trouble. You’re surely owed a good blowjob in light of everything.”

He snorted. “I hardly have to angle. You’ve been asking to suck my cock for weeks.”

Draco laughed. “And yet here you are, still never having had the privilege! I bet I’d be phenomenal at it. Like, almost supernaturally gifted.”

“I’m sure you would be. Will be. Whatever. You’re good at everything else, so it only stands to reason.” He kissed Draco’s cheek. “You know I move slowly with this stuff.”

“Like a giant tortoise. Honestly,” Draco said, nipping at his earlobe.

“I think you like having to work for it,” Potter said, letting out a huff of laughter and pinching Draco’s side.

“Probably I do,” Draco said. “I’m a bit mental.”

“Not news,” Potter said, bringing their mouths together. “I know that already.”

“But you still like me,” Draco said.

“Yeah. I still like you. And you still like me even though I don’t put out.”

“Yeah,” Draco said. “I do, you tosser.”

Potter ran a soft hand through his hair for a moment, just looking at him.

“We meet with Dumbledore tomorrow. And then I have to go through the cabinet,” Draco said. He’d forgotten for a few moments. Being with Harry tended to make him forget about things, even terrifying things.

“I know,” Harry said, growing immediately tense. “I can’t stop fucking thinking about it.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up,” Draco said. Potter began shaking his head. “But it’ll be okay,” he continued. “I really think so.”

“It better be,” Potter said darkly. “Or I’m going to wreak havoc on those bastards.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’ll you do? Just run through the cabinet and fuck them all up with your crazy-powerful magic?”

“If they so much as lay a finger on you,” Harry replied, not joking. His eyes were burning, his voice gruff.

“Is it wrong that I’m hard as a rock right now?” Draco asked innocently.

That did it. Potter burst out laughing, all the darkness of the last few moments dissipating immediately. “Tell me you weren’t getting me all worked up and furious over this to get yourself off? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Draco swung a leg over him, straddling him and smirking. “So many things, Harry. C’mere and let me show you.”

Chapter Text

“I felt like a man who awakens in his own house and finds all the furniture rearranged, so that every familiar nook and cranny looks foreign now. Disoriented, he has to reevaluate his surroundings, reorient himself.”
― Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner

“This evening should provide you with ample opportunity to speak with them about your mother. You’ve already discussed this with your housemates, correct?” Dumbledore asked, peering over his spectacles.

Draco, sitting next to Harry in Dumbledore’s office, looked up. He was anxious tonight – Harry could feel it radiating off him in waves. He was picking at his cuticles below the desk, and his mouth was pulled back into a tight, straight line. “I’ve been working it into conversations with them for days.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Excellent. Then I’ve no doubt some word of it has reached their parents, and, by extension, some of those who will be in attendance at the meeting this evening.”

“Theo’s parents might be there themselves,” Malfoy pointed out. “Or Greg’s father, maybe.”

“Good. That would be ideal,” Dumbledore said.

“Professor,” Harry blurted out. “What do you think about me accompanying Malfoy? I could wear the cloak, of course.”

Dumbledore gave him a kindly smile. “Ah, Harry, my boy. I don’t believe there’s any need, and if you were caught, we’d be in quite a pickle, wouldn’t we?”

Harry slumped in his chair. If he could just be there, even if he didn’t actually have to do anything, it would make him feel a lot better. As it was, he was ready to jump out of his skin.

Malfoy gave him an exasperated but fond look. “Potter, we’ve talked about this. You’re not coming along.”

Harry huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well, I do believe it’s about time,” Dumbledore said, looking at the grandfather clock near his desk. “You’d best be on your way.”

“I’m coming with you to the Room at least,” Harry said stubbornly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Yes, alright. Come on, then.”

The last thing Draco saw before he closed the cabinet door was Harry’s scowling face. He’d been such a worrywart over the whole thing, and with little reason. Draco was almost certain he would be fine. He did feel anxious, but it was mostly because he needed the plan regarding his mother to work, and tonight was an essential first step.

He muttered the spell as he leaned against the rear of the cabinet, and suddenly, the back wall seemed to disappear, and he was falling, spinning, end over end into the darkness, distant flashes of light sparking in his peripheral vision. It made his stomach lurch – it was a very physical sort of sensation, not smooth and sudden like apparation. It was more like portkey travel, only worse.

The world finally went still again, but it was completely dark, and he was beyond disoriented. He reached out blindly and felt smooth, varnished wood, then rapped on it with his knuckles.

A door opened and he found himself nearly falling out, blinded by the sickly, dull light of Borgin and Burkes. His eyes were watering as he tried to blink sight back into them. He saw dark shapes at first, which gradually solidified into people with faces, most of them staring at him. His aunt was the first to speak. “He’s done it!” she cried, leaping forward to clutch him to her breast. “My nephew’s done it!”

He noticed that not everyone looked pleased. Those who knew him did, particularly Greg’s father and Theo’s mother. His own mother, he saw now, was not present. He had expected that. But the Dark Lord was also absent, and that was a surprise. “Where is he?” Draco managed.

“None of your concern, Little Malfoy,” said Dolohov in his gravelly voice. He was in black robes, his salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a ribbon. He had a hard sort of face, big, prominent cheekbones and angled jaw, skin stretched tight over bold bones, eyes two dark, glittering slits. Perhaps he’d been handsome in his youth, but at this point, he merely looked cruel. Or maybe that was just the sneer he always wore. By his side was Erasmus Nott, Theo’s father, who looked like an older copy of Theo himself, his expression uncharacteristically stern. “His schedule and his affairs aren’t your business,” Dolohov said.

“No, I know,” Draco said, still feeling lightheaded. “I just thought he’d be here.”

“He had more pressing matters to attend to,” said Erasmus. Draco didn’t like his cold manner. Theo’s parents had always been nice to Draco, even though they didn’t know him as well as, say, Greg or Vince’s parents did. But just now Theo’s father was looking at Draco pitilessly, like he was a stranger.

Bella rolled her eyes and gestured grandly. “My nephew has just handed us the key to Hogwarts, you sour-faced twats. Show him some gratitude.”

“He’s lucky he finally managed it, isn’t he?” quipped Selwyn, mean little blue eyes rimmed in red. Selwyn, Draco knew, was one of the worst shit-stirrers of the bunch, always ready to badmouth anyone. “Was going to be in a world of hurt if he didn’t.”

“Yes, but he did,” Uncle Rudy said, surprising Draco. He put an arm around Draco’s shoulders and squeezed too tightly. “He’s a good boy.”

“I’m nearly seventeen,” he said, pulling away and straightening his robes. “Hardly a boy any longer.”

Dolohov leered at Draco, his small teeth flashing momentarily. “No, I’d say you’ve really grown up while you’ve been away.”

Draco grimaced, and Bella laughed her wild, unhinged laugh. “Draco, Darling, would you like a sip?” she asked, holding a goblet up to him. “For your troubles?”

He noticed several of them drinking. Pleasure Draught, perhaps, or maybe fairy wine. Or some new concoction they’d dreamt up. “No thank you,” he said. “I’ve still got to write an essay this evening.”

“Oh, the burdens of a schoolboy,” Rudy sighed, winking. “I remember them well.” Draco avoided his eye.

“You will send us a message as soon as you get back,” Dolohov said sternly. “Don’t make us wait.”

“I won’t,” Draco said. “But there is one thing I’d like to bring up before I go.”

“What is it, love?” Bella said, stroking his cheek. She was in a clean dress, but her wild hair looked greasy and unkept, and her eyes were unfocused. Draco, gathering his nerve, looked around the room. Greg’s father, Winston Goyle, gave him a reassuring smile.

“It’s my mother,” he began. “Her absence from meetings and public places has been noted by some on the periphery. It’s made them nervous. My friends at school –those whose families aren’t with us officially – have heard rumors about it. They’ve asked me about her time and again. It’s been spooking some of their parents. They say that if the Dark Lord’s adherents can turn on my mother, they can turn on anyone. I worry that this will make it more difficult to rely on them when the time comes.” He cleared his throat, feeling a rush of relief. He’d said it all perfectly, and his voice had been calm and steady.

He saw Dolohov and Erasmus Nott exchange a look.

“To be honest, it has been rather worrying, even from the inside. Why are we isolating Narcissa? What’s she ever done?” asked Win Goyle, his hands resting on his healthy-sized stomach. “And incidentally, Gregory did say it’s been quite a topic of conversation within the school. Which means the others’ parents must be positively buzzing about it.”

Uncle Rudy frowned. “Not much we can do about that. She’s in the house because of the Dark Lord’s orders. For her protection, obviously.”

“And I have asked him about it, darling,” Bella said, turning big eyes on Draco. “But you know how he is.”

“Look,” Draco said. “Far be it from me to tell you what to do. I’m just telling you what I know. Providing updates, like I’ve been ordered to.”

Greg’s father was frowning. “Perhaps she ought to be seen out and about,” he said, and Draco nearly toppled over in relief.

Erasmus opened his mouth, but Win Goyle continued. “Bea could escort her, and I could be nearby to make sure everything goes smoothly.” Bea was Greg’s mother. “Just an hour or two in the shops on Diagon would do it, I imagine. People would stop speculating if she looked healthy and happy.”

Yes, thought Draco. Yes. It would be perfect. Two hours would be plenty of time. Please. Please, Merlin, let this happen.

“That’s an excellent idea, Win,” Bella cooed. She drew a fingernail over Win’s round cheek and cackled. “Except who’s going to ask him, hmm? Surely not you. I know how he frightens you.”

“I’d be happy to ask him,” Win said, glaring, gathering up his trousers only to have them sag back down below his gut. His thick, brown mustache twitched. “She’s your sister, sure, but since you don’t seem to care –”

Bella’s face went dark. “How dare you, you gelatinous sack of –”

“Quiet!” Dolohov interrupted. He cleared his throat, gearing up for something. “I don’t believe there is any need to ask him about anything so trivial. I feel comfortable okaying it myself.”

Everyone stared at him as he pulled something from his pocket. It was a ring. The Dark Lord’s ring, the one with a “V” emblazoned on it in gold, and set with glimmering rubies. The ring had been a gift to the Dark Lord from Draco’s father. And now he’d given it to Dolohov. That was a statement if Draco’d ever seen one.

“He’s given me leave to make minor decisions while he’s away,” Dolohov explained, unable to keep from gloating. “And this seems to fall under that category. It’s only two hours in a public place, and it will stave off all this negative talk, which is, I think, quite dangerous. Bea can accompany her, but I will follow along –not you, Win. I’ll be polyjuiced, naturally. I’ll take you with me, Selwyn.”

“He gave that to you?” Bella shrieked, looking heartsick. “Why you?”

“Because I, unlike certain other followers, have managed to keep my wits about me,” Dolohov snapped, and Bella cringed away.

“Now, Little Malfoy,” he continued, turning back to Draco. “Why don’t you get back to school before you’re missed.”

Draco sucked in a breath. He had to get a little more information before he went back. “When will my mother go to Diagon?” he asked.

Dolohov’s dark eyes narrowed. “I don’t think that should be any of your concern.”

Draco knew he couldn’t make too big a thing of this, lest they suspect him, so he tried his hardest to look like an innocent boy missing his mother. “Could I possibly meet them?” he asked, all big eyes and hopeful expression. “Mrs. Goyle and Mother, I mean. I could have lunch with them, maybe. I would love to see her.”

Dolohov acted as though he were thinking about it, though Draco knew he was never going to allow it. It would have made Draco happy, and thus wasn’t ever going to happen, at least not on Dolohov’s watch. “No, I’m afraid not. It’ll take place as quickly as we can manage it, and we won’t have time to clear it with the school. Now, go. Get a move on.”

Soon. As soon as they could manage it, which might be – well, hell, it might be tomorrow.

Draco inclined his head, bowing it low, in Dolohov’s direction – a sign of obedience. “I’ll send word when I reach the school.”

“Goodbye, love!” cried Bella shrilly as he stepped into the cabinet. Dolohov slammed the cabinet door and Draco heard him murmur the spell. He had one split-second of fear, where he wondered, suddenly, whether Dolohov wouldn’t say it incorrectly on purpose, just to fuck with him, trap him somewhere in space and time, but then he was catapulting end over end, nearly emptying the contents of his stomach, and then he was on solid ground, the wood of the other cabinet at his back. He let out a breath and opened the door.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” he heard Potter say before his eyes adjusted. Then Potter was pulling him close, and Draco’s vision was clearing. Compared to Borgin and Burkes, the Room was cool and quiet and calm, and Draco felt himself relax into Potter’s embrace.

“Soon,” Draco said after a time, pulling back. “They’re bringing her to Diagon soon.”

Potter’s face broke out in a smile and Draco allowed himself to grin a little, too. “You did it, then,” Potter said.

“Yes,” said Draco, still a little dazed. “I did.” True, Draco suspected it had only worked because Dolohov wanted to lord his newfound authority over the others, but still. Who cared about why it had worked!? It had worked!

It wasn’t time to celebrate yet, Draco knew. It might all go to hell in the execution. But at least there was a chance now. There hadn’t been one before, but now there was. “It worked,” he whispered, trying to convince himself of it. “It worked.”

Potter squeezed him tight, and Draco found himself thinking that it hadn’t been such a bad day after all.

Three days later, Dumbledore sent for Harry before supper. He was in the Common Room playing Exploding Snap with Seamus and Ron when Professor McGonagall stepped through and crooked a finger in his direction. “Mr. Potter,” she said, looking around the Common Room as she spoke. “You’re needed by the Headmaster. Right away.”

Harry wanted to ask questions, but she was already striding towards one of the overstuffed chairs where a pair of fifth-years had been snogging before she came in. “Oof,” said Ron, grimacing at the sight. “Tough luck for Hendricks, eh? Poor fellow. He’s been working all year on getting Emily to snog him, too.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, setting down his cards. “Bad timing. Listen, I’d better go see Dumbledore.”

“What d’you reckon he wants to talk to you about now?” Ron asked, throwing a card down on the pile.

“I can’t really –” Harry began.

“I know, I know. Can’t say. Not much you can say these days,” Ron groused.

Harry sighed. Not an argument he wanted to have at the moment. “See you guys in a bit,” he said.

“See you,” Seamus said, throwing down another card and laughing when it blew up.

Harry knocked on the door to Dumbledore’s office – he hadn’t been given a password today – feeling a shiver of nervousness. This could be about Malfoy’s mother, or it could be about the other thing Dumbledore was doing, the thing he’d never really explained to Harry. Or it could be more lessons, or something else entirely. Not knowing was the worst part.

The door opened about halfway, and Dumbledore, looking strained, ushered him in.

Harry registered the presence of Draco first, uncharacteristically slouched down in a chair, then Snape, hands up in a placating gesture.

Then Harry saw her, saw Narcissa Malfoy, standing tall and immaculate with her hands on her hips, looking absolutely furious.

Draco had one recurring thought circulating through his head on a loop: he’d fucked up. He’d fucked up, and he didn’t know how to un-fuck it up. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak. His mother and Snape were both here, fully aware of his betrayal of the Dark Lord (although that Snape was here at all only served to reaffirm that he was allied with the Order). Snape, though he was shooting a wide variety of looks in Draco’s direction – from alarmed to almost…approving? – was staying mostly silent. Draco’s mother, on the other hand, was not.

She was speaking in a rapid-fire, terse manner (her version of yelling), pointing fingers at everyone, glaring at anything that moved, and throwing a stink-eye at Dumbledore that looked like it could melt steel.

Finally, after ten or so minutes of this, Dumbledore suggested that perhaps she’d like to speak with Draco for a moment.

The expression on her face when she turned to look at him was one Draco would never forget. She looked beyond disappointed, beyond angry. She looked like she could hardly stand the sight of him. His heart ached at the sight of it.

Everyone shuffled out of the room, Potter throwing Draco a reassuring glance, and then the door snicked quietly behind them, leaving Draco and his mother in thunderous silence.

“How could you,” she finally said through gritted teeth. She was dressed beautifully today, in impeccably fashionable but somewhat casual sage green robes (perfect for Diagon in the spring). Her hair was in a neat chignon, her large pearl droplet earrings were dangling from her ears, and the only clue that anything was amiss were her slightly hollow cheeks and her unvarnished fingernails.

Draco tried not to collapse under the weight of her stare. “I was worried for you, Mother,” he managed. “There was that strange letter, and then –”

“You were supposed to contact your father. Not turn spy for the opposition!”

He swallowed. “I did contact Father. He said no one was responding to his attempts to recruit help, not Uncle Rudy, not anyone. He told me to handle it.” Which was true. Granted, he’d told Draco to work through the usual channels in handling it, but Draco’d known straight-off that wouldn’t work.

She let out a breath and walked towards the window, crossing her arms in front of her and staring out. Her profile, so much gentler than his own, stood out starkly against the sunlight that filtered in through the wavy old glass. “You’ve handed him victory. You do realize that, don’t you?” She turned to Draco. “What will become of us, hm? Tell me, Draco, when Potter and Dumbledore and their ilk win this thing, what will become of us? We’ll be locked away for the rest of our lives. Not just me and your father, but you too, you understand. You took the Mark. It’s indisputable. They’ll have our heads.”

He shook his head. “No, Dumbledore said –”

“Albus Dumbledore is the worst sort of fraud,” she hissed in a whisper, coming closer. “Whatever you think he’s promised you, he’s lied. He’ll do whatever’s necessary to maintain power, and it would behoove you not to forget it again.” She took a deep breath and steadied herself, placing her hands on the polished antique desk. “I can only hope Severus holds some sway over him. He’s our only hope now. I think we can trust him. I do.”

“I have some sway over Dumbledore, mother!”

She chuckled mirthlessly.

“I do! And I most definitely do where Potter’s concerned.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, not expecting this. “Harry Potter? How?”

He swallowed, and then decided she’d be able to sniff out an outright lie. So, he told a partial truth instead. “He’s in love with me.”

She stared, searching his face. For what, he didn’t know. Signs of lying, of joking, of something. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

She began nodding, then resumed her pacing. She was plotting, scheming; Draco knew this side of her well. “That’s good, actually. That’s very good. That will serve us well when the time comes. You must appease him until them, string him along. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “Of course. You’re assuming, though, that the Dark Lord won’t be able to pull this off. I still think he might.”

“Yes, but I think even if he does – well, I’m sure you can play both sides. Dumbledore’s told me your defection is to be kept a secret. If you can manage to contain it, then you’ll be in excellent shape regardless of who wins.” She was excited now, her eyes alight, almost dancing as she spoke.

“Yes, Mother,” he said. “I’ve thought of all this,” Draco said. He had, over the last few months. He wasn’t an idiot.

She stopped and considered him. “Yes, perhaps you have. Well, now you must exercise all of this so-called influence to convince them to let me go. Your presence here can be excused because of school, but my being here is sure to raise the alarm.”

If she wanted to return, things couldn’t be all that awful for her. “Why did you write me the letter, then? If you plan to remain there?”

“Because things are…on shaky ground,” she said. “The Dark Lord has been threatening to relinquish his protection. He’s very angry with your father. Less angry with you now that you’ve made some progress.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I believe I’ve been through the worst of it. Things will improve now, I should imagine.”

He couldn’t, for the life of him, tell whether she was being honest. He knew her first priority was usually his father. Perhaps this was her way of protecting him.

But if she was insisting on this, there wasn’t much he could do. He nodded, then opened the door and called everyone back in. “All settled?” Dumbledore said, sweeping back inside, Snape trailing behind him and Potter bringing up the rear. Potter squeezed Draco’s hand discreetly as he passed.

“I believe so,” Draco said. “Mother’s promised to keep all of this quiet, but she wishes to return immediately.”

Dumbledore and Snape exchanged glances. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Snape said.

“What do you mean, not possible?” Draco’s mother snapped.

“Not possible, Narcissa,” Snape replied, his tone perfectly level. “You know too much now, and you’re a liability. And they’re sure to interrogate you regarding your disappearance, even if we keep this brief and send you back straightaway.”

She sputtered, eyes flashing between them. “You can’t just keep me here. It’s not – it’s not even legal!”

“Neither side is bothering much with the law these days, Narcissa,” Dumbledore said, giving her an apologetic smile. “War puts us someplace beyond such concerns, as you well know.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You cannot do this. It’s unjust. You can’t lock me up against my will –”

“Sir,” Draco said, stepping between her and Dumbledore. “Surely you can’t be serious about this. This isn’t – this is not what we agreed to.”

“We never discussed it at all,” Dumbledore said, sighing. “My boy, you seemed convinced that she would welcome the rescue. I hardly thought it needed to be discussed.”

Draco’s throat felt tight. “But you can’t.”

Potter stepped towards him, right in front of him, blocking his view of the others. “She may be angry right now,” he said, his eyes hot on Draco’s. “But she’ll be safe. Isn’t that the important thing?”

“Yes, but not like this!” exclaimed Draco. His voice was shrill, panicked. This was totally out of his control – that was clear now. He reached for his mother, grabbed her hand in his, and made a desperate move towards the door.

“Oh, Draco,” Dumbledore said, sounding sad, and suddenly, Draco’s muscles froze, his whole body stiffening. He felt himself falling, unable to move, and tried to brace himself. But instead of dropping to the floor, a pair of arms caught him.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, holding him, looking down at him with big, worried green eyes. He tried to glare but couldn’t even do that. “You must see that she can’t go back now. What if they look into her head? See that you’ve switched sides? What then?” He looked stricken, like he might cry. Draco wanted to slap his face.

“Severus, you’ll bring her to the safe house,” he heard Dumbledore say. “Narcissa, I swear to you, we will do everything we can to protect you and keep you comfortable. They’ll know we’ve got you, but they’ll think it’s against your will, and no harm will come to Draco or Lucius because of it. We’ve made certain. Please trust me.”

Draco’s mother didn’t reply; she must have been stunned, too. “Draco,” said Snape. “She will be safe. She’ll be much safer here than she was at home.” His face loomed over Draco’s motionless body. “I had it on good authority that the Dark Lord was going to rescind his protection when he returned. You’ve saved her from all that. You’ve done well. I’m proud of you.”

The words did not make Draco feel any better. Draco was not appeased, nor would he let himself be appeased by that fucking traitor’s words. Potter was petting him, and that, too was only making him angrier.

Things grew quiet after a few minutes, and Draco realized Snape had gone and taken his mother, and Dumbledore seemed to have left as well.

“I’m sorry, Damn it, I’m really sorry, Draco.” Harry said. “Finite.”

Draco felt his limbs come to life again, motion restored. He threw Potter off and jumped to his feet, glaring. “Fuck you, Potter,” he said, striding to the door.

“I didn’t know,” Harry said behind him, sounding desperate. “I swear I didn’t.”

“Do you know where they took her?” Draco said, whirling back around.

Harry shook his head. “No idea.”

Draco stopped and thought. His mind was spinning, emotions ping-ponging every which way. He was shaking he was so angry, but…he looked back at Harry, who truly looked stricken and a bit like he was in shock.

“Look, I just need some time,” he said. He paused, making a Herculean effort to hold back all the unnecessarily vicious remarks that wanted to spill out of him. “It’s not you I’m angry with. I’m not sure who I ought to be angry with, honestly. Maybe myself. Maybe no one. I don’t know. I just need to think.”

“Can I come with you?” Harry asked.

“Not today.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow. I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” said Harry, his voice small.

“I’ll be okay,” Draco said, turning back towards the door. “We will be okay.”

“I hope so. I really hope you’re not mad at me,” Harry said behind him. “I am so sorry, I really am – I didn’t want it to go like that at all.”

“I know,” Draco said. He remained there for a moment longer, then fled before he said something he didn’t really mean and couldn’t take back.

Chapter Text

You only know me as you see me, not as I actually am.

- Immanuel Kant

“Hello,” Harry said, slipping into the Room. Malfoy was lying on the rug, hands behind his head, staring up at nothing.

“Hi,” Malfoy said, turning to look at Harry. He didn’t seem upset, which was a relief. Harry had been heartened by yesterday's assurance that it wasn’t Harry he was angry with, but was also aware that this could very well have changed overnight. At this point, Harry was too familiar with Malfoy’s quicksilver moods to not be at least a little apprehensive.

“How are you?” Harry asked, arranging himself on the rug a safe distance away. Sometimes, when dealing with Malfoy, Harry felt like he was trying to tiptoe around a sleeping bear.

But Malfoy only shrugged carelessly. “I don’t know. I’m not happy about it. But I’ve been thinking, and I suppose there was little else that could’ve been done. My mother hates me now, but at least she’s not going to be assaulted by a dozen Death Eaters. So, I suppose I can consider it a win.”

Harry nodded. “Well, yeah, it is, in a way.” He adjusted his glasses, peering over at Malfoy. “I know you didn’t want it to go the way it did, though.”

“Well, no.”

“Right,” Harry said. They sat quietly, Harry wondering what was going on in Malfoy’s head.

“Would you like to practice occlumency?” Malfoy finally said.

“Oh,” Harry said, taken off-guard by the change of topic. “I mean, yeah. I would.”

Malfoy hauled himself up, smoothing out his mussed hair. “Alright, then. Sit still for a second.”

Harry did, and then felt the unnatural, sickening sensation of his mind being invaded, ripped open. He pushed Draco out as best he could, but Draco kept coming at him, brutally unrelenting. “Ugh, stop!” he finally said.

He realized he’d closed his eyes. He opened them and found himself looking into Malfoy’s cool grey ones. “Is that how it felt when Snape did it?” Malfoy asked.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Harry said, shaking off the sensation. “Ugh, I fucking hate it.” He shivered, a chill swooping down his spine. Even thinking about it made him cringe, like listening to nails scraping over unglazed pottery.

Malfoy let out a sigh. “He was definitely fucking with you, then. Look, that’s – that’s not how people do it, usually. Not people who are skilled. The first goal of legilemency is to do it so subtly that people don’t even know you’re there. If they already know you’re going to try it, or you’re pressed for time or whatever, then perhaps you’d use brute force. But it’s so much easier to slide in undetected.”

Harry frowned at him. “Are you telling me it doesn’t always hurt?”

“Merlin, no.”

“Huh,” Harry said, too curious to waste any time being mad at Snape, that bastard. “Alright, do it, then. The right way." He braced himself and sat perfectly still, eyes closed. Then he waited. For what, he wasn’t sure – a tickle, a poke, the cool rush of a foreign entity in his head.

Nothing came. “Any time, Malfoy,” he said, impatient.

He heard a low chuckle. “Potter, I’ve been in there this whole time. Sweet Salazar, did you feel nothing?”

Harry felt his mouth drop open. “Um, no, I definitely didn't! Were you really doing it?”

Malfoy nodded, still looking amused. “Pay closer attention this time, okay? You’re going to have to really focus to feel it. It’s not going to come out and knock you upside the head.”

Harry closed his eyes again and tried to focus. He tried to be aware of his thoughts and of the space surrounding them. Gradually, he began to notice what felt like a small sort of blankness winding through them. “There,” he murmured. “I think I feel it. It feels…empty, I guess?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Malfoy said. “Very good. It feels like an interruption, of sorts, I always think. Now, focus on the shape of it for a minute and then I’d like you to try to contain it.”

“Contain it?” Harry asked. “What d’you mean?”

“Surround it. Put walls around it.”

Harry nodded and focused again on the sliver of white noise among his own thoughts. Then he thought of building walls, locking the invader inside of them. It worked for a split second, and then the little bit of blankness was suddenly outside of them once more. Harry tried again and again, but it kept worming its way out, slipping through cracks. Harry wondered how to make his barriers impenetrable, then imagined a steel, seamless capsule, imagined shoving the invasive piece inside, then locking it tight.

He felt a rush of triumph when the thing was trapped for a good, solid minute, but then, somehow, the blank spot relocated to another place in his head. He could feel it wriggling around, searching, so he threw another capsule over it and then pushed. He could almost swear he heard a loud pop, and then his eyes were opening and he and Malfoy were staring at each other, out of breath.

“Not bad,” Malfoy said. “Want me to give you more of a challenge this time?”

“Do your worst, Malfoy,” Harry said, feeling himself grin. As torturous as his sessions with Snape had been, this was fucking fun.

Draco was getting fatigued, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell Potter that.

Potter was doing surprisingly well, considering that he couldn’t even sense Draco’s presence at first. He was going to be much more prepared now, should he ever need to guard his thoughts. Who knew what the war would bring, or what occasions might arise that called for this skill. Draco had utilized it on an almost daily basis over the summer.

“I want you to try something new this time, Harry,” Draco said as he leaned back on his hands. His back ached from sitting on the floor for so long, but he wanted to at least introduce Potter to one more concept before they wrapped up for the day. “I want you to guess what I’m looking for. This requires you to take note of the places I’m searching, and what I’m honing in on. It requires you to be exceptionally sensitive to my presence. Don’t try to block me yet, just try to guess what it is I want. Okay?”

Potter nodded, sitting up straight and closing his eyes in an attractive flutter of sooty lashes. Draco realized, not for the first time, that he was absolutely pathetic, swooning over every little thing the git did. Feeling love-struck at the sight of Potter closing his bloody eyes was ridiculous, but what could Draco do? It was delightful to watch him.

“Ready,” Potter said.

Draco straightened, too, and let a tendril of himself, of his energy, his sight, whatever you wanted to call it, pour forth from his own mind and into Potter's.

That first split-second was always overwhelming – that initial acclimation to someone else’s mind – but with Potter it certainly wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, Draco had enjoyed himself today more than he cared to admit. It was a lot, but then, being in another person's headspace was always a lot. But it was good, too. The only other person whose mind Draco had actually enjoyed being in before was Pansy’s, although it felt very different from this.

It was nearly impossible to describe, given that these weren’t spaces with actual boundaries or colors or shapes or anything tangible. But Draco liked to try anyway. Pansy, who’d practiced legilimency and occlumency many times with him, was a soft, silky lavender. She was cool and round with jagged edges that would smooth out when she found something funny or was enjoying herself. She was floral, like gardenia, and something about her mind felt like early spring, when it was still chilly out, but the warmth was just around the corner.

Potter’s mind felt nothing like Pansy’s, but it was even more enjoyable in its way. It was wild, like ocean waves, but warm. There were prickles and bumps everywhere, but none of them were sharp – the space in there was too…too elastic to have any sharpness. It was tough but malleable.  And it was colorful, Merlin, Potter’s head was a veritable rainbow, shades whirling around in dizzying arrays. It if had a smell, it would be like the earth after a storm, or like thick vegetation in high summer. And it gave off a certain feeling, like an adrenaline rush. Draco wondered if that was how Potter felt all the time, if he simply had that much energy, vitality - that much magic - floating around inside of him. It was intoxicating, but it was also a bit of a sensory overload. Each time, it had taken Draco a moment to steady himself.

Draco knew what he wanted to find: the place where Potter kept thoughts about him. It was what he’d wanted to see all day, and he could kick himself for not looking that first time, when Potter hadn’t even realized he was inside. He slipped towards a part of Potter that was tucked away in a quiet space. Bits of thoughts had been hastily thrown in front of it, but Draco worked his way through the stray, camouflaging segments piece by piece. The air here felt staticky and slightly dangerous. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it might be what he was looking for.

He dropped inside, and nearly swooned.

This was definitely not it. It was freezing in here, and it hurt, and there were dark, menacing shapes swirling around him. Dementors, Draco realized, and beyond them, a red-haired girl with her face frozen in a silent scream. It might’ve been Girl Weasley, although it didn’t look exactly like her. And there was a door, a heavy door with a brass handle. And it felt tight in here, so tight and almost suffocating, and there was something creeping nearby, sticky strands, tickling his skin, get off of me, get off –

Suddenly, he felt a lurch and then a moment later, he was sitting on the rug, looking at Potter, no longer inside his head.

“You threw me out,” he said, rubbing his temples.

“I didn’t want you there,” Potter said. He was panting, and his forehead had broken out in a sweat.

“Well, bully for you – I mean, good job on that, it was well done – but I thought I told you just to take note of where I was.”

“Not there,” he said stubbornly. “You can’t go there.”

Draco thought of what he’d seen, how it had turned his stomach, a bit, even though he hadn’t understood much of it besides the dementors. “Your fears,” he said. “That’s where you keep your fears.”

“Not exactly,” Potter said with some hesitation. “It’s…it’s my nightmares. I have bad dreams a lot. I don’t remember all of them, usually, but I get bits and pieces stuck in my head. They’re awful, but it’s not like I sit around thinking about them all the time. They’re just…there. In that place. I think I’ve tried to tuck them away, hide them.”

“Oh,” Draco said. He put a hand on Harry’s. “That's pretty shit. I'm sorry. I really wasn't trying to find nightmares. Not at all, I swear. Was that…was that Ginny Weasley? With the red hair?”

Potter’s brows went up. “Erm, no. That was my mum.”

Draco hadn’t known Potter’s mom had been a redhead. But now that he thought of the woman he’d seen, he realized she did resemble him. The eyes in particular, so big and green, even in their anguish. “I see. You look like her.”

Potter nodded. “A bit, yeah.”

“She was beautiful.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking away. “You can try again, if you want. Just –not there.”

“I think maybe we should try something else before we finish.” Potter could probably stand to be done for the day. Merlin knew Draco was ready to call it quits. “How about you give me a thought. It can be an image or a memory or anything you want. Have you ever tried that? It’s fun.”

Potter shook his head. “No, I haven’t. Let me think.” He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before breaking out in a smile. “Okay, I’ve got one.”

“Okay,” Draco said. “I’m going to go in and you just sort of place it in front of me. Shove it at me. Whatever.”

“Kay,” Potter said, closing his eyes.

Draco went in again, into the mass of color and irregular boundaries, into the fragrant warmth, into the lovely chaos of Potter’s head. An image was shoved in front of him, and then he was surrounded by what was probably endorphins, but felt like a shimmering, delicious heat, colorful and brilliant.

Then suddenly, Draco was looking down at his own face, only it was altered, somehow. Surely his skin wasn't that creamy and flawless, flushing deliciately high on the cheeks. His hair was never that perfect, gleaming cap, and his eyes didn't shine that way, like rare jewels. He watched, stunned, as the almost-Draco smiled up at him. It transformed his face into something even more beautiful, something almost divine.

He saw a hand on his cheek. Potter’s broad, calloused hand. As he watched, the Draco in Potter’s head laughed and bit at Potter’s palm playfully, then pulled him close.

The sensations that ripped through Draco then were almost too much. Thoughts and feelings were everywhere: home, happy, please. Soft, safe, right, yes, want. Need.

There were faint prickles of fear, somewhere far away, but they were almost immediately swept away by the euphoric tide. The feelings and thoughts kept coming:Protect. Careful. Good, so fucking good. Perfect, precious, mine.

Then Draco’s face drew closer and closer, and then there was contact, and he was thrown into Potter’s memory of kissing him. He had the bizarre experience of feeling his own mouth, soft and hot, and then it was all washed away in a tide of emotion. Desire and desperation took over completely, just pure, unadulterated want. Draco knew this feeling too well - he experienced his own version of it every time Potter touched him.

The snippet of memory was pulled back after a while, and Draco opened his eyes, the muted lamplight of the Room flooding his vision. Potter was looking at him expectantly. “Well?” he asked.

Draco stared at him. “I’m not like that.”

“I think that's a matter of perspective,” Potter said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

“No, I’m not…” Not what? he wondered. Not pristine, like miles of fresh snow. Not soft and sweet and surrendering. Not full of mysteries wrapped in deep jewel toned silk, not lovelier than moonlight. “That’s not how I am.”

“It’s how I think of you,” Potter said. He was coloring now, splotches of heat on his cheeks and down his neck.

“But –”

“There’s no but. It’s how I see you. It doesn’t matter whether you think it’s true.”

Draco swallowed and looked away, blinking away the hot pinpricks at the back of his eyes.

“I’m sorry if it was too much,” Potter said uncertainly.

“No, not – no. It wasn’t too much.”

“Come here,” Potter said, tugging at him.

“I’ll disappoint you,” Draco said, resisting. He sounded desperate. Desperate and scared. “I’m not like that, and I’ll disappoint you.”

Potter shook his head. “Malfoy, you think I don’t know you have flaws? Trust me, I know.” He gave a lovely, crooked smile.

Draco blinked at him, then a small, strained laugh fell from his lips.

“Come here,” Potter said again, and this time, Draco went. Potter was warm and sweet-smelling and comforting, his old t-shirt wonderfully soft against Draco’s cheek.

When Draco’s mouth found his, it felt like falling into the deep, like losing himself in the endless warm dark.

Later that week, he found a message in the cabinet when he checked it during lunch. He’d been expecting it, and yet it still managed to feel sudden and shocking.

Sunday, April 27, dusk

The second task must be completed beforehand.

It was in the Dark Lord’s own hand, sealed with his insignia. Draco sat there, filling up with dread, filling up all the way to the brim. The clock was set now; everything was in motion. His life as he knew it was on a countdown – the world was on a countdown.

He sat there unmoving while the bright sunshine outside continued its work. Things had begun to grow in the last few days – new buds, new leaves, phosphorescent spring-green grass. The seasons were shifting into something profoundly beautiful, and all Draco could think was that everything was going to come to an end during this extravagant display of life.

He knew he needed to tell Dumbledore immediately, but he couldn’t quite get himself to move. He watched the shadows lengthen as the sun traveled across the cloudless blue sky outside, barely noticing when the light in the room became too dim to see much.

It was dark when Harry came in. Draco hadn’t bothered to light any of the lamps. “April twenty-seventh,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Oh. Oh. Fuck,” Harry said, flicking his wand towards an intricate Tiffany lamp. “Oh my god.” The room colored itself in again, warm lamplight flickering against the piles of old, useless junk. “Well. Okay. Look, that should give us plenty of time to prepare.”

“I’m supposed to do the second thing before then.”

Harry nodded, his brow furrowing. “We’ll need to talk to Dumbledore straight away. He has a plan.”

“Yes,” Draco said, nodding. He still didn’t move.

Potter took his hand. “Come on. He’s here. I just saw him at supper. We should grab him before he takes off again.”

“Yes,” Draco said again. “I just – I just need a moment.”

“All right,” Potter said, settling in against him. “One more minute. Then we’re going, okay?”

Draco nodded. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

“We meet fear. We greet the unexpected visitor and listen to what he has to tell us. When fear arrives, something is about to happen.”
― Leigh Bardugo, Crooked Kingdom

Four days after Draco and Harry told Dumbledore about the message, Draco was summoned to the Headmaster’s office once more. He’d never been in there without Harry before, and he didn’t particularly want to be without him now. But Snape brought him straightaway – there was no time to stop by the Gryffindor tower.

“Come in,” intoned the Headmaster when Snape knocked. He looked up, his gleaming white hair and impressive beard offset by bright purple robes, the very picture of a pureblooded wizard, despite not being one. But for all his talk of living in harmony with muggles, he had lived his own life exclusively in the wizarding world, so far as Draco knew. Apparently living in harmony with muggles simply meant staying the hell away from them. “Ah, Draco. Thank you for coming.”

As though he’d had a choice.

As always, the Headmaster’s office made Draco uneasy, even more so since the day he and his mother had been stunned here, his mother dragged off against her wishes.

“Sit, please,” Dumbledore said.

Draco sat stiffly and looked at the bizarre assortment of trinkets and sweets spread over the desk. “Lemon candy?” Dumbledore asked, gesturing to an open tin. “They’re delicious.”

“No, thank you,” Draco replied. He wanted the old man to get to the point.

Dumbledore unwrapped a candy and popped it into his mouth, hummed happily around it, then peered out at Draco over those moon-shaped spectacles, eyes unnervingly bright in his lined face. “You want me to come out with it, do you?” he asked, a small smile playing over his lips. “Then I shall.” He shifted in his seat, and Draco heard the creak of old bones. “I need to discuss the next few weeks with you, what must occur and when.”

Draco nodded. “Of course.”

“There are two things I’m going to ask of you, Draco – two things that will need to happen rather quickly, given our timeframe.”

“All right,” Draco said. “I’d like to hear the specifics before agreeing.”

“Naturally,” Dumbledore said, raising an eyebrow. “The first is that I’d like you and Harry to accompany me on an errand of sorts. There are…a few outstanding details I’ll need to work out before we go. But I shall likely call on you in the next several days. I’ll let Harry fill you in on the purpose of this errand, but I’d like you to come along as well in order to observe.”

“Harry will be there?”

“Yes, Harry will be there.”

“Then I’ll go, I suppose.”

“Excellent. As for the second request, it is slightly more dangerous, although I believe the risk to be minimal.”

Draco nodded, apprehensive. But, he reminded himself, at least Dumbledore was asking and not demanding. At least his mother’s life wasn’t in jeopardy if he didn’t comply.

“I would like you to pay a visit to your Aunt Bellatrix.”

Draco felt a sweep of cold spread through his body. “But – Sir, I can’t – even if she’s at her own home and not at the Manor with everyone else, my uncle will be there, and he – he would tell the Dark Lord. He would tell everyone. And then they’d know –”

“Rodolphus Lestrange is currently in Belarus. He took an illegal international portkey this evening. Your aunt is, in fact, at Lestrange Castle all alone.  My sources tell me there is currently ill-will between her and Antonin Dolohov. I believe that is why she’s chosen to leave the Manor for the time being.”

Draco wondered briefly at the sheer amount of information Dumbledore possessed regarding the Death Eaters. Surely Snape wasn’t his only source. But, then again, perhaps he was. He was generally trusted by the Death Eaters, and, most importantly, by the Dark Lord himself. It would make sense that he would know a great deal about the goings-on of the inner circle. “But what if Uncle Rudy comes back?” Draco asked. “What if someone else is keeping an eye on her?”

“There is a small risk. But not much of one, I don’t think. Dolohov would not dare to go too far in his campaign against her, since she is still one of You-Know-Who’s favorites. Or so I’m told.” Those blue eyes always looked slightly amused, as though the troubles of the world never fully touched them. And then the bastard winked.

“Honestly, I’m not very comfortable with this idea,” Draco said, refusing to be charmed. “What is it you want me to say to her?”

“It’s what I want you to obtain from her. We need more information about the invasion – anything you can find out. The number of Death Eaters who will be coming in through the cabinet, whether or not the Dark Lord himself will be present, the plan of attack once inside, what time they’ll gather at Borgin and Burkes. Anything that sounds even vaguely helpful.”

“But then when that plan is thwarted –”

“One, we’re going to interfere with their plan in a roundabout way that will make it look like pure chance. And two, you would be gathering information subtly, not asking outright. As far as Bellatrix is concerned, you’ll be there to discuss your mother.”

Draco sat back, listening. “You will need to behave as though you are entirely unaware of her disappearance,” Dumbledore continued. “It still isn’t public knowledge; in the normal course of things, you’d have no idea she was taken. You’ll ask Bellatrix all about your mother – and I’d wager Bellatrix will not want you to know the truth– and then you can bring up the topic of the invasion off-handedly. I believe she’ll be relieved to discuss something other than your mother’s welfare.” Dumbledore stroked his long beard, looking thoughtful. “And if that doesn’t work, Plan B will be to imbibe with her. Or, more accurately, pretend to imbibe with her.”

“You want me to get my aunt drunk,” Draco said incredulously.

“Or high,” Dumbledore said easily. “I’m going to send you with a good bottle of fairy wine. Excellent stuff, but it leaves you reeling.”

Draco could hardly believe this. “I –I can’t just –”

“I’m asking, Draco. Not ordering. But I’d like you to seriously consider it. It would help us defend the castle, and I’d prefer not to give this place up if I can help it. The more information we have, the more likely it is that we’ll save Hogwarts.”

Draco watched the Headmaster unwrap another lemon candy and pop it into his mouth with a tiny, delighted ‘mm’. “Will I have protection?” Draco asked. “Will there be Order members nearby, should I need them?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Dumbledore said.

Draco was not reassured in the slightest. This sounded dangerous, and Draco knew full well that any number of Death Eaters might pop by the Lestrange estate while he was there – it was the most popular Death Eater hangout besides Malfoy Manor.

He also knew that when it came to his mother’s disappearance, some of the others would have questions, and might even suspect him of being involved. “I want Harry to go with me. Under the cloak, of course.”

Dumbledore considered him for a long moment. “If Harry agrees, then I don’t see why that should be a problem.”

Despite this concession, Draco hated saying yes.

A part of him resented Dumbledore, resented having to confide in him and do his bidding. But he did not want Hogwarts to go to the Death Eaters. It was a safe haven for students, including his own friends. And he knew all too well how indiscriminate the Death Eaters were when it came to doling out cruelties. They wouldn’t care that Pansy’s parents were sympathetic to the cause; if someone felt like having a go at Pansy, they would.

And then, something he was thinking about recently, despite his best efforts not to think about it: Katie Bell, the Gryffindor who had touched the cursed jewelry last fall, had finally returned to school. If Draco’s actions (or inaction) led to her being hurt – again – he didn’t know that he’d ever forgive himself.

“Yes,” Draco said. “In that case, yes, I’ll do it. When?”

“Tonight,” Dumbledore said. “Right now. I’ll have Minerva fetch Harry.”

Draco and Harry ducked through the floo, and Draco prayed that the floo would admit them because of his blood, regardless of Harry’s presence. It did, but the wards went off, and Bellatrix came flying into the room wild-eyed with her wand held high.  “Oh, Circe’s tits,” she breathed when she saw Draco. “Thank goodness. I thought you might be – well, never mind what I thought.”

She pulled him in for a hug, and he grimaced. She reeked of sweat and potions. He doubted she was sober, but she looked as close to sober as she ever got these days. That was a good thing, probably. Maybe. “What in the world are you doing here, child?” she asked. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Why not?” he asked. Potter, somewhere nearby, made a floorboard creak and Draco winced, but Bellatrix seemed not to notice.

“Oh,” she said, going wide-eyed. “Because. Well…because he’d want to know that you were here! He’d want to know, of course he’d want to know.” He realized she was lying, but he didn’t dare probe her mind to find out why. Though she was no longer one of the best when it came to legilimency and occlumency, she’d still likely sense it.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry. I should have asked you before I came. But I’ve been so worried about Mother.”

She glanced at the fireplace. “You came from school.”

“Yes, Professor Snape gave me permission.”

Bella relaxed. “Oh, good. Well, if he gave you permission, then it’s on him if the Dark Lord is angry.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed.

“You can have a seat, love,” Bella said, gesturing. The house looked worse for wear. Not as bad as the Manor, but it, too, had been brutalized a bit. Draco sat on the chair that didn’t have claw marks cutting through the upholstery.

He’d never liked being here, even as a boy, even when Rodolphus was behind bars in Azkaban. Uncle Rudy’s presence made the place worse, no doubt, but even without him, it had never exactly been warm and inviting. Malfoy Manor wasn’t, either, but it was a manor and not a crumbling, drafty old castle. And his mother had tried her best to warm the place up a bit, at least. Bella hadn’t done a thing to make Lestrange Castle cozier. The furniture was all hundreds of years old. Half of it was cursed, and some of the portraits were positively terrifying. There were almost no windows, just walls of dark grey stone, hung with the awful portraits and enormous, dusty tapestries, mostly depicting muggle witch hunts.

“Oh, before I forget, I brought you this,” Draco said. He held out the bottle of fairy wine, and Bella’s face broke out in a delighted grin.

“Where did you get this? It’s so hard to come by these days. I can’t remember the last time I even saw a bottle.”

“Oh, I found it in the cellars before school started. Haven’t had a chance to drink it yet, so I thought I’d bring it to you.”

“You wonderful boy, you,” Bella said, pinching his cheek painfully and taking the bottle. “Would you like a cup?”

“Maybe in a bit,” he said, and she set the bottle down before settling in on another chair.

“Auntie,” he said, hoping to soften her up. “How’s Mother? I honestly can’t stop worrying.”

Bella chewed on a chapped lip. “Oh. Cissy is…well, she’s fine. Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she be?” Her smile was too bright. Even if he hadn’t known the truth, he still would have suspected her of lying.

“Is everyone leaving her alone? Did she ever make it to Diagon Alley with Bea Goyle?”

“Oh, yes, everyone’s leaving her be. With the Dark Lord returning soon, they’re not going to risk bothering her. And yes, she went to Diagon Alley with Bea. Just as we talked about.”

She still wasn’t looking at him.

“That’s good to hear. I wish I could see her.”

“Oh, you silly boy, that’s not possible at the moment. There’s too much going on. But soon, I’m sure. After we take Hogwarts, things will relax a bit, I think,” she said, then kept going, presumably happy to be talking about something else. “Merlin, the 27^th can’t come soon enough. It’s going to be the beginning of the end, you do realize that, don’t you? Once we take Hogwarts and get rid of the doddering old fool who runs it, it should be easy pickings. Even if we can't finish off the Potter brat that day, we'll get him soon enough. And honestly, how much trouble can a sixteen-year-old boy possibly be? No offence to you, sweetheart. I know you’re very capable.”

“None taken,” said Draco, who knew without a doubt that the sixteen-year-old boy in question was going to cause them a world of trouble. “Is the Dark Lord himself coming through?” he asked casually. “Or is he leaving it to you and Uncle Rudy?”

Bella laughed. “Oh, he wouldn’t miss this, no, no. He’s coming. Isn’t it exciting?”

“Very,” he said. “I imagine few want to miss it.”

“He’s chosen a dozen of us. The rest aren’t allowed until later.”

“Why is that?” Draco asked.

“Oh, because we need to surprise them! Can’t go gallivanting around the castle with a group of a hundred, now, can we? Potter and Dumbledore would slip away, I’m sure of it. No, we’re going to find them first, deal with them if possible. Then let the others through. I think that’s why you’ve been asked to handle Dumbledore in advance, darling. I know it seems impossible – and maybe it is – but if you could somehow manage it, the whole thing would be a lot simpler.”

“Yes,” Draco said. “Well, I’ve got a plan in place.”

She squealed. “Oh! That’s wonderful! Do you really think it’ll work?”

“I do,” he said.

Another shriek of joy. “It would bring you so much honor, Draco. You and our entire family. I would be so very proud of you.”

He tried not to cringe. “I’ll make it happen, Aunt.”

“Well. I for one have full faith in you. Full faith!” She bolted upright and strode over to the fire and looked into it for a moment, then turned back to him, beaming. “I really do!”

“Thank you,” he said, nodding his head.

And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, her smile seemed to crack, her expression falling, her eyes welling up with tears. Draco felt a rush of fear, but reminded himself that Harry was here, at least. If she tried to do anything crazy, tried to hurt him, Harry was here.

“What?” he said quietly. “What is it?”

She gasped and rubbed at her cheeks almost angrily. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Auntie, please.”

She looked at him again, her lip wobbling precariously, like she might burst into a fresh round of sobs at any moment. “It’s your Mother, darling. I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest before.”

Oh. That. She was going to tell him his mother was missing. Well, he would have to make a good show of being surprised. He tried to prepare himself for it.

“Your mother’s been taken,” she said.

He stared at her, trying to look properly shocked, then asked tightly, “What do you mean?”

“The Diagon outing with Bea. While they were in Flourish and Blotts, she was taken by two men. We think they were with the Order. Everyone is so worried, because she knows so much, you know?”

Not because they were worried for her. But because they were afraid she would spill their secrets. It figured.

“Is she safe? Alive? What do you know?” he asked, trying to sound frantic.

“She's alive, yes. Greyback managed to track down the safe house where they’re keeping her,” Bella said.

And then Draco’s mouth really did fall open in shock. “Oh,” he said. “That’s…that’s wonderful! So, you’ll get her back, then.”

Bella’s face contorted again, an almost-spasm. “I wish. Oh, I wish that was the plan. But you know, he’s so paranoid about situations like this, and the reality is, the longer they keep her there, the more likely she is to tell them things. Important things. And even if she’s under duress, that’s still a betrayal of him. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I’m not sure that I do,” Draco said, wiping his sweating palms on his trousers. “What is the plan, exactly?”

“They’re going to get rid of the problem, love,” Bella said softly. “They’ve agreed to do it painlessly.”

“When,” Draco said, fully panicking now. “When will this happen?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I’m not privy to that. They didn’t want me interfering, I think. I told them I wouldn’t, but. But maybe I would’ve. I’m not sure.” She bit at her knuckles, squeezing out more tears. “Oh, Cissy. My little Cissy. It’s just bad luck, isn’t it?” She looked at him, and despite the lightness of her words, he could see that she was anguished. Despite everything, despite how much of herself she had lost, Bellatrix still cared about his mother.

“When, Auntie?” he asked, trying not to get too firm. “What’s your best guess?”

“Soon, I think,” she whispered. “Before she can reveal too much.”

Draco stood up, and the floor felt like it was tilting to one side. “Where is she? Do you know?”

“They didn’t tell me that, either,” she said. “But, Draco, I hope you’re not considering trying anything foolish.”

“I have to go,” he said, taking one unsteady step after another. “I have to – I have to get back to school. Snape will be wondering what’s keeping me. I can’t –” he broke off as the world began to shiver, black spots all across his vision.

“Draco, darling –” he heard her say, but he was already hurtling back through the floo.

Harry rushed into the floo after Draco, hot on his tail, Bellatrix still pleading for Draco to wait. They fell together into the Headmaster’s office, landing in a heap. When they looked up, Dumbledore and Snape were there with wands raised, eying up the floo.

“Did anyone follow?” Dumbledore asked sharply. “Is everything all right?”

Harry dragged himself upright and then helped Draco up. Draco was white as a ghost, and he was rocking back and forth slightly, like he was drunk or on the verge of passing out.

“My mother,” he said. “They’re going to kill my mother.”

“They’ll never find her,” Dumbledore said, waving this away.

“They already have!” Draco cried, his eyes focusing suddenly. “Damn you to hell, they already have!”

Snape looked sharply at the Headmaster. “But that’s impossible.”

“Yes, I’m sure this is just –” Dumbledore began.

“It’s true,” Harry said, facing them. “Bellatrix knew we’d taken her. She said they’d found her. And that they were going to go after her and get rid of her as soon as possible.”

Dumbledore gripped his desk, looking suddenly very grave. “Severus, would you find Nymphadora Tonks and bring her here.”

They waited, Dumbledore standing stock still and staring at his desk, Draco pacing, Harry trying to determine whether Draco would punch him if he tried to give him a reassuring hug. Finally, a few minutes later, Tonks was striding into the office (she was often at Hogwarts these days), red Auror robes billowing behind her. She was very obviously pregnant at this point, but it didn’t seem to be slowing her down. “Yes, Sir?” she asked breathlessly.

“I need you to take several of our people to Narcissa Malfoy’s safe house.”

Tonks frowned, glancing over at Harry. “Why?”

“They know she’s there,” Dumbledore said. “And they think she’s been feeding us information.”

Tonks looked at Draco now, her eyes gentling. “You’re her boy, yeah?”

“Yes,” Draco said. He was still horribly pale, and now he was shaking so badly Harry could see it from where he stood. Harry, deciding he didn’t give a fuck how it looked, crossed the room to take his hand.

“We’re going to do everything we can to move her safely, got it?” Tonks said, not missing a beat. “Everything we possibly can.”

“Okay,” Draco said, gripping Harry’s hand tightly. “Thank you.”

“She’s my aunt, you know. You and I are cousins,” Tonks said, giving him a tiny grin. Her hair was lavender today, and looked very pretty, Harry thought.

“I know,” Draco said, his own little smile very wobbly.

“Well,” she said, looking around the room. “Wish us luck, all. We’ll report back as soon as we can.”

“Best of luck, Nymphadora,” Dumbledore said.

“Yeah, be careful out there,” Harry added.

“We’ll get her out of there, mate. Okay? Chin up,” Tonks said, giving Draco’s shoulder a pat.

He was looking at her like she was his only hope, and then Harry realized that she was.

Chapter Text

“Come, what do we gain by evasions? We are under the harrow and can’t escape. Reality, looked at steadily, is unbearable."

C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Harry tried to convince Draco to come to his room, but Draco was resisting. “I need Pansy,” he kept saying. Harry did not want to leave his side, though, so he talked him into fetching Parkinson instead and bringing her along. Soon, the three of them were making their way up to the Room, which was awkward, to say the least.

Parkinson was furious about the way Dumbledore and Snape had taken Narcissa against her will, and kept directing all of her cutting remarks and sharp glares at Harry, as though he was their spokesperson or something.

“He had no idea they were going to do it, Pans,” Draco said tiredly after a while. “Lay off of him, yeah?”

“Humph,” Parkinson said, scowling.

They found an ancient set of Gobstones and played a few rounds before deciding that it was better to sit and do nothing than play Gobstones, which was a terribly boring game. Draco seemed to have no interest in anything at all, seemed to be half in a trance, but Harry and Pansy were restless, so doing nothing only lasted for a short while.

They resorted to hunting through the mountains of random junk, looking for entertainment. They found some strange old books, moth-eaten robes, a Ouija board (“You thought muggles invented these? How would they even use them?” cried Parkinson), and a tiny black marble obelisk that gave off a very cursed vibe.

"This is creepy," Parkinson said, pointing to marble bust with painted-on eyes and a tarnished old tiara on its head. 

"Those eyes," Harry agreed, shuddering. "Turn it around." He settled down onto the floor next to Draco, leaning against him. "I wish you’d brought the fairy wine back with you,” 

Draco stared at him like he’d forgotten he was there. “Oh, right,” he said.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, leaning further into him. “We’ve got to try to get your mind off of this. We might not hear any news for hours yet and you’re going to drive yourself mad worrying.”

“Yeah,” he said, blinking back tears.

Shit.

“She’ll be all right, you know?” Harry said, pulling him close and petting his silken hair. “She’ll be fine. Tonks is a fucking badass, you don’t even know how tough she is.”

Draco laughed a bit hysterically into Harry’s jumper, and it was all muffled and gasping. Then he slid his arms under Harry’s, burrowing into him. “Shh,” Harry said, his hand moving to Draco’s back, stroking over the bumps of his spine. “You’re okay.”

He looked up over Draco’s shoulder and accidentally caught Parkinson’s eye. She looked surprised – well, maybe shocked was a better word – by this display of affection, and Harry expected her to say something smart, something cutting, but the expression on her face became almost tender before she stood and went back to hunting through the room, leaving them be.

At some point in the wee hours of the morning, before the sun had risen, they all fell asleep on the rug, Draco in the middle. When Harry woke, he was draped in limbs, Draco winding himself around his body, practically on top of him. Harry smiled to himself and kissed his head, and then remembered that Parkinson was there. He looked around for her, and saw that she was awake, leaning against a piece of furniture and reading one of the old books. “Hey,” he whispered.

She glanced up, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “Hello,” she whispered back. He gently disentangled himself from Draco and made his way towards her. Her eyes on him were wary, but not hostile. “Nobody’s come, huh?”

She shook her head. “No. Do they know we’re here?”

“Dumbledore will know,” Harry said, and she nodded.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

She showed him her book – something about metallurgy. “It’s not very interesting,” she said.

“I’d imagine not,” he replied.

“Potter, look,” she said, glancing up at him. “I need to know how you think this is going to turn out. I need be prepared if we’re going to have to get him through this, if…if the thing we don’t want to happen is going to happen.”

Harry let out a breath and settled in next to her on the floor. “I honestly don’t know. It’s hard to say. It’s a matter of timing, I think. If we beat the Death Eaters there, she should be fine. If they got there first, then that’s not good.”

“I cannot believe they’d do this to her,” Pansy said, shaking her head angrily. “It’s mad. She and Lucius were the ones who organized everyone upon his return. They’ve done everything he’s asked. Lucius is in bloody prison for it! It doesn’t even make sense, for fuck’s sake!”

“I think Vol – I think he likes for them to be afraid of him. I think he wants them to feel like no one is safe – not ever – so they’ll never cross him. If they oppose him in any way – even accidentally, even in small ways – they know he won’t hesitate to end them. I think Narcissa’s meant to be an example to the rest. I think that’s what this is.”

“He’s mad,” Pansy said, eyes wide. “He really is a psychopath.”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

She looked down at her knees. “I’m glad my parents didn’t join. They certainly talked about it. But they’re cowards at heart. Would rather sit on the sidelines and watch, and then kiss up to whichever side wins.”

“They’re smart,” Harry said.

She shrugged. “You’ve really got Draco all fucked up, you know that? He’s been a mess ever since taking up with you.”

“He was a mess before he took up with me,” Harry said, smiling at her. “That’s why he took up with me.”

“Well…yes, I suppose,” Pansy said. She leaned back and closed her eyes. “If you really cared about him, you’d take him away. Keep him far from all of this.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Harry said.

She cracked one eye open. “You have?”

“Course. But neither one of us would be able to leave, in the end. Draco because of his family.”

Pansy nodded. “I know,” she said. “And what about you? Why wouldn’t you be able to leave?”

He pushed his glasses back up. “Because if I don’t do this, who will?”

She stared at him. “Merlin, you really are as brave and stupid as Draco says.”

“He thinks I’m brave?” Harry asked, ignoring the stupid part.

She gave a little snort. “Oh, Potter. He thinks you’re an actual fucking hero. It’s revolting, and I’ve told him that.”

“Good, good,” Harry said, unable to keep from feeling pleased. “I’m glad you’re around to straighten him out.”

“And I’m glad you’re around to be a hero for him. Even if Draco’s sorely misguided in thinking so.”

Suddenly, there was a groan over by the rug. “Are you bints talking about me? Stop it.”

“Good morning, sunshine,” Harry called.

Pansy laughed. “Oh, he’s a horror in the mornings.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, sounding like a besotted dope.

Pansy just rolled her eyes. “I’m starving. Do they deliver breakfast up to this fucking room?”

The knock came later that morning, a brisk tap-tap-tap on the door that had suddenly reappeared. They all looked at one another and Malfoy was the first one to jump up and fling it open.

Professor McGonagall was standing on the other side, looking grave. Harry didn’t like her expression, and suddenly had the bizarre urge to freeze time, to stop it before they could get to the next part, the part that would ruin this odd happiness that had somehow pervaded the Room today, despite everything. “Come, all of you,” she said, hands clasped in front of her. “We have news.” She didn’t even remark upon Parkinson’s presence in the Room, which Harry took as another bad sign.

They followed silently, no one daring to speak. The only sounds were the clack of McGonagall’s heeled boots and Malfoy’s oxfords. Parkinson was in fuzzy slippers that made no noise and Harry was in trainers that only made the occasional squeak.

Everyone else would be in classes now, and the halls were eerily vacant and too quiet. Harry had a disturbing, bizarre notion then, that Hogwarts had been invaded without them knowing, while they’d been holed up in the Room, and everyone was gone, dead, and they were walking through a barren wasteland, a land full of ghosts. He shivered.

Professor Dumbledore and Snape were already in Dumbledore’s office, waiting for them. No Tonks, or any of the other Aurors. “Please sit,” Dumbledore said. He looked older, somehow, more fragile than he had yesterday. They all took seats, and Harry saw Parkinson gripping Draco’s hand. Harry took his other one, and Pansy gave him a tiny nod. Her eyes were hard, like she was steeling herself. Draco had gone pale again.

“Draco, I’m so sorry,” Dumbledore said, sounding more upset than Harry’d ever heard him. “We did all we could.”

“What are you saying?” snapped Pansy, scooting closer to Draco in her chair and wrapping an arm around him. He didn’t resist; he’d gone still.

Snape was shaking his head and looked close to tears. “We arrived after they did. There was a skirmish. Your mother did not survive, Draco. Nymphadora was doing her level best to protect her. But she was taken down as well.” He cleared his throat.

Harry put a hand to his stomach. “Is she –”

Snape glanced over at him, looking, for once, like he didn’t want to throttle him. “We don’t know. She was taken to St. Mungo’s.”

“But the baby,” Harry managed.

“We don’t know yet, Mr. Potter,” Snape said gently.

“Is that all?” asked Draco.  For an instant, thinking about Tonks and her cocky grin and her rainbow hair and how proudly she’s shown off her belly, Harry had nearly forgotten about him, which seemed incredible and impossible. Now, he looked and saw that Draco was straight-faced and severe. His eyes were dry, his posture perfect. “Can we go now?”

“I don’t know all that much about what happened, Draco,” Snape said. “But I can try to answer whatever questions you have. Do you have questions? We can speak privately, if you’d rather –”

“I don’t have questions,” Draco snapped. “I just want to go to my fucking room.” His face was still worryingly blank. No one – not even McGonagall – said anything about Draco’s language. They all just stared at him, horrified by the entire thing, each of them lost in guilt and despair and impotent rage.

“Yes, of course you may go to your room,” Dumbledore finally said. “Please, take all the time you need. I’ll speak with your teachers – there’s no need to worry about missing classes. We’re all so sorry, my boy. I cannot express how –”

Draco shot him a look of such blinding fury then that Harry recoiled. Dumbledore went silent at the sight of it. Draco shook off Harry and Pansy, freeing himself from their respective grips, and stood, practically vibrating with rage. Pansy and Harry leapt to their feet almost simultaneously. Harry was thinking that they mustn’t leave him alone, mustn’t let him leave their sight, and Pansy seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“Don’t,” Draco said, shooting both of them a look. “Don’t follow me.”

Pansy’s eyes were wide and worried now. “But –”

“No,” Draco said, cutting her off.

Harry found himself staring helplessly. He had no idea what to say or do. Everything he might say seemed utterly ridiculous in the face of this. Harry knew, somehow, that letting Draco go off by himself wasn’t good, that Draco probably did need them around, but he didn’t know how to say that without incurring Draco’s wrath or upsetting him even more. He didn’t know what to do at all.

Draco left the room, slamming the door behind him. “I should go after him,” Harry murmured, mostly to himself. “I should –”

“Leave it, Potter,” Pansy said. “You’ve done enough.” And with those words, Harry felt whatever good will had developed between them in the last day disappear.

He looked at her, feeling even sicker. His stomach roiled and he swallowed hard around his nausea. “Mr. Potter, why don’t I walk with you to the tower?” McGonagall said, eying him. “You might want to have a lie down.”

“Miss Parkinson,” Snape said. “A word?”

Harry let McGonagall take his arm and lead him out of the room. There was no sign of Draco in the halls. “Harry, I can’t imagine how you must feel,” she began, looking at him with such compassion he felt his eyes well up.

“Parkinson’s right,” he said. “It’s my fault.”

“Oh, no,” McGonagall said, squeezing his arm with hers. “Harry, no.” She stopped and faced him, her eyes on his, and took him by the shoulders. “Please don’t think that. You’ve done everything you could to help that poor boy and his mother.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “You did. I’m of the opinion – and Professor Snape, who would know, is as well – that she was marked from the moment Lucius Malfoy was arrested. It was only a matter of time, I think. All the others were envious of the Malfoys’ position with You-Know-Who, and Narcissa Malfoy…well, she was left totally vulnerable without her husband. They saw an opportunity and they pounced. I think it would have happened one way or another, Harry.”

“You can’t know that,” he said. He wiped absently at his cheeks. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“I swear I’m not,” she said.

Harry chose that moment to lose his shit, which was incredibly embarrassing, but he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stem the tide of his tears. “Is Tonks going to be okay?” he gasped, hating himself for falling apart.

“We don’t know,” McGonagall said. “She was alive when they brought her in, although her injuries were extensive, according to the Healers. As soon as we get word, I’ll let you know.” She studied his face and gave his cheek a tentative pat.

It was the most physically affectionate she’d ever been – she wasn’t that sort of person, not anything like Molly Weasley, for instance, who’d never met a child she didn’t immediately clasp to her bosom. Coming from McGonagall, a cheek pat was rather significant. She must really be worried for him, which made him feel guilty all over again. “Harry, we have to hope for the best,” she said. “In times like these, hope is a necessity. Without it, we are totally lost.”

“I know,” he said, privately thinking that ship had sailed. The best hadn’t happened. It was all pretty shite, and might only get worse from here on out.

“We’ll get through this. We will. But for now, you must be strong, even if you don’t feel very strong. Mr. Malfoy is going to need you.”

“He won’t even talk to me,” Harry mumbled.

“He will. When he’s ready, he will.”

Harry sighed, and they set off down the hall again. When they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, Harry suddenly stopped. “I don’t know that I want to sit around in my room by myself.” He realized that he didn’t. He really, really didn’t. The thought of being alone right now made him want to claw his own eyes out.

“Then have a quick shower and get to class,” McGonagall said. “I think seeing Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger might do you some good.”

He nodded. Yes. He would talk to Ron and Hermione about this. It was past time for him to come clean with Ron anyway. He hadn’t meant for it to, but this thing with Malfoy had put a wedge between them. Hermione too, although less since she’d discovered the truth. He needed them so much all of a sudden that it made his heart ache. “Yeah, I think I will.”

“Then I’ll see you in Transfiguration,” McGonagall said. She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Best hurry, Mr. Potter.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, and turned to the portrait.

Chapter Text

“It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.”
― Lemony Snicket, Horseradish

When Draco was young, his mother allowed him to help with the flowers. Most of the landscaping had been managed by house elves, but the flowers were his mother’s domain. She had a wildflower garden, sprawling and fragrant, the air thick with butterflies and the ground crisscrossed with gravel pathways.

The rose garden was what she had been known for, her green thumb landing her spreads in The Prophet and Witch Weekly’s Lifestyle sections. She gave tours to groups of pureblooded ladies and their daughters, even lectured to gardening clubs on occasion.

But her favorite was the orchid garden. It was much smaller, since the flowers, used to more tropical climates, required a greenhouse. It was tucked away at the edge of the property, past the wildflowers. The roses were for the public, for visitors. The orchids were for her alone. Draco, so far as he knew, was the only one she’d ever let inside.

Draco could still remember what it had been like to trail in after her, watching her elegant form stride confidently ahead in khaki trousers (the only time she ever wore anything but dresses and robes was when she was gardening) and boots, her blond hair in a braid down her back. She would push through the door to the greenhouse and usher him in, and the wall of humidity would hit him squarely in the face, along with the cacophony of smells.

Unlike roses, which all smelled, well, like roses, orchids could smell like just about anything. Some smelled like oranges, some like honey. Some had a spicy bite to them, and some smelled like sweet, like vanilla or coconut. There was even one red-and-white variety that had a strong chocolate scent. There were a few varieties that gave off an armoa that was absolutely disgusting, and when Draco asked his mother why she kept them, she said she wanted to get to know them, the good and the bad. “It takes all kinds to make a proper garden,” she’d say.

Different sorts of orchids required different things. Some needed to be shaded by little trees or hedges, while some liked more direct sunlight. Some liked to crawl up posts or onto branches, while some grew straight up from the ground. They came in so many colors and shapes that it was difficult to comprehend how they were all related. Draco’s mother would walk through the rows, pointing out what each plant was called and what it needed to thrive, laughing when Draco said that one smelled like a biscuit or that one looked like a little dancing lady.

Draco and his mother both ran cold, always complaining of a chill or pulling on jumpers and thick socks around the house, so the greenhouse suited them quite well. They’d spend hours inside, his mother talking quietly to Draco or her plants, Draco dreaming and winding his way through rows, fingers trailing over soft petals, always keeping his mother’s shining head in sight.

The first few nights after she was killed, Draco dreamt of the greenhouse. He dreamt of the heavy, humid air, the dappled sunlight, the dreamy slowness that governed time on the inside. He dreamt of her, of her blond braid, her graceful hands wielding gardening shears or pulling on the leather gloves she donned to dig into the soil. He dreamt of her voice, the private jokes they shared about the flowers, the way she indulged his fancies back then.

It hurt to wake from these dreams, but it was so sweet to be back there with her, surrounded by those beautiful, lush flowers, surrounded by his mother’s love for them and for him. If he’d been able stay asleep forever, lost in that dream, he would have chosen to never wake up at all.

“Hello, darling,” Pansy said, letting herself into his room. He wasn’t sure what day it was – day three, perhaps, or four. They’d all bled together, a monotonous parade of comings and goings, doors shutting and opening. Draco had not opened his curtains, but other people had opened them to peek in. Greg and Vince and Blaise all checked on him periodically, and Pansy visited with relentless devotion. Potter had stayed away. Whether that was by choice or because Pansy was policing the room, Draco couldn’t say.

And honestly, he didn’t care. He cared about very little at the moment. Nothing seemed relevant, or at least nothing except for the glaring emptiness in the world where she had been.

The curtains opened and the greenish light of the lake slipped into Draco’s little cave. “Are we getting up today?” Pansy asked.

“No,” Draco said, curling up around a pillow. “I’m tired.”

She sighed. “Darling, you’ve got to get out of this bed at some point. You're starting to smell.”

“What does it matter?” he mumbled.

Pansy’s cool, soft hand stroked his cheek. “Draco, please. Take a shower, come to supper with me.”

“No,” he said. “Bring some up here if you want. I’ll eat a bit.”

“You need to get up,” she said.

“I don’t. Dumbledore said I could take as long as I liked.”

“Dumbledore doesn’t give a single flying fuck about you. I do. I give many fucks, in fact. And I think you need to get out of this bed. This can’t be good for you.”

Draco blinked against the light.

He couldn’t. It was so far to the shower, and he was so tired. Tired, and, at the same time, he had frequent flashes of something that felt like fear. It wasn’t fear, but it felt similar. It would make his heart start beating fast when he wasn’t expecting it, make his insides twist without warning, make him feel short of breath. “I don’t want to see anyone. They’re going to look at me like they’re…like they’re sad for me. No one will know what to say, and it will all be horribly embarrassing.”

“So what, you’re never going to leave this spot? Have you even gone to the bathroom?”

“Of course I’ve gone to the bathroom, sweet Salazar,” Draco groused.

“Oh, I thought maybe you’d just been going in here and vanishing it, seeing as though you've decided to be gross now."

“Fuck off, I have not,” he said. “I just haven’t gone to the showers.”

“Well, you absolutely need to. And you need to move a little. Stand up for a while. At this rate, your limbs are going to atrophy.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing an arm and yanking.

“Ow, stop it.”

“No, I won’t,” she said. “I’ve given you four days in here. At this point, it’s doing more harm than good.”

Somehow, she managed to pull his legs over the side, and then snatched at his arm again, and suddenly he found himself on his feet. He wavered, dizzy. She shoved a towel and a shower basket at him. “Go. Seriously, go. Or I will drag you in there and bathe you myself, and I know you don’t want that.”

He let out a breath and decided he might as well. If he did, she’d leave him alone. “Fine,” he said, and made his way out into the hall and to the boys’ showers.

He didn’t really want to be alone, but he also didn’t want to talk to anyone. It didn’t make sense; some part of him realized this. He felt best when his roommates were in the room, moving about, talking quietly, but leaving him alone. He liked being distracted by their presence, liked feeling like he was part of things without actually being part of them.

It was just that it was so difficult to talk to anyone. They all looked at him with those sad eyes and asked – so carefully – how he was. They all said sorry a million times, and patted his back and then resorted to ridiculous cliches like, “She’s in a better place,” or “She’d want you to carry on.” As if they had any fucking clue what she’d want. His mother hadn’t been an easy person to know. Draco had lived with her most of his life and only occasionally felt like he understood her, and knew, even in those moments, that he did not understand her completely.

And now, he would never get to learn the rest.

As he cleaned up, he thought about their last conversation. He hated thinking about it. Hated remembering how disappointed, how almost disgusted she’d seemed. And then they’d taken her away.

Her body was being kept under stasis at another safe house, kept until his father was able to collect her. No one had given Draco the choice to get her. Not that he particularly wanted to. Where would he even bury her? It wasn’t like he could go to the Manor at the moment, seeing as it had been taken over by the Death Eaters. No, he supposed it was better to wait until his father was able to take her there, and bury her where she belonged.

Merlin, his father. He had no idea whether his father knew. He was afraid to write him, afraid of what he’d say. Because Draco had failed her, but he’d also failed him. And he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his father would hold it against him.

And perhaps he ought to. It was Draco’s fault, really. It was Draco who’d told Potter everything, Draco who’d panicked and asked Dumbledore to intervene. If Draco had just kept the fuck out of it, she’d still be alive.

Alive, instead of whatever she was now. Unreachable. Untouchable. Gone.

He didn’t know how people ever believed their loved ones were still with them once they died. Even with the portraits, it wasn’t really the person; it was just their shadow. Unless someone stuck around as a ghost, they were just…gone.

Or, at least, it certainly didn’t feel like his mother had stuck around. He didn’t feel her presence, or have the sense that she was watching over him. He felt nothing. If she was somewhere else, if she did still exist in some form, she was much too far away for him to reach.

He let his thoughts peter out, and was left with that horrible gnawing emptiness again. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to push it away or fill it, or do anything he could to stop feeling it. But it seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his chest.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but at some point, the water went cold and he had to cast a warming spell at it, and eventually that wore off and it went cold again. Still he stayed there, like he was stuck to the floor. Finally, when he couldn’t quite feel his fingers anymore, he got out, shivering and toweling off.

He made his way back to his room, then slipped on a clean set of flannel pajamas and clean wool socks. He was still freezing, so he cast another warming spell at himself. No one was around; Pansy must have gone to supper without him. He’d kept her waiting a long time.

He crawled into his bed and curled up on his side. He wanted to break free from his body, from his mind. He wanted to go far, far away, but couldn’t even wrap his head around standing up again.

Perhaps he'd manage to sleep again. He wanted to sleep again. He wanted to dream of the greenhouse.

It was so much better than this.

Harry waited for Parkinson after supper, pulling her aside as she exited the Great Hall. “I want to see him,” he said.

He was at his wits’ end. The last few days had been long and tortuous. He’d told Ron about everything, and Ron had responded in typical Ron fashion. First, he’d assumed it was a joke, and then he’d gotten himself worked up to a fury, calling Harry several choice names before stomping away. Since then, things between them had been cool, Ron not exactly ignoring Harry, but not acting like himself, either.

“Why did you feel the need to tell him now?” Hermione had asked. “Things are so messed up at the moment. You hardly needed another problem.”

Harry had shrugged, knowing it didn’t entirely make sense. “Because I needed him. And you. I needed my friends.”

Hermione had looked at him with big, sad eyes and hugged him tightly. “Oh, Harry,” she’d said. “I’m sorry he’s being such a prat about it.”

“He thinks I betrayed him,” Harry said.

Hermione sighed. “Let him work through some of this and then try to explain it to him like you explained it to me. He’ll come around.”

But he hadn’t, not yet, nor had Draco, who had been locked in his room, under the guard of his friends.

“Why do you want to see him?” Pansy asked Harry now. She seemed frazzled, her typically perfect bob a little messy, shadows under her eyes.

Because I’m going to go mad if I don’t, Harry thought. “We have to do something for Dumbledore, but Draco needs more information before we go. I’m supposed to explain it to him,” he said.

This did not appear to be the right thing to say at all. Harry could see Parkinson’s hackles rise as soon as the words left his mouth. Her body went rigid, her eyes narrowed to little slits. “I don’t fucking think so. If that old bastard tries to make Draco serve as an errand boy now, while he’s going through this, I swear to Circe I will kill him myself!”

He felt his body sort of sag, like a balloon that had popped and was caving in on itself, deflating. “Please, Pansy,” he said, sounding truly desperate, which he supposed he was. “I haven’t seen him at all, and I really need to see him. I’m going fucking mad, okay? I’m so worried about him and I miss him.” He sucked in a breath. “Look, I won’t talk to him about that stuff if he doesn’t want me to. I won’t talk to him about anything, if that’s what he wants. I just really want to see him. Please, for fuck’s sake.”

She seemed to sag then, too, her sudden fury slipping away, leaving her looking pale and exhausted. “Yes, okay. Come on.”

They found Draco in bed, curled up on his side, passed out. “Let him sleep,” Pansy whispered.

“I will,” Harry whispered back.

She nodded and swept out of the room, closing the door behind her. Harry crept over to the bed and looked down at Draco, so happy to see him that he wanted to cry. He was afraid to disobey Pansy and wake him by touching him too much, so he slid under the covers and inched towards him slowly, until he was wrapped around him, breathing in his familiar scent, which was just now slightly stale. Harry didn’t care. He let himself drift, and then somehow, probably because he’d been sleeping horribly, fell asleep too.

When he woke up, he was still wrapped around Draco, and Draco was awake, staring up at the top of the canopy.“I tried to see you. Before today, I mean," Harry said, and Draco turned to him, surprised. "Today was the first day Pansy let me.”

“Oh,” he said. “I told her I wanted to be alone.”

Harry found himself getting angry at that, and then realized that Draco hadn’t actually said it cruelly. He’d said it in a weird monotone that Harry didn’t quite know how to interpret. “Why didn't you tell her to make an exception for me?” he asked hesitantly.

“I don’t know,” Draco said. “I just…didn’t.”

Okay. That was fine. Harry needed to get the fuck over it and say what needed to be said. “Draco, I’m so –”

“Don’t. Please don’t say you’re sorry. If one more person says that, I’m going to fucking scream.”

Harry closed his mouth and looked at Draco’s profile. “What do you want me to say, then?” he said after a beat.

“Anything,” Draco said, turning to him. “Anything but that. Talk about something stupid. Shouldn't be difficult.”

Harry felt all wrong. Draco’s flat, irritable tone hurt, and his sarcasm hurt. They hadn't been together in days, and it felt like he didn't even want Harry there. Harry wondered if he ought to just leave. 

And then he remembered that grief didn't always look the way you thought it would. And he remembered that Draco was a complicated person, who didn't have the easiest time processing or expressing what he felt. And then he realized he had no idea how Draco must feel, how fucking horrible this must be for him. And, most importantly, he remembered that this wasn't actually about him at all; it was about Draco, and being there for him.

Right now, it was his job to be whatever Draco needed. And if Draco wanted him to talk about ‘stupid things’, then Harry could do that. And if Draco was a little shitty, Harry could, just this once, let it roll off of him. “I’m supposed to talk to you about You-Know-Who before our outing with Dumbledore,” he finally said. “It’s coming up, if you still want to do it. I’m sure you wouldn’t be expected to if you didn’t want to.” He kissed Draco's pale cheek, and Draco’s grey eyes flitted over to his.

“Go ahead, then. Tell me,” Draco said.

“Have you ever heard the name Tom Riddle?” Harry asked.

Draco shook his head.

“Okay, we’ll start there.”

Draco settled in against him and listened, not speaking all that much. He asked a question or two, but sometimes he seemed to drift. Harry kept talking, figuring he could explain it again later if Draco didn't remember. He smoothed his hand over Draco’s hair, and kissed his cheeks, and Draco let him. He supposed that was a good thing. He tried to count it as a good thing, anyway.

Then, suddenly, when Harry’s voice was practically gone from yapping so much, Draco grabbed his face and kissed him hard, a hot, dirty kiss with plenty of tongue. And then, before Harry could even react to that, he was climbing onto Harry's lap and straddling him.

“Erm. We don’t have to do this,” Harry said, looking up at him. “Honestly. I'm fine with just talking. Whatever you need is fine.”

“Oh, would you shut up?” Draco said. He was feverish, suddenly, his hands sliding into Harry’s trousers. “Take these off, will you? And touch me.”

“Uh, sure?” Harry said, reeling. “But are you okay? You're okay, right?”

“Yes, Potter, I'm fucking fine.” He kissed Harry again, hard, and Harry struggled out of his trousers and slid Draco’s pajama trousers down in one fell swoop.

“Shirt,” Draco said, wild-eyed as he yanked at Harry’s button-up. It was big, so Harry was able to slide it over his head after undoing the top button. He cast it aside and then they were touching everywhere, bare skinned from top to bottom. Harry closed his eyes, overcome by the sensation and the closeness, by Draco's perfect weight.

Draco kissed him and kissed him, grinding against him frantically, and Harry let him. He decided he would let Draco do anything he wanted. He would let himself be used, if that’s what this was, and he would talk when Draco wanted him to talk, and he’d be quiet when Draco wanted him to be quiet.

They both came much too quickly (it had been nearly a week, after all) and afterward, Draco collapsed against him and buried his face in Harry's neck,

And then he burst into tears.

Harry held him close, having no fucking clue what was happening, but knowing he needed to help him ride this out.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry asked.

“No,” Draco said, sucking in a shuddering breath, his tears pouring over Harry’s chest.

“Okay,” Harry said. "S'fine."

“W-what the f-fuck would I even say?” he managed.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “Anything you wanted to say.”

“I d-don’t want to say anything,” Draco said.

“Then don’t,” Harry said.

“My father’s going to – going to k-kill me when he gets out. F-fucking kill me.”

Harry wanted to argue, wanted to say no, of course he wouldn’t, but something told him to keep quiet.

“If only I hadn’t asked Dumbledore to – to intercede,” he said. “It’s my f-fault, Harry.”

“No,” Harry said, unable to stay quiet. “It’s not.”

Draco’s chest heaved and he shuddered. “How am I supposed to do this?”

Harry was quiet for a moment, not sure if this was rhetorical. Then, he said, “Get through one day and then the next. That's all you have to do.”

Draco stared at him, looking so lost it nearly cracked Harry’s heart in two. “I don’t think I can.”

“You’ve already done it. You’ve gotten through some of the worst of it already.”

Draco shook his head. “But I don’t want it to get better. I deserve to feel like this.”

“Draco, no. You don’t.”

He pressed his face into Harry’s skin, almost painfully. “I miss her,” he croaked.

“I know,” Harry said. He kissed his hair. “I know.”

Chapter Text

“It was quite impossible, he found, to ask to be delivered from temptation when your heart’s desire was to be tempted unto seventy times seven.”
― Thomas Hardy, Jude the Obscure 

Harry was disoriented when he opened his eyes and saw swaths of green (instead of red) highlighted by the sunlight streaming through the cracks in the curtains. Then he remembered where he was and why he was there, remembered Draco’s distress, and the fact that he’d confided in Harry. He’d let Harry see him broken. He’d pushed aside his pride – which was no small matter, Harry knew – and let Harry in.

Harry snaked an arm around him and breathed in the smell of his hair, feeling awestruck by this development. It felt so good – almost perversely good. Surely Harry shouldn’t be feeling so chuffed about it. Not when it had, undoubtedly, been terrible for Draco. But Harry did; he felt a warm glow in his chest just thinking about it. He felt needed; special. He hated himself for having these feelings, but he felt them all the same.

“Potter, do you remember our first flying lesson?”

Harry startled. He hadn’t realized Draco was awake. “Erm, yeah. You were being a complete tosser.”

Draco chuckled. “I was. And you were being your usual bull-headed, heroic self.”

“You threw Neville’s Rememberall! You were going to break it!”

“True,” Draco replied. “But as I recall, nobody else seemed to think they had to put their lives on the line rescue the damn thing.”

Harry pinched at his waist. “Yeah, well, I got it, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Draco said, looking up at him. He looked sleepy, but more like himself than he had before they’d fallen asleep, like some of the life had returned to him.  He kissed Harry’s mouth and then his eyes flickered over Harry’s face again. “I think that was the moment I started to hate you, I mean, like, really hate you.”

Harry frowned. “That’s lovely, thanks.”

“Because you were fucking brilliant. You’d never flown before and you caught the Rememberall like you’d been playing Seeker for years. I’d been flying since before I could walk, and I couldn’t have done what you did. I watched you fly, and I thought I’d never seen anything so perfect. I wanted you so much it hurt.” He laughed at Harry’s incredulous expression. “Not like…not like naked or anything. I just wanted to be, I don’t know, connected to you. Friends with you. Something. Maybe I wanted to be you; I don’t really know. I just knew it hurt that you were so incredible and yet wanted nothing to do with me.” He chewed his lip and scratched at Harry’s chest hair. “But you looked at me when I acted like an arse. That day, and after. You looked at me, and only me.”

“Because I wanted to murder you, you git,” Harry said, laughing.

“I know,” Draco said with a little crooked smile. “But still. It was better than nothing.”

Harry thought about this. He understood, sort of. He’d been obsessed with Malfoy for a long time before that first day in the Room. More interested in him than almost anything else, especially this year, but even before that.

And those moments of taunting one another had always been charged, almost electric, leaving him full of adrenaline, positively trembling with it. It had always been different from, say, the way Harry felt when battling it out with Snape or Umbridge, which always left him feeling sour and exhausted. Harry wasn’t sure what that meant, if it was some sort of early attraction that he hadn’t recognized or simply that Malfoy had always known exactly how to get under his skin. “Why’re you thinking about that, of all things?” Harry asked.

“I’m not sure,” Draco said. “I woke up thinking about it.” He paused, like he was trying to decide whether to keep going. “You know,” he said after a moment, “my mother told me that I should befriend you, when we heard you were going to be in my year.”

“She did?” Harry asked, surprised.

Draco nodded. “She thought it would be beneficial to me. To our family. That was before we knew You-Know-Who could be brought back.” He kissed Harry’s chest, then sucked in a breath. “That day in Dumbledore’s office, she told me…” He gulped, and Harry saw his Adam’s apple bob in his long throat. “She told me to string you along. That I should use your affection to keep myself safe in the event your side won.”

Harry stilled. “Oh.” What the fuck?

“I never told her how I felt about you. I wish I would have. I wish she’d known.”

This made him feel slightly better, but only slightly. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her we could trust you because you cared about me.”

“Well,” Harry said. He supposed that wasn’t so bad. “I did. I do.”

“But I care about you, too, and that makes everything murkier.”

“Interesting way to look at it.”

“It’s the truth. If I didn’t, I could manage you much more easily. But I do, so I find myself acting on impulse instead of just…being smart about things.”

Harry studied Malfoy’s face, his prominent cheekbones and his sharp jaw, his bright eyes and pale lashes. He was laying himself bare, Harry realized. Not only telling Harry how he felt, but how he processed those feelings, how they interacted with everything else inside of him. It wasn’t wholly pretty, but it was real; more honest than almost anything he ever said. “And?” Harry prompted.

“And nothing. It is what it is. I can hardly stop feeling this way now,” Draco said with a little huff.

“You make it sound like it’s a curse.”

“Isn’t it? In a way?”

Harry sat up. “I don’t think it is, actually. I think it’s rather the opposite.”

“A blessing, then?” Malfoy laughed.

“I suppose so,” Harry said. “Don’t know why that’s funny.”

Malfoy sobered up quickly, blinking at him. “I guess it’s not.” He closed his eyes tightly, his brow furrowing. “You know, I still wish I was you, sometimes,” he said without opening them. “And not because I think everything is perfect for you anymore. I know it’s not. But I wish I could look at things the way you look at them. See the good. Instead, I always see what’s wrong. I see the problems, the ugly shit.”

Harry reached down and slid his knuckles over Draco’s cheek, and his eyes did open then, a dark, smoky grey in the dim light. “You’ve gone through something awful. You’re allowed to see problems.”

Draco shook his head. “No. Before this. Always. It’s the way I think. It’s just how I am.”

“You’re careful. You’re shrewd. It’s a good thing, I reckon,” Harry said. “Especially with the war right in front of us.”

Draco sighed. “Do you think he ever felt like me? You-Know-Who, I mean? Did he become what he is because he always saw the problems? The things he lacked? Because he could never just appreciate what he had, or see the good in other people?”

Harry considered this. He’d often wondered how Voldemort had become what he’d become, especially this year, after seeing those memories. He was aware that he and Voldemort had a lot in common, and that had always unnerved him, of course, but also left him wondering why they’d turned out so differently. “I think he was a very angry person who thought life had cheated him. And I think he never learned to care about other people, either, because no one had ever bothered to care about him. So, you’re different in those respects. People have always cared about you, and you care about other people.”

“Yes,” he said, blinking over at Harry. “But I get jealous – probably too often. I feel cheated, the way you said he did.”

“You’re not like him,” Harry said, feeling a rush of indignation on Draco’s behalf. “You’re not. You’re not evil.”

Draco nodded and was quiet for a while, settling his head on Harry’s chest. After long minutes, he spoke again. “I’m going to get him for what he did to her. I’m going to get him before this is over.”

“You-Know-Who?”

“Yes,” Malfoys said, deadly serious. “I’m going to crush him. We’ll crush him.”

Harry felt his own losses wash over him, then. His parents. Sirius. Everyone who was supposed to take care of him and love him - gone, thanks to Voldemort. The monster who took and took and took, decimating everything in his path, destructive as a hurricane. He took Draco’s hand and held it. “We will,” he said. “I swear we will.”

“Remind me why I’m doing this?” Ron said, clomping up the stairs to the seventh floor behind Harry.

“Because he’s with us now. And we need to figure out how to get Slughorn to give me his memory, and Draco’s smart. He might be able to help us come up with a plan.”

Ron groaned. “Merlin, I hate when you call him Draco. It’s so fucking weird. And I’m not sure whether I’m more upset about seeing him or seeing Hermione. You wouldn’t believe how mean she was to me at breakfast.”

“I believe it,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “I believe it because I was there. Break up with Lavender, you idiot. Then you can go ahead and be with Hermione and stop all this damn fighting!”

“S’not that easy,” Ron grumbled. “I’d like to see you try breaking up with Lavender.”

“I wasn’t stupid enough to date her in the first place,” Harry mumbled, pacing in front of the empty expanse of wall three times. Ron’s mouth fell open when the door appeared. “Cool, right?” Harry said.

“Wicked,” Ron agreed. “What is it?”

“Called the Room of Requirement. It seems to become whatever you need it to become.” He ushered Ron in.

Draco and Hermione were already inside, talking something over with matching serious expressions. “Oh, hey,” said Hermione, offering Harry a smile and glaring at Ron.

“Hey,” Harry said, looking back and forth between Ron and Draco nervously.

“Weasley,” Draco said, nodding.

“Malfoy,” Ron said, nodding back.

Harry let out a breath. That was better than he’d hoped. No warm fuzzies, but they weren’t starting off with fists or curses, which was excellent.

Ron crossed his arms. “So, we’re supposed to figure out how to get Slughorn to cough up a memory, eh?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’ve been trying to talk to him after class. But I think he knows I’m trying to catch him alone. He keeps running off.”

“What about, like, casting an Imperius on him or something?” Ron asked.

“Might work,” Harry said quietly. “As a last resort.” He emphatically did not want to do this, but it had crossed his mind.

“What? No! Absolutely not!” Hermione exclaimed.

“I’m with Granger,” Draco said. “An Imperius would be illegal, not to mention, really, horribly wrong.”

Hermione looked at him, surprised. “It most certainly would be. And I don’t know how to cast one,” she admitted.

“I do,” Draco said, mouth twisting like he was tasting something sour. “I’ve done it once, but only because I was forced to. It’s awful.”

“Who'd you do it to? And what did you make them do?” Ron asked, looking extremely curious. Harry, who also very much wanted to know, could empathize.

“Ronald!” cried Hermione. “We’re not doing an Imperius! Now stop being nosy and focus!”

Harry met Draco’s eyes and saw a spark of amusement there. “Maybe we could use Veritaserum, though? Slip some into his tea?” Draco asked.

“That's not a bad idea, but I don't know how we'd get our hands on a vial of it,” Hermione said. “It's highly regulated. And besides, he might realize it was in there. He is a potions master after all. He might be able to tell.”

“Oh, good point. Didn't think of that,” Malfoy said.

Ron’s brow was furrowed, his mouth drawn up to one side. “Erm. We could all try to corner him after class. Group pressure?”

“No, he’d make an excuse and run off,” Harry replied.

“Harry, Dumbledore asked you to do this,” Hermione said, her fingers tapping on a nearby table as she spoke. “You, specifically. If all it required was simply a serum or a spell, anybody could've done it. He picked you because he thinks you can convince Slughorn.”

Ron was nodding. “Slughorn does love you, Harry,” he said.

“Oh, Salazar, does he ever,” Draco agreed, rolling his eyes.

“Well, it’s only because –” Hermione began and then stopped abruptly, her mouth snapping shut.

“What?” Draco asked.

“Oh, nothing,” she said, eyes flickering over to Harry.

“He already knows about the Prince,” Harry said.

“Oh, that, yeah,” Draco said. “Potter’s been cheating all year, surprise surprise. It’s not like we actually thought he’d gotten better at Potions than you, Granger.”

Hermione laughed. “Thank you! I feel vindicated.”

Harry glared at them both. “I don’t see how making fun of me is helping.”

“It’s helping Hermione emotionally,” Draco said, and he and Hermione laughed again, and even Ron joined in. “Salazar, you even won a vial of Felix at the start of the year because of that book. You bloody cheater.”

They all laughed again and Harry made a rude gesture at them.

Suddenly, Hermione gasped. “Harry! That’s it! You could use the Felix to get Slughorn to give you the memory!”

Harry nodded, the idea taking shape in his head. It felt solid, like it might just work. 

“Granger, that’s perfect!!” Draco exclaimed, grinning.

Hermione stared at Draco in surprise once again, and Harry watched as her cheeks pinked up. “Oh, yes, well," she said, looking pleased. "Thankfully you brought it up, or I wouldn’t have remembered it at all."

Ron raised an eyebrow at Harry and Harry shrugged. It was weird as hell that the other two were getting along, but he wasn’t complaining.

“I’ll fetch the bottle and bring it back here, drink it now,” Harry said. No time like the present, and Dumbledore had waited on this for a long time already.

“Maybe at supper, Harry,” Hermione said. “That way Slughorn won’t be in a class.”

“Yes, fine,” Harry said. “At supper. I’ll try to catch him afterward.”

“I’ll help, if you’d like,” Draco said, looking at him. Harry wanted to agree, but he knew Slughorn didn’t love Draco, and might clam up with him around.

“That’d be great,” Harry said. “Unless the Felix tells me otherwise, yeah, you can come with.”

“Hey, Malfoy,” Ron said, kicking at the stone floor. Draco glanced over at him, and Harry found himself tensing up again, waiting for Ron to drop some sort of awful bomb on this perfectly pleasant conversation. “I’m sorry about your mum, by the way. S’really terrible.”

Harry was positively shocked by this, although he tried not to look it. “Thank you, Weasley,” Draco said a bit formally, and Ron nodded. There was an awkward silence that followed, punctuated only by Hermione clearing her throat.

“So, Harry, should we all take some? Or just you?” she finally asked.

“We get to take some of the Felix, too?” Draco asked, looking hopeful.

“Maybe, maybe,” Harry replied, laughing. “I’ll take it first and see what I think.”

“That's a good idea, I guess,” Draco said. Harry decided he liked being able to put off these decisions and let Felix make them.

“I really want to take some. It’s amazing. You feel like you could do anything!” Ron exclaimed.

“You didn’t actually drink any,” Hermione reminded him. It was true; he’d only thought that Harry’d given him some. And just that – the notion that he was going to be lucky – had caused him to play the best game of Quidditch of his life.

“Yeah, but still. I felt like I had, and it was awesome.”

“When was this?” Draco asked.

“Oh, earlier this year,” Harry said vaguely, suddenly apprehensive. Draco might not play Quidditch anymore, but he took it very seriously and this might really piss him off.

Ron burst out laughing. “It was before the match against Slytherin!”

Harry gave him his worst glare. “What? If he’s your boyfriend, he ought to know!” Ron said.

Harry glanced over at Malfoy, who had a small smile playing over his lips. “If I’d been Seeker then, I’d be very upset right now. As it is, I don’t really care. I enjoy that the entire team now realizes I carried their arses for years.”

“You kinda did,” Harry said. “The rest of the team is shite.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron said. “They really are. You were the only thing they had going for them.”

“Thank you, Weasel,” Draco said, smirking. “I know.”

Draco returned to his room later that night feeling torn. He’d wanted to try the Felix, but the Felix had convinced Harry that he should go alone to Hagrid’s hut. Draco didn’t much want to see Hagrid anyway, since the man undoubtedly hated him. And besides, he was exhausted. Being part of the world again after his week of lying in bed was tiring. And putting his best face forward for Granger and Weasley had also taken a lot out of him. They’d been surprisingly nice, although he knew part of this might be attributable to the fact that his mother had just died. They were decent sorts, the type who would be influenced by something like that.

He didn’t want to think about his mother, though. He didn’t want to get overwhelmed with it again. He had more control over his mind than most people his age; he used it then, to push her as far away as he could.

Instead, he thought of Harry, and how he was likely charming Slughorn at that very moment. Having Slughorn’s memory would help propel it all forward, help them solve the remaining mysteries surrounding the Horcruxes.

Draco wondered if his parents knew about them. If anyone knew about them. Draco wouldn’t have been surprised to know that nobody did. The Dark Lord kept his cards close to his chest. Admitting what he’d done would leave him vulnerable. So no, he’d likely not shared it with anyone.

Draco was thrilled to be going with Dumbledore and Harry in the next few days to witness Dumbledore bludgeoning one of the damn things. Its destruction would bring them that much closer to the Dark Lord’s demise.

He was fine with letting the others bash the Horcruxes to smithereens, he supposed, although he’d be more than happy to do it for them. But when it came to that final blow, the one to the Dark Lord himself, Draco wanted to be there. He wanted to be the one to deliver it. Together with Harry, since Harry needed it too. He pictured them striking out against him together, casting something painful and horrible at him. He could imagine him crumpling into a withered heap on the floor, deflating like a balloon, his wretched face sinking in on itself.

He wouldn’t die, like a person, because he wasn’t one. And in a way, that was too bad, because Draco would give anything to see him bleed out. But he might not even have blood in his body at this point. Who knew?

But still, to watch him die, really die, to watch him realize that he had no more Horcruxes, no more strongholds keeping him tethered to the earth, would be enough.

Draco could hardly wait.

He smelled smoke and cool night air and whiskey when Potter slipped into his bed later that night. “I did it,” he said, almost giddy. “I did it, and Dumbledore and I watched it. We think he has six Horcruxes. Seven pieces of his soul, if you count the sliver still inside him. Dumbledore says two have already been destroyed – the diary was one, if you can believe it. The diary your father gave Ginny. And there was a ring. So now there are only five, and we’re to go tomorrow to take on one more.”

Draco let this news sink into his bones. He felt lighter, hearing it. He looked up at Harry, at the fierce expression on his face. “You’re brilliant,” he whispered, sitting up and pushing Harry down onto the pillows. He slid over him and kissed him. “Fucking brilliant.”

Harry, undoubtedly still buzzing from Felix and the triumphant rush of getting what he’d wanted, kissed him back just as furiously, pulling at him. Harry was hard almost instantly; Draco could feel it against his hip.

Draco yanked at Harry’s oversized jumper, and then at his jeans. He was only in pajama trousers, which Harry managed to rid him of in short order. Then it was all warm skin; his favorite feeling in the world. “Merlin, Harry,” he breathed. “I can’t believe you did it.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, smiling. “Honestly didn’t know if I could.”

“I knew it,” Draco said. “You’re a fucking brilliant –” he kissed him with plenty of tongue and let his hand skirt over Harry’s cock – “fucking too-powerful bastard, and I knew you would do it.”

Harry groaned and closed his eyes, his sooty lashes dark against his cheeks. “God, you feel good.”

“This is nothing,” Draco said, his voice soft. “This is only the start of what I could make you feel.” He pulled at Harry’s cock and bit at one of his dark nipples. “I could take you apart piece by piece if you’d let me. I could make you come so hard you’d pass out.”

“Draco, you cannot say that shit,” Harry murmured.

“And why not?”

“Because I’ll come before you do anything to me at all,” he said, laughing.

Draco shifted, sitting on Harry’s cock and then moving over it slowly, feeling it against his bollocks and his arse. He kissed Harry’s soft mouth, biting at his full lower lip, then reached to the edge of his mattress.

“What is it?” Harry asked, squinting up at his hand.

Draco didn’t answer, just spread the thin, slippery stuff between his thighs. Harry watched with wide eyes, his cock jumping on one occasion when Draco reached around to get some near his arse cheeks. He lay down next to Harry, facing away from him, and yanked at Harry’s arm, turning him so that Harry’s cock was at his arse.

“Draco –”  

“Hush,” he said, taking Harry’s prick in hand and moving it between his thighs. “I’m not trying to get you to fuck me. Yet. Just…just like this.”

Harry moved a little and groaned in Draco’s ear. “Fuck. Oh fuck, that’s good.”

“I can’t promise that I won’t be imagining that you’re fucking me though. Just so you know,” Draco said.

A little huff of a laugh, warm all over Draco’s neck, followed by a kiss there that had Draco shivering. Harry’s cock was hard between his legs, throbbing and hot, and Draco felt like he was on fire. He moved his arse closer, arching his back, and Harry settled a firm hand on his hip and then turned his face to the side so they were kissing again.

And then Harry started to move, his cock slippery between Draco’s thighs, and it wasn’t actual sex, but Salazar, Draco could imagine it so clearly, the way it would feel to have Harry in him, filling him. As it was, Harry’s cock was moving over sensitive skin and just that had Draco spinning.

Harry’s hand came around to grip his cock and Draco cried out, pressing harder against him. Harry moved his mouth back to Draco’s neck, his shoulder, sucking hard at his skin, and Draco kept moving, lost in the feel of it all, in the desire and pleasure ripping through him.

Harry bit down on his shoulder and made a noise Draco hadn’t ever heard before, almost a sob. “Oh my god, I want you. I want you. Draco, I want to be inside of you.”

“Do it, then,” Draco said, his voice rough. “You know I want you to.”

“No, this is –” he buried is head in Draco’s shoulder and Draco felt Harry’s cock sliding out from between his thighs, and then he felt it pressing against the cleft of his arse. “Fuck.”

“Harry,” he said, pressing back. “Harry, kiss me.”

Harry’s mouth was on his again, his hand on Draco’s cock, stroking him slow, his own cock against Draco’s arse. “I want you.”

“Goddamnit, Harry,” Draco groaned. He ached for it. Fucking ached for it.

“I don’t even know how –”

“Just put it in! And use lube.”

He saw Harry reach for the little vial with a shaking hand, and Draco let out a sigh of relief. It was finally happening, thank Salazar.

He felt cool fingers at his entrance, and his stomach bottomed out in anticipation. Only he had ever touched himself there, in private, experimenting. This was so different – he let out a gasp and felt Harry go still and look towards him, checking to make sure he was okay, before brushing over it again. Draco groaned and pressed back, and felt one of Potter’s fingertips breach him, and then Potter was sucking in an unsteady breath.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No,” Draco said. “It’s fucking brilliant.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, you git! I’m sure!”

“You get really cranky when we’re fooling around, you know that? Very impatient.”

“Because I want you so much I think I might die from it,” Draco growled at him.

Harry pressed his finger in further, past the tight ring of muscle at the entrance, and Draco let out a keening sound and pushed back and then eased off, fucking the finger himself since Potter wouldn’t move it.

“Oh my god,” Potter breathed. “That’s…oh. That feels…”

Draco took Potter’s other hand and brought it back to his cock. Potter stroked him for a moment and then Draco felt another finger pressing in. He felt more pressure and a little bit of a burn, but nothing bad, and then, when Potter began to move them in and out, it was ridiculously good.

“It feels okay?”

“It’s good,” Draco managed. “Really fucking good.”

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”

“I can’t believe we haven’t done this before. I can’t tell you how –” he broke off and cried out as Harry added a third finger. He felt himself break out in goosebumps at the slight twinge of pain, and prickles of sensation swept up his spine as his cock throbbed in Harry’s hand.

“H-harry,” he whimpered, pressing back onto those thick, calloused fingers. “I want you. I want you, you have no idea how much I want you.”

“I have every idea,” Potter whispered in his ear, his voice unsteady. “Because I want you that much, too.”

“Then fucking have me. You can have anything you want. Whatever you want to do to me. You can have anything. Everything. Please. Fucking hell, Harry, please.” He was babbling, begging, but everything felt too intense – Harry’s skin burning like a fever, his relentless fingers moving inside of Draco, his hand deliciously slow on Draco’s leaking cock.

Then the fingers were disappearing, and Harry’s cock returned, pressing against Draco’s arse. Draco pulled Harry’s mouth back to his and felt the press of him, felt him move. Draco was shaking and hot, his skin damp. “Please,” he whispered.

Another adjustment, and then Harry was pushing into him, and Draco felt it everywhere, felt it lighting up his insides, filling him with sparking, urgent pleasure. Harry let out a low groan that shook Draco and made his cock ache and then he was moving, his arms snaking around Draco, yanking him closer, and everything was sweaty and hot and glorious and perfect.

Harry kissed him almost gently as he continued to move. Draco canted his hips and felt Harry’s prick brush against a place that had him cursing, so he moved his hips like that again and again as Harry reached for his cock again. Draco put his hand over Harry’s, so they were stroking him together, and it was all so good, Harry’s tongue in his mouth, Harry’s cock inside him – inside him, sweet Salazar. He was going to come. He couldn’t avoid it; this was too much.

“Harry,” he moaned against Harry’s mouth. “Harry, please. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t –”

“Draco,” Harry said, sounding as desperate as Draco felt. He began to move faster and more deliberately, less carefully than he had been. “God.” His breath hitched and he bit at Draco’s shoulder and tightened his fist on Draco’s cock, and then came, shuddering and calling out Draco’s name over and over as he moved inside of him, and then Draco was spilling over their hands, all over himself, and it was fucking perfect and beautiful and better than anything that Draco had a right to experience.

He stopped moving then, reeling, head spinning, hardly able to believe it. “You perfect, brilliant wanker,” he whispered, blinking at the curtains. He took Harry’s hand, which was covered in his come, in his own hand, which was also covered in his come. “I can’t believe you. Why’re you good at everything?”

Harry was quiet, and Draco felt a prickle of unease, but then he felt him shaking.

Laughing. The git was laughing. “I’m so fucking gone on you it’s ridiculous,” he finally said. “Damn it, Malfoy, you’d better feel the same way or I’m seriously going to kill you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Draco said, grinning. “You’d miss me too much.”

Harry took his chin and kissed him again, soft. “I love you, you arsehole.”

“I love you, too.”

“Really? You swear?”

“Yes, really. What the hell, Potter! How can you ask that with a straight face after what just happened?”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Harry said, looking stupidly beautiful and a little embarrassed.

“I know,” Draco said. “But I did mean for it to happen, at least once I knew you were considering it.”

“I figured,” Harry said, kissing his shoulder.

“You let it happen, though.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’m stubborn, but come on. How was I going to say no with you saying all that and looking like you did and…and feeling like you did? He nipped at Draco’s earlobe. “God, the way you feel. The way that felt. I never knew it could be like that.”

Draco chased his mouth for a kiss. “I didn’t know what it would be like. But whatever I might’ve thought, the real thing was better.”

“You think sex is like that for everybody? And if so, how do people not want to just do it all the time?”

Draco chuckled. “Merlin, no, I don’t think sex is like that for everyone. The first time Blaise had sex, I asked how it was and he shrugged and said he liked getting his dick sucked better.”

Harry gave a little snort of laughter. “Well. I should probably experience a blowjob before I make that call. But I find it difficult to imagine anything being better than what we just did.”

Draco closed his eyes and sighed. His body felt languid and limp, boneless. “Me too. You’re not upset, are you? I mean, not even a little, right?”

“No, I’m not upset. How could I be upset? It was perfect.”

Draco smiled and leaned his head back against Harry, thinking that life felt pretty perfect in general at the moment. He began to drift, listening to Harry’s breathing even out, and then he froze, remembering that his life wasn’t actually perfect. He remembered his mother.

That he’d forgotten her for the last hour or so was devastating.

Harry was snoring softly by then, so Draco moved slow, trying not to wake him. He sat up and felt a brutal, heavy guilt pressing down on his head. He scrubbed his hands over his face and felt her absence inside his chest, where just a moment ago he’d felt a blooming, ridiculous sort of joy. He pressed a hand to it, because it hurt now, physically; it ached. He let himself cry for a moment – feeling angry at himself more than anything – and then swiped at his cheeks and settled back down into the covers.

Everything was such a mess. His whole life was a flaming wreck.

But Harry was here. Harry loved him – loved him! He’d said it.

And he loved Harry. He did, he truly did.

Only, just now it was hard to feel it. He didn’t understand because he’d felt it so strongly just a short while ago. But it was like he was scooped out all of a sudden, and hollow. He couldn’t love anything, because he had no heart, no insides.

He stared at Potter’s sleeping face. It was unbearably beautiful, and it was his. Harry was his. Not anyone else’s; Harry belonged to him alone. It ought to make him happy. He tried to be happy. But happiness seemed, suddenly, like something he couldn’t reach.

Chapter Text

“I personally find the whole destiny thing to be overrated. It rarely ends well and involves extensive death and sacrifice for the greater good. None of which is really my thing.”
― Rhonda Sermon, The Midnight Society

“How is he?” Hermione asked the next day at breakfast. “Is he going with you and Dumbledore tonight?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, he’s coming. And he’s…well, sometimes he seems like he’s feeling a bit better, and sometimes not. I dunno.”

“Probably normal,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “You don’t get over something like that all at once. It’s going to take time.”

“I know.” He knew he ought to be feeling somber, still. In mourning for Draco’s mother. But he was having a difficult time keeping the smile off his face today.

“You seem like you’re in a good mood,” Hermione remarked.

Harry took a gulp of tea. “Do I?”

“Mm hm.” She leaned closer. “Ron told me you weren’t in your room this morning. He opened your curtains to say something to you and you were gone,” she whispered.

“Oh. Erm. I went to talk to him last night after Dumbledore, and sort of fell asleep,” he whispered back.

“Interesting.”

Damn it, he couldn’t stop smiling. He took another sip of tea.

“Harry.”

“Hermione,” he said in a matching tone.

She whacked his arm gently. “Out with it,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” he said with a laugh. “It’s private.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Not a chance,” he said.

She stuck her tongue out at him and then gave him a little smile. “Well, I’m glad you’re happy at any rate.”

“Hey, speaking of things that will make us happy…” He leaned close to her again. “Ron is breaking up with Lavender today.”

Hermione whirled on him. “What?”

“Or so he says. We’ll see.”

They both turned towards where Ron was sitting with Lavender at the end of the table, and studied them for a moment. Ron looked beyond over it, slumped over his breakfast, head resting on one hand as Lavender fiddled with his hair. “Oh Merlin,” Hermione said. She turned back to Harry. “What am I going to do?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, confused. He’d have thought she’d be thrilled with this news. He stuffed a piece of blueberry scone into his mouth, chasing it with another sip of tea.

“I’m supposed to study with Terry tonight,” she said quietly.

“Terry? You mean Terry Boot? I thought that was a one-time, make-Ron-jealous thing!”

“It was, but –” she glanced back over at Ron before continuing. “He’s really nice, Harry. And he’s a great study partner. He takes excellent notes. And I like talking to him.” She bit at her lip. “And it seemed like Ron was never going to actually get around to ending things anyway!”

Harry wanted to bang his head on the table. “I’m not saying you should have been waiting around for him. You know I don’t think that you owed him that – because you didn’t. You don’t. But it’s going to be a little weird if he breaks up with Lavender for you only to find out that you’re not available. It’s going to be really messy.”

Hermione looked pained. “I know.” She glanced over towards the Ravenclaw table where Terry was sitting with Michael Corner and Padma Patil. “But I feel horrible just…ditching him. I like him.”

“More than Ron?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “I’m furious at Ron half the time and I don’t know Terry nearly as well yet,” she said, lowering her voice again. “How can I even compare them?”

“The two of you refuse to make this easy,” Harry grumbled.

“After what I’ve put up with regarding your love life, I hardly think you have room to complain, Harry,” she replied.

He sighed, supposing she was right. “Yeah, okay. Fine. But I reserve the right to say, ‘I told you so’ when Ron’s head explodes and he stops talking to both of us.”

She took a bite of her toast, looking unhappy, then took a solemn sip of tea. “Why is love never simple?”

“It can be simple,” he said. “Sometimes.”

“Oh, like you and –” she cut herself off, looking around before lowering her voice. “Like you two are ever ‘simple’.”

“We are, sometimes.” He felt himself smiling again. He couldn’t help it – he really couldn’t. Last night had just been so ridiculously wonderful. Every bit of it. Just so good. He glanced over at the Slytherin table, trying not to be obvious (the whole situation with Nott had scared him off a bit, and he tried not to stare at Malfoy too much when they were in public) and met Malfoy’s eyes as he was talking to Goyle and Pansy. Malfoy’s grey gaze held his for a moment, and Harry felt his skin tingling, everything in him singing with happiness. He looked back down at his scone, feeling hot.

“I like to see you happy, but this is a bit much,” Hermione said, knocking her shoulder into his and laughing. “You’re too happy. Stop it.”

He bit down on his lips. “Sorry.”

She snorted. “No, you’re not.”

“No,” he agreed. “I’m not.”

The cave absolutely reeked of the Dark Lord. Draco could feel his presence everywhere, traces of his magic spread over the stony walls and the water like mold. He watched, awed, as Dumbledore raised up the boat from the deep with a muttered spell.

“It doesn’t look like it will hold us all,” Potter remarked.  Draco, at that moment, was too busy eying the white, decayed-looking hand that was coming up out of the water, grasping at air like it was scenting out prey, to pay much attention to Dumbledore’s response.

They all crowded into the boat and set off for the place across the water where a green light was shining up into the gloom. Draco tried not to watch the water too closely, because it was full of things he really didn’t want to get a good look at. Soon, they were pulling up to the shore and clambering out, Dumbledore surprisingly spry for someone of his advanced age.

Dumbledore stood near the basin for a moment, staring into he greenish glow, and then put a hand over it. “Both of you, come here. See if you can reach inside.”

Draco approached behind Harry and watched as Harry, fearless as always, immediately tried to plunge his hand into the glowing liquid. He couldn’t; his hand seemed to bounce back from the liquid, unable to penetrate it. Draco, summoning all his courage, tried as well, but the same thing happened. It felt like a thickening of air, like a not-quite-solid-but-almost wall. “Can’t,” he said, and Dumbledore nodded.

“There will be some way to get rid of the potion,” Dumbledore said. He eyed a goblet nearby. “I think it might be something we must ingest.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Erm, not sure about that, Sir. This is Vo—” he glanced at Draco. “You-Know-Who we’re talking about. He wouldn’t put a nice potion in there to guard his Horcrux.”

Dumbledore gave Harry a fond smile. “No, I think not. But I also believe he wouldn’t have put something in there that would kill someone immediately. I think he’s assumed no one else knows about his Horcruxes, and that if someone did learn about them and managed to find this place, they would be a powerful wizard. Thus, he would want to know who had managed it. I think this will be a slow-acting poison, something that will leave the drinker languishing until he can return and interrogate them.”

“Lovely,” Draco muttered.

“He has a flair for the dramatic, wouldn’t you say?” Dumbledore asked, looking amused.

Draco nodded. “That he does.”

“I’ll drink it,” Potter said, moving to take the goblet from Dumbledore.

“Absolutely not,” Dumbledore said to Draco’s surprise. He thought the old man would be happy to let Potter do the dirty work. “I’ll drink it.”

“I can do it,” Draco said, fairly well shocking himself, but not wanting to be the coward of the bunch. “Let me.”

Dumbledore eyed him for a moment, and Draco nearly thought he was going to say yes. But then he shook his head. “No. You are too young and have too much life ahead of you. I’m old and spent and it should be me, just in case. But thank you.”

Draco gulped and nodded.

“Now, Harry,” Dumbledore said, looking back at Potter, who was frowning and seemed to be on the verge of protesting. “You remember your promise.”

“I don’t see why I can’t –”

“Harry.”

“But Sir –”

“You said you would follow my directions. And this is what you must do: make sure I ingest every bit of it. Don’t let me stop. I might try to convince you otherwise, might scream at you, might cry and carry on. But no matter what, you must continue to make me drink. Understood?”

Harry’s jaw was working, and Draco could feel him longing to argue further. “Yes, Sir,” he finally said.

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore, and began to drink.

After many agonizing minutes – Draco had no idea how many; maybe ten, maybe thirty – Dumbledore had drunk his way to the bottom of the basin. He was trembling and crying out for death, and looked wholly unlike the placid, unflappable Headmaster with whom Draco was familiar. Draco wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and plug his ears, but he made himself watch, and found himself gaining a newfound respect for the man.

He’d always known Dumbledore was powerful and unnaturally clever, that he had wisdom and admirable self-control. But he’d never really known that he was brave, and had never seen such an act of selflessness from him. But this – this was selfless. This was brave. He couldn’t help but be impressed by it.

It made him wonder if he had it in him to ever do anything like that. Not to save himself, or someone he loved, but to save…everyone. To stop evil. He didn’t know if he had that sort of altruism anywhere in his heart. He thought perhaps he did not. He cared for certain people, to be sure. Not just himself, but definitely including himself. But there were others – Pansy, Potter, his mother, his father, and Vince and Greg to name a few - for whom he would consider sacrificing himself. But for the faceless masses? For the cause? He couldn’t really picture it. He couldn’t picture himself doing something like Dumbledore had just done. 

The man could hardly walk to the boat – they had to practically carry him. As they did, Draco looked over at Potter, and watched his grim expression, and realized that Potter really would have done it, too. Probably would have preferred to have done it. Potter would have faced it like he did everything else: with a clenched jaw and burning conviction, never giving a second thought to the fact that it might very well kill him. 

The git.

Draco had enough presence of mind to create a barrier of Bluebell Flame around them to keep the Inferi away as they made their way across the water to the cave entrance. Potter had managed to cut himself, so even though Dumbledore had dropped his knife, Potter’s blood opened the entrance and they stumbled out into the damp, windy night.

Dumbledore, despite being borderline lucid and hardly able to stand, apparated them back to Hogsmeade, and he and Potter dragged him into the Three Broomsticks, where Madam Rosmerta took him into one of the guest rooms while Harry and Draco borrowed brooms. Dumbledore handed his wand to Harry. “You’ll need this to get past the school wards,” he explained.

They flew fast, side-by-side, not speaking until they jumped off the brooms by the entrance to the castle and hurried inside, running as fast as they could to the dungeons.

“He’ll be alright, Potter,” Draco said, panting.

Potter glanced over at him. “Yeah, I know. Snape may be an arsehole, but he’s the best when it comes to potions, right?”

“Right,” Draco said.

Professor Snape answered the knock on his door immediately, still in his robes despite the late hour. “Where’s the Headmaster?” he asked, looking past them as though Dumbledore might be there. “Is he in danger?”

“He’s taken a potion.” Draco said.

“What sort of potion?” Snape asked.

“I didn’t recognize it,” Draco said. “But the symptoms are severe. He’s shaking and weak. Possibly hallucinating. He’s very distraught and emotional – very unlike himself. It seems to have made him feel hopeless, I think. And I believe it was painful to ingest, physically. It had an emerald-green glow emanating from it.” He paused, thinking. “And It’s been sitting in a basin in a cave for years but seems to have remained stable.”

Snape was nodding. “Drink of Despair, perhaps, or Emerald Death. I’ve got antidotes for both. Wait here.” He slammed the door in their faces, and they looked at one another.

“Still a tosser even when he’s helping us,” Potter muttered, and Draco huffed a laugh. “I’m glad you’re here, by the way. You described it a lot better than I would have.”

“Because you’re shit at Potions, Potter,” Draco said.

“I’m not shit at Potions, Malfoy. It’s just not my strong suit,” he replied, eyes dancing, a smile playing over his lips.

Draco took his hand and squeezed, fondness washing over him in a wave, but then the door was opening. He dropped Potter’s hand, lightning-quick, but Snape had still seen.

He said nothing, though, just led them down the corridor. But instead of exiting the building, he led them to the stairs.

“Where are we going?” Draco asked.

“Room of Hidden Things,” Snape said.

Draco froze. “You know about the Room?”

“Of course I do. And if you had asked me about it at the beginning of the year, I could have saved you a lot of trouble.” He glanced back, his dark eyes sharp and accusing. “But you wanted all the so-called glory for yourself.”

Draco felt the accusation like a slap. He had wanted that. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Not the time,” Snape said brusquely. “We can talk about it later.”  

They were at the blank wall soon, and Snape walked past it three times, then opened the door for them. And instead of the Room, it was a passage. “What is this?” Potter said, glancing inside.

“It’ll take us to the Three Broomsticks; come on.”

“Another thing that would’ve been nice to know at the start of the year,” Draco mumbled.

They followed Snape down the dimly-lit passageway, walking fast. They were at the inn much sooner than Draco expected, and Snape was bursting through the doorway at the end, calling for Madam Rosmerta and then following her back to the room she’d given to Dumbledore.

Draco looked at Harry, the two of them alone in the empty barroom. “Butterbeer?” he asked.

Harry laughed. “How about firewhiskey? After all that, I wouldn’t mind something strong.”

Draco, feeling the buzz of doing something usually prohibited, ducked behind the bar, fetched two glasses, and selected a fancy bottle of firewhiskey. He poured them both probably too much before joining Potter on a barstool. “To getting another Horcrux,” he said.

Potter grinned crookedly. “To being one step closer to that noseless fucker’s demise,” he replied.

“Hear, hear,” Draco said, and they clinked glasses and drank deeply. He finally began to relax, all the fear and tension of the past few hours draining from his body.

“I can see why you like it,” he said after he’d taken a few gulps.

“Like what?” Harry asked.

“Going on these adventures with Dumbledore,” Draco replied. “It’s rather exhilarating. After the fact, anyway.”

“Oh,” Potter said, thinking. “Yeah, I guess so. Although he doesn’t let me do a whole lot, usually.”

“But, I mean, you fought a fucking battle at the Ministry last spring. Didn’t that make you feel like this? Like a bit...I dunno. Adrenaline drunk?”

Potter’s face darkened. “Not really,” he said.

“Oh,” Draco said. Then he remembered there had been some casualties. “Because people died. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“Sirius,” Potter said.

Draco’s mind scrambled. “Sirius Black? My criminal of a cousin?”

Potter nodded. “Wasn’t a criminal. He was framed. They cleared him of the charges, but only after he died. Fat lot of good that did him.”

He looked uncharacteristically bitter and Draco hated that he’d brought any of it up. “You knew him, then?” he asked.

Potter nodded. “He was my godfather. My dad’s best mate.”

“Oh,” Draco said. “Oh, I didn’t – I had no idea. But did you actually know him?”

“You remember when he escaped?”

Draco did. He remembered the terrifying posters, the warnings in the Prophet. “Yes.”

“He rejoined the Order then. I had some time with him.” He tapped at the side of his glass, agitated. “Not nearly enough.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, I know. S’fine.”

“It’s clearly not,” Draco said.

“Well. No,” Harry said. He gave a little smile. “I still miss him. I know it’s not like it was for you, with your mum. It doesn’t compare at all. But I do miss him.”

Draco knocked his knee against Harry’s, not knowing what to say, and then gave the hem of Harry’s jumper a tug. “I’m sorry, Potter.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Harry said.  Then he laughed. “Were you really going to drink that shite?”

“I’d hoped not to have to. But I didn’t want to be the only one not to offer.”

Harry laughed again. “I figured.”

“I would’ve, though. You’re not the only brave one around here, you know.”

“I know I’m not,” he said, looking Draco in the eye.

Suddenly, the door to the private rooms burst open and Snape blew into the barroom, robes billowing. “It was the Drink of Despair,” he said without preamble. “It attacks the mind more than the body, and our Headmaster has one of the most powerful minds of all time. He held it off very well until I gave him the antidote. He’ll recover quickly.”

“Good,” Potter said, out a whoosh of air.

Draco supposed he was glad to hear it, although if the Headmaster died as a result of the poison, he wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that he was supposed to kill him in the next two weeks.

“He’d like to talk to you, Draco. Alone,” Snape said. “Mr. Potter, you should head back to the castle through the tunnel.”

Harry looked like he was going to argue, but Draco shook his head and he rose from his stool with a sigh. “All right.” He looked at Draco. “Good luck, I guess?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Draco said, and watched him disappear into the passageway.

Draco followed Snape to the room in the back. It was small, containing only a bed and a single armchair, with a little bathroom off the side. Dumbledore was atop the covers in bed, propped up on a pile of pillows, hands folded in his lap.

Draco stared without meaning to.  One of them was shriveled and dark – he wondered if it was because of the potion? He hadn’t ever noticed it before, that was for certain.

“It’s a curse from last year. I usually glamour it,” Dumbledore said, flexing the dead-looking hand. “Pull up a chair if you’d like. Or sit on the bed. Either way.”

Draco pulled up the armchair and met the Headmaster’s gaze. He looked tired, which was no surprise.

“I’m dying, Draco,” he said, and it took Draco a moment to process this, and then another moment to wonder what he meant.

“Because…because you’re old?” he asked, feeling like a numpty.

Dumbledore chuckled. “Well, yes. I suppose that’s true, too. But no. I mean much more immediately. Because of this,” he held up his hand again. “Professor Snape has managed to hold the curse off for now, but it will kill me, probably sooner rather than later. It’s unavoidable.”

“I’m…I’m sorry, Sir,” Draco said.

“Thank you,” Dumbledore said. “But I’m not telling you this because I want you to feel sorry for me. I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to be too horrified at the next thing I must say.”

“Okay,” Draco said, his chest filling with anxious apprehension.

“I’m going to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower and you’re going to tell You-Know-Who and his people that you pushed me. Since it wouldn’t have been by magical means, there’s no way to trace anything to prove otherwise. And if they look in your mind, I think you’ll be able to construct a memory that shows them exactly that, won’t you?”

Draco felt dizzy. “Sir, that’s – that seems rather extreme.”

Dumbledore, unfathomably, only laughed again. “Things are extreme at the moment, my boy. Times are dire. If Professor Snape hadn’t been helping me, I’d already have been dead for months. I look at this time as a bonus, a gift. So, if I die a week earlier than I would’ve otherwise, or even a month, it’s not really that terrible, is it?”

Draco shook his head. “No, I don’t want you to – that’s still awful.”

“I don’t fear death, Draco. I’ve lived my life and I’ve done what good I could manage in that time. Death is just the next adventure, in my opinion.” He studied Draco for another moment. “You can come up with a suitable memory, though, can’t you? Professor Snape tells me you’re a skilled occlumens.”

“Oh,” Draco said, surprised. “Yes. I probably can.”

“Let’s create it, then, shall we?” Dumbledore said. He stared off at the wall, looking thoughtful. “Here is what happens: you request to meet with me up in the tower, under the guise of giving me some sort of information. You are standing next to the edge when I come up, and I stand next to you. You force out tears and behave as though you are distraught, and I, in turn, have my guard down. I pocket my wand and console you, and then, when I least expect it, you push me with all your might. I tumble over the edge and voila, your task is accomplished.”

Draco stared at him. “I could never do that.”

“You don’t have to do it, Draco. That’s the beauty of the thing. You only have to create a false memory of doing it.”

Draco nodded and closed his eyes. He tried to picture it, everything Dumbledore had said. It made him sick, but he pictured it anyway, focusing on details, on Dumbledore’s expression as Draco forced hot tears out of his eyes, at how his blue eyes widened when Draco shoved him, how it took him a moment of free fall to understand. “Okay,” he said, finally. “I’ve got it.”

He felt a little shift in his mind, barely anything, light and subtle as a breeze and smelling, of course, a bit like lemon candy, and he knew the Headmaster was looking. He focused on the memory, let it play out again, and the breeze swirled around it for a moment before slipping away like it was never there.

“Good,” Dumbledore said once it was gone. “Make sure you’ve thought through the conversation we would have had prior to you pushing me. Go through it over and over until it feels real.”

“Yes, Sir,” Draco said.

“I’d like to meet with you again. Before. I’ll call for you in the next day or so.”

Draco nodded. “Sir,” he said, because he’d been wondering. “What about the invasion? How will that be avoided?”

Dumbledore tilted his head, studying Draco’s face carefully. “You worry so much more than Harry. Harry trusts me implicitly. Never needs to know the details.” He chuckled. “You fret over every little thing.”

Draco did. He always had. “I suppose that’s true.”

“The plan involves Argus and Minerva,” Dumbledore said. “Filch will be in the corridor outside the room, hear the ruckus, poke his head in, scream for Minerva, who will be down the hall, and she will seal off the room forever. No Death Eaters come out, no one else goes in, not ever again. It looks like bad timing; coincidence, from the perspective of You-Know-Who.”

Draco stared at him. It was so small and simple. “What if she doesn’t seal off the Room in time?”

“Minerva is one of the most gifted witches I’ve ever met, and she’ll by standing by for the signal, ready. She will have no trouble.” He stroked his beard. “And if she does run into trouble, then we have other faculty members waiting in the stairwell to attack. If that happens, I’m afraid your cover is blown; they’ll know we were waiting for them. But that won’t happen, I assure you. I wanted a contingency plan in place, but Minerva will be just fine. She knows what’s riding on this.”

Draco nodded. “Okay.”

“Any other questions?”

Why did you let my mother die? he wanted to ask. As powerful as you are, as clever, you should have been able to save her. “No,” he said. He stared at the withered hand for a moment. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. “After the Drink of Despair, I mean.”

Dumbledore offered him a little smile. “Thank you, Draco.” He cleared his throat. “May I ask you something else?”

Draco nodded.

“Do you intend to keep working with us once you rejoin the Death Eaters?”

Draco looked up. “What?”

“They’re helping your father escape in time for the invasion of Hogwarts. He’ll want to bring you home. I wonder whether you wish to keep working with the Order.”

Draco had been avoiding thinking about the future. He didn’t know whether he would return to the Death Eater fold anymore - it was, to his mind, rather up in the air. His mother was gone, and he supposed, when he thought about it, that if they left his father to rot in Azkaban, he’d just stay with the Order, let them hide him as Dumbledore had offered early on (although look where that got his mother, he reminded himself). But if his father was getting out, was back in the middle of things…

“I don’t know if I want to go with my father,” he said. It was possible that his father wouldn’t want him, that he would hate him. He would know, Draco thought, that Draco had something to do with what happened to his mother. He would suspect.

“I think that you should,” Dumbledore said.

Draco stared at him, uncomprehending. “But I thought you wanted me to defect openly. And if I do, you won’t have to…” he gulped. “Jump off the tower,” he finished.

“You are a capable fighter,” Dumbledore said conversationally, as though he hadn't heard the last part. “I’ve seen you dueling a time or two. You are not without skill and I’m sure if you joined the Order and fought with us, you would do well. But you could do so much more for us as a spy. You are in a very unique position, Draco.” He paused, reaching into his pocket and pulling out one of those damn lemon candies and unwrapping it. “As ever, this is entirely up to you. Stay with us if you wish to, and the Order will protect you. But if you truly want to help us, this is where you could make a difference.” He popped the candy into his mouth and smiled.

“But then I wouldn’t be with –” he stopped himself before he said too much.

“With Harry. No, you wouldn’t. But you’d be helping him win to the best of your abilities.”

Helping Harry win. Helping Harry make it through the war intact.

Neither can live while the other survives.

Voldemort had to lose if Harry was to survive the war. Draco could fight by Harry’s side, and probably have minimal impact on the outcome, or he could fight the Death Eaters from inside their own ranks and directly influence things.

He did not know whether he could stand to see his father day in and day out, knowing that he was betraying him, lying to him. He didn’t know whether he could live with that.

If it came down to his father or Harry…

How could he make that decision?

What would Harry do if he were Draco?

Easy: he would do the right thing. The good thing. He would fight evil.

Voldemort was evil.

“Yes,” Draco said. “I’ll go with my father. I’ll help the Order from inside.”

Dumbledore’s face lit up, his smile sliding up into his weathered cheeks. “I knew you had it in you, Draco. But it does me good to hear it nonetheless.”

“Who –” he began, and then didn’t know how to finish. How do you delicately ask someone who will give you assignments once they’re dead? “How will I know what to do?”

“Severus, of course,” Dumbledore said. “He’ll still be, in their minds, a spy for them, pretending to work within the Order to feed them information. He’ll help you, give you instructions.”

Draco nodded. He had once liked and trusted Professor Snape. Unfortunately, this year had destroyed much of that foundation of trust and mutual respect. Although, now that he thought on it, it was mostly his fault, a result of his refusal to confide in Snape, to let him help. Since he’d caused it, he could likely fix it. He would have to fix it if this was going to work.

Dumbledore let out a great yawn. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I need to rest. Today took a lot out of me. I don’t recover as quickly as I used to.”

Draco stood. “Of course.” He straightened out his robe and then said, “Thank you, Sir.”

“For what?” Dumbledore asked, raising a brow.

“For all of it. You’re –” literally throwing yourself off of a tower for me.

“Can I be honest with you for a moment? Brutally honest?” Dumbledore said. “You seem like someone who would appreciate it.”

Draco nodded.

“If I didn’t think returning you to the Death Eaters would benefit our side, I would insist that you stay here with the Order and keep myself alive for as long as possible, since by being alive, I could continue working against You-Know-Who. But I weighed the matter, and decided that having you in their midst would help us more than having me alive for another few days or weeks. That is the real reason for my decided course of action.

“I care about you children, I truly do. But I care about all of you, not just some. Not just you, Draco. I would have sacrificed you if I thought it would do more good than sacrificing myself. I am just one man. You are just one boy. What do we matter when the lives of so many are at stake? As individuals, we are all expendable.

“So please, don’t thank me. I’m doing this to further You-Know-Who’s defeat. I’m not doing it for you, although I do care about you and would like you to live and flourish and go on to do great things.”

Draco tried to digest this. He thought he understood, and strangely, it didn’t make him upset or angry. “And what about Harry?”

“I care the most about keeping Harry safe because Harry is the key to defeating You-Know-Who. Without Harry, we are lost. He will always be my first priority because he has to be.”

“But do you care about him?” he asked, feeling stupid. Did it matter, really? It shouldn’t, but somehow it did.

“Of course I care about Harry. I’m very fond of Harry,” the Headmaster said, and Draco suspected he was telling the truth, but also wondered what he actually meant. He had the sneaking suspicion that those words did not have the same meaning for Dumbledore as they had for him, or for most people.

“Is there anything else, my boy?” Dumbledore said.

“No, Sir.”

“Well. Goodnight then. Rest well.”

“You too, Sir. Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

“But there is something about Time. The sun rises and sets. The stars swing slowly across the sky and fade. Clouds fill with rain and snow, empty themselves, and fill again. The moon is born, and dies, and is reborn. Around millions of clocks swing hour hands, and minute hands, and second hands. Around goes the continual circle of the notes of the scale. Around goes the circle of night and day, the circle of weeks forever revolving, and of months, and of years.”

Madeleine L'Engle, The Small Rain

Chapter Text

“In war, the first casualty is truth.”

Terry Hayes, I Am Pilgrim

“I’m sorry to pull you out of class,” Dumbledore said, offering a plate of chocolate biscuits. Harry took two and considered taking a third, but decided it might look greedy.

“It’s fine,” he said, taking a bite of one and munching it happily. Sweets were one of the best parts of being in Dumbledore’s office. It was rather nice altogether; one of his favorite places in the world. He loved the strange clutter, the tins of candies, Fawkes nestled up on his perch, looking sleepy. Even when they were talking over difficult topics, which they often were, he felt cocooned and cozy inside of it.

“I thought we should discuss a few things. Before the term ends,” Dumbledore said.

“Okay,” said Harry. “More memories?”

“No. I’ve shown you what you need to see,” Dumbledore said. He took a biscuit for himself and dunked it in his tea. “I’d like to do a bit of review with you. Why don’t we go through the list of Horcruxes together?”

“Right,” Harry said, thinking. “Number one was the diary, which I destroyed. Two was the Gaunt ring, which you destroyed. Three, the locket that was in the cave, which you have destroyed, I believe?”

“Not yet. It, like the ring, is cursed. I am trying to determine how to get rid of it safely,” Dumbledore said, smiling. “It should be taken care of in the next day or so, though. Go on.”

“Erm. Well, number four is most likely Helga Hufflepuff’s cup, the one Voldemort nicked while working at Borgin and Burkes. We don’t know where that is, yet. Number five and six are not certain, but they could include Nagini, something of Rowena Ravenclaw’s, or something of Godric Gryffindor’s.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said, beaming at him. Harry felt stupidly proud of himself. Merlin, he was such a child sometimes.

“And then the last piece of his soul is still inside of him,” he continued. “Which means it will be destroyed if he’s killed.”

“Wonderful. That’s exactly right, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “And now that we’ve obtained the locket, it’s time to begin looking for the final three. You know the history of Tom Riddle as well as I do at this point. And you know Voldemort better than I ever could, because of your connection to him. This summer, I’d like you to think about what you know, and try to determine where Voldemort may have left his other Horcruxes.”

“Yes, of course. I can do that,” Harry said. He would try to think through it, although Dumbledore was almost certainly going to be the one to locate them. The Headmaster was the clever one, the almost all-knowing one, not Harry. But if Dumbledore wanted him to try, he would try, maybe with Hermione’s help. She always appreciated a good puzzle.

Dumbledore took another sip of his tea, his smile fading. “Harry, you understand, don’t you, that this is likely to get worse before it gets better.”

He swallowed a bite of biscuit, which suddenly seemed too dry in his throat, and chased it with a sip of tea. “The war?”

“Yes, along with everything else. I feel that we are heading into trying times.”

“Do you know something I don’t? Was there another prophecy?” Harry felt a shiver of what might’ve been premonition or just plain fear running down his spine.

Fucking prophecies. He couldn’t get away from them.

“No, no. Nothing like that,” Dumbledore assured him. “Just intuition and experience. Voldemort likely does not know about the destroyed Horcruxes yet, but he will, at some point. And when he does, he will panic. He will strike harder and faster. Besides that, once you turn seventeen, your mother’s protection will no longer help you.”

“But Hogwarts is protection, too. I’ve always been safe here,” Harry pointed out. He’d felt safer here than anywhere, much safer than when he was at the Dursleys.

“The old safeguards may not hold. You may have to depend on your own strength, Harry. Your own magic and your own mind. But whatever you do, you must destroy the Horcruxes and, above all, you must do everything in your power to keep yourself alive. You must always stay one step ahead of him.”

Harry didn’t like the sound of any of it. “Sir, please tell me why you’re saying all of this.”

“Because I don’t know what the future will bring, dear boy. There are too many moving pieces at this point, too many uncertainties. But I need your word. Promise me you will protect yourself – this, above all else – and that you will find and destroy the Horcruxes.”

“Of course you have my word,” he replied. “Are you – are you planning to send me away from everyone? After my birthday? Is that what this is about?” It was something that he both longed for and dreaded. Longed for, because by staying away from the people he loved, Harry could keep them safe. Or safer, at any rate. But he also dreaded it, because being alone, fighting alone, perhaps dying alone…well, the very thought of it was terrifying.

Dumbledore smiled sadly. “That is not part of any plan, but I simply don’t know what lies ahead. I wish that I did. But I hope you know that I will do everything in my power to protect you.”

“You always have, Sir,” Harry said, and watched, stunned, as Dumbledore’s eyes became shiny. Was he – but no, surely not. It almost looked as though he was fighting back tears. But that was impossible.

“Good. That’s good to hear, Harry,” he said, his voice a bit rougher than usual. “I hope you know that it has been the privilege of a lifetime to see you grow. You’ve become everything I could’ve hoped. You are clever like your mother –” I’m not, thought Harry “— you have all your father’s charm and determination. But your heart is your own, and that, my boy, is the best part of you. That is the part of you that he will never understand – goodness knows, I hardly understand it, although I admire it.”

Harry felt embarrassingly pleased and also just plain embarrassed. “Thank you,” he mumbled, unable to look Dumbledore in the face. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“I’m not saying it to be kind. I’m saying it because it’s true,” he took another sip of tea. “And on that note, you'd better return to class. Can’t have you failing out of Charms, now, can we?”

“No, Sir,” Harry said, finally looking back up at the Headmaster. He seemed weirdly emotional, still, in a way that Harry had never seen him before. “Just…is everything all right?”

“Everything is all right. Or, it will be, at any rate.”

“Okay,” Harry said, standing. “Thanks for the tea and biscuits.”

“My pleasure, Harry. Thank you for joining me,” Dumbledore said, and then he was bending over a stack of papers on his desk. Harry left, feeling like he was missing something, some context or some detail. There had been more to that conversation than Dumbledore had let on.

It hit him as he was striding back into Charms, which was almost over. He sat down and thought: Draco is supposed to kill him before the twenty-seventh. The twenty-seventh was a mere three days from now. Obviously, Draco was not actually going to kill him. But perhaps Dumbledore was planning to hide away for a time. Maybe a long time. That would explain his behavior. Harry wished he’d asked about it, but so many things were happening that he’d managed to forget about that dark part of Draco’s duties for a while.

But then again, if Draco wasn’t going to return this summer, perhaps it was all a moot point. Maybe Harry had the wrong end of the stick.

He would ask Draco, he decided. Draco had to know the answer by now.

Unfortunately, Draco wasn’t at supper. Harry sent a series of meaningful looks at Pansy until she rolled her eyes and stood, striding out of the Great Hall to wait for him in the corridor beyond. “Where is he?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know. He must be in the Room of Requirement or studying somewhere,” Pansy replied, sounding unconcerned. “He wasn’t in his room or in the Common Room when we were all heading up for supper.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Sweet Circe, why all the questions?”

“Just something Dumbledore said to me earlier, that made me think…oh, never mind. It’s stupid. I’m being an idiot.” Harry reached under his glasses to rub his eyes. They were bothering him, which usually meant he was tired.

“Probably, yes,” Pansy said, smirking at him.

“Well, if you do see him, could you tell him that I’m looking for him?”

“Of course,” she said, patting Harry’s shoulder. “And stop looking like that. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“No, I know,” Harry said. Draco probably was fine, like she said. He had been in classes earlier today, after all. Not that Harry’d spoken to him. They didn’t speak in public. But he’d clocked Draco’s presence, and from what he could recall, he’d seemed no different than he usually did.

When the Great Hall was mostly empty, Harry did something he normally avoided at all costs: he approached Professor Snape. “Erm, excuse me, Professor. You don’t happen to know where Draco is, do you? I noticed he wasn’t at dinner, and –”

“Oh, Potter, I do wish you’d leave me out of your little love spats,” Snape said quietly, with a roll of his eyes.

“We’re not fighting and – and don’t call it that!” Harry said, feeling his cheeks heat. “It’s none of your business!”

“You’ve made it my business by bothering me about it,” Snape replied, drolly.

“You’re his Head of House! You ought to care if one of your students is missing!”

“If I assumed the worst every time Mr. Malfoy missed a meal, I’d have worried myself into an early grave at this point in the year. I’m sure he’s fine, and I’m sure he’s otherwise occupied. The Headmaster wasn’t at supper either – they might be meeting together at this very moment. My suggestion would be that you collect yourself and make an attempt to get some of that research done for the essay you owe me in a week. Because I have the sneaking suspicion that you’ve not even started.”

Harry hadn’t. Hermione was already finished.

“Thanks for nothing,” Harry grumbled, stomping away, not caring that the remark was more appropriate for a five-year-old than a boy of almost seventeen, or that he was probably going to get a detention for it.

He refused to begin research for his DADA essay out of sheer spite, and went to the Room instead, hoping he’d find Draco there. But the room was empty.

After that, he tried studying with Ron and Hermione in the Common Room for a while, but he was much too distracted to get anything done. In the end, he fetched his invisibility cloak, slipped into the Slytherin Common Room behind some younger students, and hurried through to Draco’s room, where he hid in his bed.

Somehow, despite his nerves being rather frayed, Harry fell asleep. Probably it was the comforting, now-familiar smell of Draco’s sheets that surrounded him.

He dreamt of the invasion. In his dream, McGonagall was hit with a curse before she could sever the connection between the Room and the school, and an unending stream of Death Eaters were marching through the corridors, cutting down everyone they passed. Harry was running after them, trying to get close enough to stop them (he had no wand, for some reason). Only, even though they were marching and not running, he couldn’t quite seem to catch up. “Wait!” he kept yelling. “Wait!” Finally, the hooded and masked figure at the rear of the line turned around to face him. A pale, graceful hand reached up to remove the mask. And then Harry saw it was Draco, and he began to scream…

He woke, panting and covered in sweat. Draco’s side of the bed was still unoccupied. Harry cast a Tempus, feeling more shaken than ever. It was almost midnight.

Harry fell back onto Draco’s pillow, sliding his hand over his rapid-fire heart. “Where are you, you git?” he murmured into the darkness.

He must’ve fallen asleep again, because suddenly, Draco was sliding under the covers next to him and he was jerking awake. Draco smelled like cold air. Harry stared for a moment, then slipped a hand onto Draco’s chest. “Where were you?” he whispered.

“The astronomy tower,” Draco said.

“God, why? Wasn’t it fucking freezing up there?”

Draco shook his head. Harry realized he was breathing funny; a bit irregularly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Draco said.

“You’re not, you’re shaking.” Harry realized it as he said it.

Grey eyes skittered over to his briefly, then dashed away. “My task. My second task.”

“Yeah? What? What is it? Did he run off somewhere? I was wondering how he was going to –”

“He completed it for me.”

“What? What the fuck does that mean?”

“He –” Harry watched as the Adam’s apple bobbed in Draco’s throat. “He jumped.”

“Jumped? What do you mean ju –” Harry broke off, realization dawning.

Where were you?

The astronomy tower.

He bolted upright. “What the fuck are you saying? Where is he?”

“I imagine he’s at the base of the tower. Unless someone’s found him by now,” Draco said. His voice was eerily calm, but he was still shaky and breathing too shallowly and too quickly. He glanced over at Harry again, his face going blank and dispassionate. “He’s dead, Potter. Do try to keep up.”

Harry’s head felt like it was filled with white noise. He shook it, like he was trying to empty it out. “No,” he whispered. “That’s not – no. No.”

“Go look for yourself if you don’t believe me,” Draco said, closing his eyes.

“What the fuck,” Harry said, much too loudly. “And you were just – there? And you let him?” He shook his head again. “No. It’s not true, I know it’s not. This is some sort of – some sort of sick scheme so they think you completed the task, isn’t it? You wouldn’t just – let him.”

Draco said nothing, just stayed there, motionless.

Well, Harry’d had about enough of this. He shoved Draco, not gently. “Get the fuck up. If this is true, you’re going to prove it.”

“I’m not going to –”

“Now,” Harry said. His head still felt too full, stuffed full of noise and panic – all his panic from earlier in the evening seemed to be returning, made worse by the new panic that was flooding over him. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think clearly. He shoved again; shoving felt good. “Go.”

“I won’t. And what’re you going to do about it, hex me?” Draco snarled.

“Get out of my way, then,” Harry said. His voice sounded distant and weird.

“You idiot. You’re going to just linger around the tower until they suspect you? What’s your plan here? Besides fucking everything up?”

“Move.”

“No.”

“Stupefy!” Harry cried, aiming at Draco, who went still, a look of outrage still marring his fine features. Harry cast a feather-light charm and hauled Draco up and out of the bed, throwing the cloak over them both.

Even with Draco weighing close to nothing, he was still bulky and awkward. Harry handled him roughly, too angry to care.

The night was cool and damp, the moon high overhead. Harry ended the stunner once they were outside, then pointed his wand at Draco. “Show me,” he said.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Draco cried. “You fucking stunned me, you arsehole! Who gave you the right to –”

“Show me or I’ll do it again. I swear to Godric I will.”

Gritting his teeth, Draco whirled and led Harry in the direction of the tower. His back was rigid and his feet were bare. Harry’s feet were bare, too. The grass between his toes was cold and damp.

In the distance, Harry could see a dark shape beneath the tower. A crumpled heap.

“That’s him,” Draco said, averting his eyes. His face was shiny with sweat despite the chill in the air. “I’m not going any further, you lunatic. It’s like you want this to be pinned on me.”

“Did you do it?” Harry asked, and was immediately appalled at himself for asking, and even more appalled by the fact that it was a genuine question.

“No, I did not do it. Fuck you. Fuck you for even thinking that I could. You were there when I told him. You knew as well as I knew that he had a plan. Well, guess what?” He started laughing, a bit hysterically. “He did. This is it. He threw himself off the top of the astronomy tower. Great plan, right?”

Harry yanked off his glasses and pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. His head ached. He couldn’t fucking think. “No. He wouldn’t. He would’ve told me. Would’ve said goodbye.”

But he had, Harry realized with a thrill of horror. He had said goodbye.

Draco was telling the truth.

Harry felt his legs wobbling, felt a rush of cold air sweep through his head and down his back. Suddenly, Draco was catching him, holding him up. “He wanted me to wait to tell you because he knew you’d try to stop it,” he whispered, sounding remorseful for the first time that night.

“Oh, god.”

“Harry. I’m sorry, Harry.

“Oh my god. You knew this whole time.”

“No, not –”

“Let go,” he said, yanking himself away. He couldn’t think.

Dumbledore knew everything. He knew everything and he looked out for Harry. He was the most powerful wizard of his age. He was clever. He was ridiculous, with his bright robes and his sweets and his lemon candies always clacking against his teeth. He was vibrant and alive and there was no way that pile of debris was him. No way. It was impossible.

He staggered closer, Draco begging him to stop.

He saw a flash of white in the moonlight. Hair; a beard. Dark stains against the stone walkway. A leg that should not be able to move the way it had moved. It was wrong. It looked wrong, all of it.

Harry fell to his knees and stared, unable to look away.

He touched some of the white – it was dry and bristly, like a big paintbrush.

The hands were close together, resting side-by-side. One was black and weathered, one was just a hand. Harry took the one that seemed real and held it. It was cool already, but not cold.

He knew time passed, although he had no idea how much. But suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and he looked up to see Hermione and Ron standing over him. Hermione was grimacing and Ron was averting his eyes. “Come on, Harry. It’s an hour until sunrise. You’ll be seen.”

“How are you here?” he asked, feeling dazed, as they pulled him up.

“Malfoy told us,” Hermione said.

“Where did he go?”  

“Back to his room,” Ron said. “Mate, are you okay?”

Harry shook his head, not trusting his voice.

“Of course he’s not,” Hermione said, shooting Ron a look over Harry’s head.

Hermione paused, then looked back at Harry. “Listen, this is…you know, totally confidential. But. Malfoy said he was dying already. That blackened hand…there was a curse, apparently. Last summer.”

Harry stared at her. “Draco’s telling you things now? Doesn’t bother to tell me, but tells you?” He didn’t know why this mattered, but it felt, in that moment, like it did.

“Well, he wanted to explain so we could talk to you about it,” Ron said.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione said. “I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.”

“You’re my friend, not Malfoy’s,” Harry said, still stuck on this. Why, he didn’t know. Maybe because it was easier to think of this than to think of the rest of it.

She frowned. “Of course I’m your friend. Why would you even question that?”

“He’s probably exhausted, ‘Moine,” Ron said, taking his arm. “We should get him to bed.”

“Right. Yes, of course,” she said, casting another glance at Harry, worry written all over her face.

Ron dragged him to their room and basically shoved him into bed. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” Harry said.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” Harry snapped, and immediately felt guilty. But sorry didn’t seem like something he could manage at the moment.

“Okay. Well. I’m sorry, Harry. It’s awful, but it sounds like it was on his own terms, you know?”

Harry didn’t reply.

“Well. Get some rest. I’m here if you need me.”

Harry rolled over and Ron closed the curtains.

Draco had known. He’d known and he hadn’t said a word. It was betrayal, that’s what it was. Fucking betrayal.

“He’s in bed,” Granger said, slipping off the cloak as the door disappeared behind her. She’d met Draco in the Room at his request.

“Good,” Draco said. He was sitting on the rug, not knowing quite how to feel. After Dumbledore had jumped, he’d felt like he weighed a thousand pounds, and wanted nothing more than to curl up with Harry and forget about it for a few hours. Forget what he’d seen, what he’d heard. That muffled thump at the end, Salazar, that was never going to leave him.

But of course Harry could never cooperate or even be remotely rational. Not that Draco could wholly blame him, but it wasn’t like the evening had been a fucking picnic for him, either. And now, thanks to Harry’s spectacular freakout, he was riding the wave of a spiky adrenaline rush, and sleep seemed like an impossibility.

“He’s angry that you didn’t tell him beforehand,” Granger said, carefully sitting down next to him. It was strange to be in here with her and without Harry. Unnerving.

“Yes, I gathered,” Draco said. “But he would’ve interfered. He would’ve tried, anyway. Dumbledore asked me to wait until after for that exact reason.”

“I understand,” she said. “I do. He would’ve, definitely.”

“Maybe it would’ve been better if he had,” Draco said, running his hands over his face. He felt grimy, even though he’d showered earlier in the evening.

“What I don’t understand – and don’t worry, I didn’t say this to Ron or to Harry – is why it was necessary. You’ve defected. And I can’t imagine you’d ever return to the fold, not after what they did. So why did he have to do it? Why did he do this to continue the charade for you?”

Granger was too clever by half, as usual. “Good catch,” he said, his mouth in a tight line. “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say. By order of the Headmaster himself.” That fucking man. Weaving such complicated webs that everyone around him became stuck.

She considered him for several long moments, her brow furrowed. “You’re going back, aren’t you?” she finally said.

Fuck.

“Why would I do that?” he said, as offhandedly as he could. “They’d probably kill me on the spot.”

“No. I heard they’re getting your father out in the next day or so. You’re going to go running back to him.” He saw the slow-burning fury in her gaze, the judgment.

“It’s not like I want to!” he spat at her before he could think better of it.

Double fuck. Triple fuck.  “What I mean is, I – my father – he’ll be so displeased if I don’t,” he said, stammering and tripping over his words. “Of course, and I don’t – I don’t even have a choice, really. I’m sure you understand that, right?”

She narrowed her eyes. “But wait. No,” she said, as though she was having an entirely different conversation. “Because you said Dumbledore swore you to secrecy on the matter. Why would he have done that if you were just caving in to pressure or chickening out?” She shook her head. “No, it’s something else. Something to do with him.”

“I assure you that it’s not. Unfortunately, Granger, I’m every bit as cowardly and reprehensible as you might imagine,” he said, angling his chin up and adopting an expression he knew would infuriate her. This had already gone far enough. Best to throw her off this way than let her continue to put the pieces together.

“You’re lying,” she said, and he nearly cried in frustration. “I can tell, Malfoy. Dumbledore told you to keep it quiet, which means he’s involved somehow. Knowing him, he likely orchestrated it, which can only mean –” Her eyes went wide. “He asked you to be another Snape, didn’t he? He asked you to spy for the Order. Oh my god. And you’ve agreed to it! And he did this tonight so that you could return in You-Know-Who’s good graces.”

He stared at her, his mouth hanging open. Fucking Granger.

“Tell me I’m wrong! Go on, tell me!” Her eyes were blazing with triumph.

Draco, meanwhile, felt like the world was spinning out of control yet again, leaving him even more fucked than before.  And he was already rather fucked. “Granger, look, my life is on the line here,” he finally managed. “If Harry knows – if anybody knows – it’s going to get back to them. Dumbledore knew it, which is why he made me promise to keep it a secret. There are only two other people who know besides me and you. You cannot tell anyone else; I mean it. They’ll kill me. They’ll fucking kill me.” He was practically hyperventilating now.

“Nobody’s going to kill you. Harry would never tell anyone,” Granger said reasonably.

“No! No, no, no! You cannot tell him. Dumbledore was right. Harry would never be able to keep it quiet. He’d want to protect me, help me, defend me. You know he would. And then it would get out.”

“But, Draco. He’ll think you’ve betrayed us. It will break his heart! You can’t just leave without explaining this to him.” She looked worried now, anxious.

Fuck fuck fuck. “Granger. I know we aren’t friends. But I’m begging you to keep this to yourself. Please. I’m begging you. Harry and Weasley and all the rest of them must believe I’ve gone back. It’s the only way. Please.”

“I can’t believe Dumbledore asked you to do this.”

“Believe it,” he said, sounding bitter.

She let out a breath. “Fine. Fine, all right? You have my word. It stays with me. I won’t tell a soul.” She caught his eyes again. “Who knows? Besides me?”

“Snape and Tonks. That’s it.”

She nodded. “Those are excellent choices, I suppose.” She tucked her hair (wild today instead of smoothed) behind her ear. “I can’t believe you agreed to do this.”

“Why? Because it might hurt Harry?”

“Well, no. Because it’s dangerous. It’s the most dangerous thing you could possibly do.”

“He said…Dumbledore said I could help much more by going back than by staying with the Order. He said it would help Harry,” Draco said quietly.

Granger’s dark eyes flew to his. “Of course he did, the manipulative bastard. But he might’ve had a point.”

“Yes. I knew he was trying to scare me, but I knew it was true regardless,” Draco said.

Granger chewed her lip, hesitating. “I never know how to feel about him. Dumbledore, I mean. Probably a horrible thing to say tonight of all nights. Circe knows he’s done a great deal of good in his life. He dedicated his whole life to this school, and to protecting the wizarding world.”

“No, I know what you mean. I always wondered…” Draco said, then felt immediately guilty.

“What?”

“Well. I just didn’t understand a lot of what he did. Even before all this with Harry. Like, I wondered why, if he felt so strongly about Muggleborn students, he never tried to integrate you all into wizarding society earlier. Or why there was no special curriculum for you at the start of first year. It always seemed to me you were put at a great disadvantage.” He cleared his throat. “Not anything that couldn’t be overcome, of course, if you’re the cleverest witch in your year. But still.”

He expected her to give a thoughtful answer, or to get mad. Instead, she barked out a laugh. “I know. I mean, if I hadn’t read basically every one of our textbooks – along with Hogwarts: A History and a few texts I picked up on wizarding culture and society – before first year began, I’d have been utterly lost.”

“I’d imagine. There are fundamentals, basics of wizarding society and magic, that children in wizarding families are taught early on. And besides that, we sort of…absorb things as we grow.”

She nodded. “I’ve spoken to McGonagall about all this before. She seemed receptive, but nothing ever came of it. I always wondered if Dumbledore had put the kibosh on it.”

“If he did, he probably had some convoluted reason,” Draco said.

“I’m sure,” she said, then smiled over at him. “How did we even get on this topic?”

“Dumbledore,” Draco replied. “Feelings about Dumbledore.”

“Oh, right,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear again. “Listen, Draco…I’ll talk to Harry in the morning. There was no reasoning with him tonight. But tomorrow, I’ll try to talk some sense into him. But it’s unavoidable that he’ll be upset. Really upset. Dumbledore meant a great deal to him.”

“I know,” Draco said. “I know that.”

She nodded. “Are you heading back? I could walk you under the cloak.”

“Oh,” he said, surprised. He’d been planning to stay here until sunrise and then sneak back in rather than risk it now. “Sure.”

“Come on, then. I need to get an hour or two of sleep if I’m going to be of any use to anyone tomorrow.”

He chuckled, feeling strange, but not too strange about being huddled under the cloak with her. “Thank you, Granger. For keeping this quiet. And for talking to Harry. And for meeting with me tonight. And probably for other things, too, sweet Merlin, my list of debts owed to you keeps growing.”

She laughed, then. “It’s fine. So long as you help me look out for Harry, I’ll gladly continue doing you favors.”

“You too,” he said. “I mean, same goes for you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, as they reached the stairwell. They crept down silently, Granger alert and hyper-focused on their surroundings. “I really don’t want to get caught,” she confessed. “I had a number of detentions last year and I emphatically did not enjoy them.”

“Nobody likes detention. It’s boring as hell.”

“Well, yes. But I hate them because I just know our teachers must think badly of me for getting into trouble. I don’t like the feeling of losing their respect.”

He arched a brow at her. “Hm. Granger, I’m fairly certain that nothing you could possibly do would make our teachers stop respecting you. They fucking love you. Well, except for Snape, but he doesn’t love anybody.”

“Anybody but you, that is,” she teased.

“He’s a bit biased towards Slytherin, perhaps.”

“A bit! A bit!” He felt a jab in his side and found himself laughing quietly. They’d reached the door to the Slytherin Common Room already – the walk had gone surprisingly quickly for something that seemed to have so much potential to be wretchedly awkward. But it really hadn’t been.

“Goodnight, Granger. Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” she said, slipping the cloak back over herself and disappearing.

It was a group of younger Hufflepuffs who found him, and by breakfast, almost everyone in the castle knew. The official line, per McGonagall’s announcement at lunch, was that there had been an accident and the Headmaster had passed away. Despite everyone already knowing this, there were gasps throughout the Great Hall when she said it.

Rumors were already spreading like wildfire. The idea that Snape had done it was a popular one, except among the Slytherins, who defended their Head of House to anyone who dared to suggest it in hearing distance of them. There was a rumor that it had been Voldemort himself, and one that Dumbledore had been mauled by Greyback (Draco wanted to roll his eyes at that one. As if Greyback could’ve stood against that man. Greyback could bite, but he was a bit of an idiot.).

There was fear among the students – Draco could feel it – but above all, there was titillation, that strange excitement that always followed an event of this nature, horrendous as it was. Draco felt old and weary sitting in the middle of it, and quite annoyed besides.

Afternoon classes were canceled, and a funeral was being arranged for the following morning. The Prophet caught wind of the news and somehow managed to produce a special afternoon edition of the paper that covered Dumbledore’s death as well as some wild speculation over the cause. There were also think pieces on the Headmaster that had been quickly compiled, and a story about his tenure at Hogwarts.

Students wept, hauling the special-edition paper around with them in the Great Hall or on the grounds, which seemed to be the places everyone was gathering. Draco and his friends went outside. It was a bright, blue-sky day, the breeze mild. It felt like spring, the air sweetly-scented, and Draco leaned back and let the sunshine soak into his skin and thought about Potter. He had been at breakfast and lunch, but did not look at or speak to Draco. Draco wanted to give him a good shove, but he also wanted to comfort him, and those conflicting desires left him feeling restless and irritable.

“Who do you think is going to replace him?” Blaise asked. He was sitting against an oak that was just beginning to new sprout leaves, tossing his wand up into the air and spinning it before catching it again. Over and over. “McGonagall? Snape could do it. He’d be fantastic.”

“It’ll be McGonagall,” Daphne said, sounding bored. “They’d never let Snape. Too many wittle Gryffindor mummies and daddies would be upset if he was given the position.”

“Probably true,” Blaise said.

“McGonagall fucking hates us,” Vince said, frowning. “We’re going to get detentions all the time.”

“Oh, come off it, Vince,” Blaise said. “She’s strict but fair. She even gives the Chosen One detention sometimes.”

Pansy’s eyes cut to Draco’s. He’d filled her in on everything that happened last night, of course, and she was busy worrying about him again. “I’m fine,” he mouthed at her.

“Draco, my dad says something’s going to happen soon,” Greg said. “D’you know anything about it?”

“No, can’t say that I do,” Draco lied.

“Salazar, You-Know-Who must be pleased as punch by this news,” Daphne said. She and her family were neutral in the war, and Daphne always sounded a bit like she was biting on a lemon when she mentioned Voldemort.

“Oh, everyone’s really excited,” Greg said, nodding.

“Excited about what?” came a new voice. Draco realized he’d closed his eyes, but now they snapped open in time to see Theo sprawling out next to him on the grass.

“What happened to old Dumbles,” Greg said with a grin.

Pansy shot another look at Draco. He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like he actually liked the old man. In fact, he didn’t know how to feel, really. He had been horrified by the events of the evening before, but he wasn’t sad. Was he?

Merlin, maybe he was. It was hard to tell. He was so anxious that the anxiety made it hard to feel anything else at all.

He would have felt like more of a monster for not being devastated – particularly since Dumbledore’s suicide had been committed for his benefit (sort of) – except his conversation with Granger told him he wasn’t alone in feeling conflicted. He looked out over the grounds and spotted her with Harry and Weasley on the edge of the lake. He would’ve given just about anything to know what they were saying.

He realized Theo was prattling on about how he couldn’t reveal too much, but something was in the works, and would be happening very, very soon, and how his father was one of the few who knew about it, since he was part of the Dark Lord’s inner circle now.

Pansy and Daphne looked increasingly unimpressed as he continued to speak, while Vince and Greg seemed thrilled. Blaise kept his face perfectly blank through it all, the way he tended to when the war or Voldemort came up in conversation.

“Draco, I hear your father is going to be rejoining us soon,” Theo said, looking happy about this.

“That’s the rumor,” Draco replied. “We’ll see.”

“The Dark Lord said it, so it’ll happen. Trust me,” Theo said.

Draco wanted to strangle him. He was being supportive of Draco, in a way, but more than that, he was delighting in the feeling of knowing more than Draco, of being on the inside. Draco could spot it a mile away, since he’d felt that way himself at the beginning of the year. It was heady, he knew, to be in on the Dark Lord’s secrets, to be part of something, even if that something was a cult of violence hellbent on committing genocide.

And if he was honest, there was a small – no, infinitesimally tiny – sliver of jealousy in his heart. He didn’t like the feeling of being supplanted by Theo Fucking Nott. He didn’t like Theo waving his father’s increased status in his face.

He stood and made a show of stretching, of not having anything in particular on his mind. “I’m going to walk for a bit.”

Pansy, bless her, jumped up. “I’ll go with you, darling,” she said.

They started out towards the lake. She must’ve known that Potter was the destination he had in mind. He wasn’t quite sure how to approach the Gryffindor trio casually, while everyone was outside watching, but he was desperate to talk to Harry.

“How are you doing?” Pansy asked as they walked.

“I’m all right, I suppose,” he answered. “I think.”

“There comes a point where it all feels almost…not real. You know? All this madness. It seems impossible that the world is this way.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding at her. “That’s exactly it. And also, I’ve lost my mother, which was the worst possible thing that could’ve happened, so now all the other terrible things seem…small, I guess. It’s hard to even think about them.”

She patted his arm. “Has Harry talked to you yet today?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Are we walking into danger?” she asked, looking at him with a raised brow.

“Danger? No. Harry won’t curse my bollocks off, I don’t think. There might be some four-letter words bandied about. We’ll see.”

They drew closer to Weasley and Granger and Harry. “Hi, Malfoy. Parkinson,” Weasley said across the small distance between them. They were mostly alone here except for some younger students playing tag nearby.

“Hello,” Pansy said.

“Hi,” Draco said.

Harry was not looking at him. He was staring resolutely out at the lake, the stubborn fuck. “How are you all?” Draco asked.

“We’re managing,” Granger said, casting a glance over at Harry. “Well, most of us.”

Potter threw her a glare. Draco had a sick flash of satisfaction. At least he wasn’t the only one getting this treatment.

“How are you doing, Harry?” he asked, more pointedly.

Harry’s eyes flew to his. “How d’you think?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

There was a grunt, and then Granger elbowed Harry in the ribs. “Ow,” he groused at her. “I’m –” he glanced over at Granger. “Not having a great day.”

Draco saw that his eyes were puffy and red, and that he looked rumpled and rough around the edges. He hadn’t shaved, and there was a little stubble on his jaw. Draco admired that; he could skip shaving for days and it hardly looked like anything.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, trying to sound genuine. And he was sorry. He wished that Harry would let him be there for him the way he’d been there for Draco after his mother’s death. He wished they could comfort each other in the face of it. Instead, there was…this.

He could’ve sworn, though, that Potter’s expression softened a bit, then. “Yeah. Thanks,” he said after a beat.

“Potter, you know Draco’s been worried about you all day. Not about the fact that he could…um.” She glanced at him, and he tried to shut her up with his glare, which didn’t work, of course. “Get in trouble for this. He’s only been yapping about you, about wanting to talk to you. So maybe it would be good for the two of you to talk, or whatever, at some point.”

“It would be good, I think,” Granger said, tilting her head to the side. “So long as nobody throws any hexes or anything.”

Weasley snorted.

“I’m not going to throw hexes, for Godric’s sake,” Potter muttered. He looked over at Draco again. “I wouldn’t be opposed to going to the Room.”

“Now?” Draco asked.

Potter shrugged.

“Fine. Why don’t you meet me up there? But don’t leave right after I do, obviously,” Draco said.

“Right, I’m not an idiot,” Harry said.

“Harry,” Hermione said. “Nobody said you were an idiot.”

“He implied it,” Harry mumbled.

“Oookay. Well. Really appreciate the mediation, ladies,” Draco said. “I feel like we’re toddlers who’ve been fighting on the playground and you’re our mums. But what else is new?”

“Somebody’s got to handle you. Since the two of you are acting like children,” Pansy said.

“Indeed,” said Hermione.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m not the one who’s acting out.”

“No, you’re just the one who didn’t bother to tell me –” Potter began.

“Honestly!” Granger cried. “Go, Draco. Pansy, take his wand from him before he goes in there. I’ll collect Harry’s.”

“Good idea,” Pansy said, the traitor. “There’s only so much damage they can do without them.”

Granger nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”

“You know,” Harry said, coming into the Room shortly thereafter. “I have a right to be upset,” he said.

“I never said you didn’t.”

“He wasn’t just a professor to me. He looked out for me. He confided in me. He was a mentor, and a friend.”

“I know.”

“You should have told me. He should have told me.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said. “I’m sorry he didn’t. But I understand why he didn’t. He knew you wouldn’t have allowed it. And he was determined.”

“I know,” Harry said, surprising him. “I know that.”

“You’re not really mad at me. You’re mad because he did it,” Draco said, seeing, suddenly, through all Harry’s bullshit. “You’re mad because he left you.”

“Of course I fucking am!” Harry cried. Then came the tears Draco had been dreading. “Of course I am! He knew! He knew how much I needed him. He didn’t fucking care. Now he’s left me with all of this shit to do – it’s all on me now. And I’ve got to do it while I feel like this. God, it’s almost as bad as Sirius. I don’t understand why everyone around me has to die.”

“Shh,” Draco said, pulling him close. To his surprise, Harry let him. “It’s total shit. It’s all shit. It shouldn’t be like that. You shouldn’t have to lose anyone else. I know.”

Harry was shoving his face into Draco’s neck almost painfully. “It is. It’s shit.”

“This war’s shit. That’s why we need to end it, right? Why we need to stop him.”

Harry nodded.

“You can do it, Harry. I know you can. You can do it without Dumbledore.”

A little sob escaped him. “How the fuck do you know?”

“Because I know you. I know how fucking stubborn you are. I know how powerful you are. I know how brave you are. You can do this.”

“He’s such an arsehole,” Harry said. “I really might hate him.”

“You don’t hate him. You loved him.”

A tight nod.

“He was a complicated man, yeah?”

Another nod.

“He loved you, too, you know. I think as much as he’d ever loved anyone.”

Harry shook his head, and then they fell silent for a long time.

“I’ve got to find three more Horcruxes,” Harry finally said, pulling away and swiping at his face. “I have no clue how to do that.”

“Tell me. We’ll try to work through it,” Draco said, falling back onto the rug and taking Harry’s hand and pulling him down, too.

They tried talking through it all, but the lack of sleep had caught up with them, and soon they were dozing. They woke up to the sound of a loud pop coming through the cabinet.

“A message,” Draco said, scrambling up to his feet and hurrying over.

Well done. Here is a token of my gratitude.

That was all the note said, written in the Dark Lord’s own hand. Attached to it was a small golden ring with words in Latin inscribed around the edges: Venerantes Sanguinem et Nomen.

“What’s it mean?” Potter asked.

“Honoring the blood and the name,” Draco said. “It’s quite an achievement to get one of these. My father was the first to be given one upon the Dark Lord’s return.” He stared at the words, felt the heft of the gold in his hand.

“Why’re you making that face?” Potter asked.

“What face.”

“You look…pleased.”

Draco stared at him. “I’m not pleased. I’m just thinking about how ironic it is that not long ago, this was all I could’ve wanted.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, and that’s honestly disturbing.”

“Will anything I do ever be enough for you?” Draco asked, throwing his hands up. He had had enough of this. He was going to leave Hogwarts soon and walk right into that pit of vipers, all for Harry. And Harry couldn’t even fully get over the fact that he’d once been an enthusiastic Death Eater. That he’d given all that up - for Harry - never seemed to matter quite as much.

“I dunno what that’s supposed to mean,” Harry groused. “I would think you’d know by now that you are, obviously.”

Draco laughed. “Are what?”

“Enough. You’ve…I’m over all that stuff from your past. How can you not know that?”

“Because you still say things like what you just said, Harry.”

“Merlin, you’re maddening. Picking a fight over every little thing today.”

“Me? You’re the one who keeps taking shots. Saying things to hurt me.”

Harry huffed. “Well, I’m angry with you.”

“I thought we'd determined that you were actually angry with Dumbledore?”

“I'm angry with you both! And I don’t know how to stop being angry.”

Well. That sounded like the truth. “You know,” Draco replied, trying not to blow up again. “I wanted to be angry with you over my mother, but I didn’t let myself. I knew it wasn’t your fault, not really. Just like this isn’t my fault.”

Harry let out a growl of frustration. “I just don’t understand! Why’d he have to involve you in everything? Why couldn’t he just bring you into the Order and call it a day? Why’d he have to pounce on you like you were a fucking piece of chocolate pudding, and pull you into all his schemes?”

“Because that’s what he does,” Draco replied. “What he did, rather. He schemed. I don’t understand for the life of me how the man wasn’t in Slytherin.”

“Don’t say that about him,” Harry said.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult, for fuck’s sake. You may be aware that I’m in Slytherin House as well. I’m just saying, he was capable of scheming with the best of them.”

“I hated it. I always hated that.”

“I wasn’t crazy about it, either."

Harry looked at him. “Anything else? Any other secrets? He’s dead now, so you might as well tell me.”

Draco’s mouth went dry. “No,” Draco lied. It made his chest ache to do it. “Nothing.”

“Well, thank god for that, at least,” Harry said. He moved closer and tucked Draco's hair behind his ear and kissed his cheek, then his mouth. 

Draco let him, grateful for it, for the escape from all of their circuitous arguments. 

Soon, it was all skin and motion and mouths, and the only words uttered were please and more and yes. Everything seemed bright and lovely for a short while, and Draco let himself get lost in it, in Harry.

The next day, Dumbledore’s memorial service was held in the Great Hall. There was great pomp and circumstance, flowers blooming everywhere (they'd grown up out of the cracks in the floor spontaneously, according to Professor Sprout), a ghostly brass quartet sending him off with flair, and, of course, weeping and gnashing of teeth. For all that he was uncertain about his feelings for Dumbledore, Draco could not help but lose his composure, just a little, during Snape’s eulogy, which was one of the loveliest things he’d ever heard. He glanced over at Potter afterward to find him stone-faced and still, keeping all he felt from the curious students clustering around him. Their eyes met, and they both softened, and Draco knew that Potter would forgive him for this.   

As for whether he would be forgiven for the next bit, that remained to be seen.

And then they put what was left of the man to rest in the Hogwarts crypts, which was, really, the only place for him. He had belonged to Hogwarts and Hogwarts had belong to him. It had been, no matter what he’d said to Harry, the Headmaster’s only true love.

Because Dumbledore had been a liar. A weaver of webs. A trickster. He’d been heartless and cold and cruel. And he’d also done more for wizard-kind than almost anyone else in its history. He’d held off terrible evils, time and time again, when others failed and died and fell into ruin. He was a hero and a visionary, and the world would never forget him. He would live on in books and in memory for ages and ages to come, as long as wizards lived. He was a legend, fading to myth even as the ghosts and the faculty and the students sang a hymn over his tomb.

Perhaps, thought Draco, this was a truth about all great men, at least in the eyes of those who knew them: in the end, they were just as human as anyone else.

Chapter Text

“Farewell has a sweet sound of reluctance. Good-by is short and final, a word with teeth sharp to bite through the string that ties past to the future.”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent

For all that Harry and Draco had feared the coming of April twenty-seventh, it was astoundingly anticlimactic. Harry crept into Draco’s room early in the evening, and they hid themselves inside the thick green curtains. Except for a small handful of students and professors, nobody knew anything was going on. Students curled up on common room sofas, studied in their rooms, wrote essays in the library. They gossiped and played Exploding Snap, griped about homework and quizzes, and generally carried on with their lives, none the wiser regarding the Vanishing Cabinet that was, that very evening, admitting terrorists into the Room of Requirement.

In the hour leading up to sunset, Draco decided he needed a distraction or he was going to lose his mind worrying. He found just the thing as he kissed Harry lazily, leisurely, his hands ghosting over the irresistible expanse of Harry’s skin. Harry had tan lines on his biceps from being outside for a handful of days, and Draco found them ridiculously attractive, while also making a mental note to lecture him at some point about skin-shielding spells.

They’d been resolutely not talking about Dumbledore, just as they had the previous evening, despite the fact that Dumbledore seemed to be the only thing anyone else wanted to talk about. Instead, they were talking about Quidditch and homework and whether Weasley and Granger would ever actually get together.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Draco said, kissing a trail down the side of Harry’s neck while he squirmed. “But he’s not good enough for her.”

“Who? What’re you – oh, fuck, that feels good. What’re you talking about?”

“Weasley. Granger’s too good for him.”

Harry stiffened, pushing at him. “Why would you say that?”

“Calm down, it's just an opinion. Granger’s rather pretty now that she’s figured out…you know. The teeth. And the hair situation. And besides, she’s obviously an actual genius. And she’s principled and driven; consider all her SPEW ridiculousness. I mean, I don’t quite get it, but I appreciate that she thinks about things like that. She’s an impressive person all around. And I suppose Ron is fine, but he’s not…he’s not like her. She ought to be with someone equally impressive. I mean, it would make a lot more sense for her to go out with you.”

Harry frowned, his full lips bright pink. Draco kissed them again and nipped at the bottom one, feeling it slide through his teeth. “You want me to date Hermione,” Harry finally said.

“Fuck no. I’d chop off your bollocks,” Draco replied. “No, I’m not saying you. I’m just saying someone like you. Not that anyone’s really like you, so scratch that. Just someone more impressive, I suppose.”

“Ron’s a great guy!” Harry protested, as Draco knew he would. “He’s loyal, he’s actually quite clever, and he’s hilarious. I think you just don’t know him.”

Draco walked a pair of fingers over Harry’s chest, which made him twitch and laugh; he was very ticklish. “I’m just saying! I understand her not wanting to give up the thing with Terry Boot. He’s swotty like her, and a bit hot.”

“Don’t call other guys hot around me, please.”

“Why? I don’t think he’s as hot as you, you plonker.”

“Yes, because I’m so hot, obviously. Look at me with my glasses and my terrible hair and my nonexistent abdominal muscles.”

Draco laughed. “Oh, Salazar! You really don’t know that you’re gorgeous, do you? I always thought that was nonsense, the whole this person’s so beautiful but they have no idea thing.  Like, how would a person not know? I think I could rate everyone I know – especially myself – on an attractiveness scale without thinking much about it.” He kissed along Potter’s squared-off, stubborn jaw. “But you don’t know. You actually, literally don’t. You’re like a fucking unicorn, Potter. A magical, elusive creature rarely seen in the wild.”

Harry was giggling by the end. “And what would you rate yourself, then?”

“Six-point-five. Maybe seven on a good day. I’m really skinny, but some guys like that, I suppose. I think I do all right with the eyes, and I have great fucking hair.”

“You do, that’s true,” Harry said, his eyes shining with laughter.

“I know,” Draco said. “I’m tall, so that pushes me up the scale, and I dress well.”

“I mean, you dress like a member of the landed gentry in, like, the 1800s, but sure,” Harry said, giving his side a pinch.

“For a wizard – I dress well for a wizard. I don’t know what muggles wear. Based on your wardrobe, they wear tatty denim and those gigantic pocket jumpers –”

“Pocket jumpers? What?” Harry was cackling now.

“You know what I mean! The weirdly smooth jumpers with the pockets and the hoods.”

“Sweatshirts?”

“Yes, those. Anyway, if dressing yourself like an indentured farm laborer is muggle couture, then I’m sure I can learn to do that easily enough.”

“I assure you, I don’t dress well for a muggle, either.”

“Shocking,” Draco said, earning him another pinch. “But, minus a point for my chin, I suppose.”

Harry snorted. “Minus a point, get it? A point! Ha!”

“Oi, you wanker,” Draco said, kicking at him. “You’re not supposed to agree with me!”

“What’re the other subtracted points for?” Harry asked.

“Well, I’m rather pale.”

“I like it!” Harry exclaimed. “Your skin, I mean. It’s really…I dunno.”

“My skin’s ‘really I dunno’, is it? Why thank you, Potter.”

“It’s lovely, all right? It’s really soft and clear and smooth. It’s one of the nicest things about you, I think.”

“Really?” Draco said, grinning. “Interesting. Is that why you like marking it up so much?”

“Ugh, shut up.”

“No, thank you. I still have to do you. You’re an eight, I think. If you dressed yourself better, you’d be a nine.”

Potter snorted. “Right.”

“I’m serious! Your eyes are, like, five points in and of themselves. And the whole face is rather nice. Really symmetrical and everything.” He tapped Harry’s nose and then his top lip. “Your mouth is fucking gorgeous. I mean, just look at it. I have sort of thin lips, but yours are perfect. Just begging to be kissed, really. And you have the darkest eyelashes. Nobody should have eyelashes that dark and long, it’s unfair. And even though your hair is an unmitigated disaster, it’s a very fetching color, and even the messiness…it works for you, I suppose. And I know you’re not all musclebound or whatever, but you’ve got the build for it, so I bet you will be when you’re older. You’ve got those big, broad shoulders and those thighs, Merlin.”

“And my ankles,” Harry said, giggling. “You said you like my ankles.”

“Well, yes. They are good ankles. Anyway, I hope you never learn to dress yourself because then I’m fucked. You’ll quickly realize you’re more attractive than me and I’ll be history. Right now, with your minus one point for dressing poorly, we aren’t horribly mismatched.”

“You’re mad. In no universe am I more attractive than you,” Harry said. “And your lips are perfectly nice and kissable.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Right. Right, the actual truth is that I have no interest in kissing your lips. They disgust me.”

Draco kissed him. “Harry,” he said.

“Yes, Draco?”

“I really –” he stopped, not knowing exactly what to say. The world was falling apart around them, and this thing between them – this beautiful, achingly brilliant thing – was going to end. And yet, he felt so happy in that moment that he hardly knew how to hold himself still. His heart felt like it might leap out of his chest. “You’re the best thing to happen to me this year. Maybe ever. Being with you makes me so happy it’s stupid.”

Harry cupped his face and Draco kissed his palm. “You only like me because I’m so handsome,” he said, straight-faced.

Draco rolled his eyes and laughed. “Obviously. But no, I’m being serious now!”

“Okay, okay. Give me a second.” Harry forced his smile to go away and looked up at Draco. “Yes, I’m ready. I’m very serious. Ready to be told serious things.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I thought I was the best thing to happen to you?”

“Well, yes. You’re both. And I love you. I love you a rather ridiculous amount.”

“How would you rate it on a scale of one to ten, hm?” Harry said.

“Ten thousand,” Draco said. “Ten million!”

Then suddenly, Harry was turning them over and covering Draco with his body, and was kissing him breathless. “You’re the best thing to happen to me this year and maybe ever, too.”

Something in Draco’s chest was swelling, getting bigger and bigger, so he could hardly breathe around it. “Really?”

“Really.”

“This makes no sense, you and me.”

“Nope.”

“Will you feel this way no matter what?”

“Probably,” Harry said. “I can’t imagine not feeling this way, at any rate.”

“Even if you get mad at me?”

“I’m mad at you, like, fifty percent of the time.”

“I mean, really mad.”

“Yes, I’ll still feel this way.”

“Even if we’re not in the same place this summer?”

“Yeah, I don’t think that really matters. I’m sure we won’t be in the same place.”

“Harry. I need you to know something.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I’m serious!” Draco said, smacking Harry’s arm. “Can you not be serious for one goddamned second?”

“I’m trying, I am!” Harry said.

“Okay, then. Listen. Because I am being serious. I’m going to do everything I can to protect you. In this war. I need you to know that. That no matter what, I’ll look out for you.”

“Me too,” Harry said, kissing his mouth once. “Of course.”

Draco thought, suddenly, of Simon. Of a promise sworn in blood. He grabbed his wand and before Harry could do anything about it, he’d slashed a line down his own palm. Not the one with the scar, but the bare one. The clean one. “Give me your hand.”

Harry, suddenly solemn, lifted a hand. Draco slashed his palm as gently as he could, and then pressed it together with his, linking their fingers, a single droplet of ruby-red blood, then two, spilling onto the sheets.

“I swear to you that no matter what the war brings, I will do everything I can to keep you safe. I won’t ever betray you. I swear it on my blood and my name,” Draco said, looking from their hands and up into Harry’s green eyes. He felt a shiver as some strange magic swept over him, and he saw that Harry felt it too.

He realized, afterward, that the words were uncomfortably similar to the etching on the ring he had not yet worn: Honoring the blood and the name.

Now his blood was mixed with Harry’s. It was something different, starting tonight; he’d made it new. Fuck his father’s blood and his family name. His father had done nothing to protect him and had brought him into this mess in the first place. His father had dragged their family into it, and it had led to his mother being killed. Draco decided then and there that he owed his father nothing. He was not his father’s any longer; he was Harry’s. He thought he’d probably been Harry’s for much longer than he was willing to admit.

“I swear that I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe,” Harry said carefully, his voice unsteady. “I won’t ever betray you. No matter what the war brings. I swear it on my blood and my name.”

Another wave of something fell over them, some simple blood magic they’d managed to conjure, and Draco had the sensation of a door being closed, of finality.

“What the fuck was that?” Harry breathed.

“Blood magic. Blood magic is real, Potter.”

“Is it dark?” he asked, looking concerned.

Draco shook his head. “No. Not necessarily.”

“Is my dick going to fall off if I break my oath or something?”

“I don’t know. D’you want to test it out?” Draco replied, laughing up at him.

“Not particularly,” Harry said. Then he went still. “Hey. What time is it?”

Draco cast a Tempus.  “Eight forty-two.”

“Six minutes until sunset.”

Draco nodded. “Want to count it down?”

Harry shook his head. “I’d rather kiss you through it.”

“Kiss me, or…”

“Or is good, too.”

“You know, you’ve still not let me put my mouth on you.”

Harry, much to Draco’s delight, blushed and adjusted himself. “Erm…”

“C’mere,” Draco said, pulling him down. He kissed Harry softly at first, little teasing brushes of lips and tongues, but soon, they were pressing themselves together, hanging onto each other so tightly it almost hurt.

Draco wasn’t wholly in his right mind by the time he pushed Harry off him and scrambled to kneel over his hips.

“It’s probably over by now,” he said. “The Room’s probably sealed.”

Harry grinned up him, his mouth bright red. “Oh, who even cares?”

“Not me,” Draco said, and reached down to slide a hand over his pants. Harry groaned, and Draco kissed his way down Harry’s chest, paying attention to his favorite patch of hair for a moment, and then continuing southward.

He’d never done this before, but he figured it couldn’t be that difficult. People did it far too often for it to be complicated or unpleasant. He took Harry’s prick in his hand and licked a stripe up the underside of the shaft and then over the tip. Harry nearly flew off the bed. “Shh!” Draco said. “My silencing charms aren’t that good.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry whispered, and then let out another yelp as Draco lowered his mouth over the tip. Harry tasted like skin and smelled a little musky and a little bit like soap. It was a rather intoxicating scent. Draco licked at the tip again, and tasted a little bead of precome. It wasn’t bad either, just a tang of salt.

He drew his mouth down lower on the next go, and Harry made another incredible noise above him, and his whole body juddered, and Draco decided he could definitely see the appeal of this. He could only imagine how it felt, Merlin. It probably felt so good.

“God, Draco,” Harry said from above him. He had his arm slung over his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“Good?”

“Yes. Yes. Really good.”

He moved his mouth down the shaft again, enjoying the feeling of Harry in his mouth, the weight of a prick against his tongue; the velvety-smooth, hot skin; the hardness of him. He took Harry’s bollocks in his free hand and stroked them gently, and the muscles of Harry’s thighs tensed, and he spread his legs further. Merlin, it was lovely down here. So many sensitive, secret places to admire. Draco ran his hand up Harry’s stomach, and Harry clutched desperately at it, holding it for a moment. He still hadn’t stopped those delicious sounds, that symphony of little moans and sighs.

He became even harder inside of Draco’s mouth as Draco continued to suck him, and soon, he was scrambling around. “Draco – Draco –”

“You can,” Draco said. “I want you to.”

“No, wait.  Wait, hang on.”

“Mm?” Draco said, and suddenly Harry was bolting upright and shoving Draco onto his back. “What the fuck?”

“I want to try it on you, too.”

“You do? Um. Yes?”

And then Harry was swallowing down his cock, with far less caution than Draco had taken his initially, and Draco realized exactly what all the fuss was about. It was fucking brilliant. Giving head was brilliant, getting head was brilliant, and holy fuck, why had they not been doing this every day for months?

Harry’s mouth was wet and hot, and he was beyond eager - all the hesitation of their first encounters together was gone. Draco’s hips kept rising off the bed even though he tried to keep them down, and Harry eventually shoved his hands underneath and gripped Draco’s arse cheeks in his palms and Draco almost came right then but managed to hold back.

“Can you – do you think you can do this upside down? I could…I could do it to you at the same time.”

“Fuck, okay, yes. Yeah.” Harry shifted until he was kneeling above Draco’s head, looking down at him. They were both dizzy with what they were doing, so turned on they could hardly function. “Like this?” he said, crawling down a little, so his prick was sort of hitting Draco in the forehead.

“No, keep going,” Draco said. “Don’t worry, I’ll kick you if I feel like I’m being suffocated.”

“Lovely,” Harry snorted, and then his hot, wet mouth was back on Draco’s cock, his tongue working along with his lips, and he was gripping Draco’s thighs, and his prick was in Draco’s mouth, kind of choking him, yes, but not too badly, particularly when Draco angled his head just so.

What followed were long, drawn-out moments of pure bliss, of sparkling sensation and pleasure that seemed to be coming from everywhere at once – from the feel of Harry’s hands gripping the underside of his thighs, urging him to lift his hips up and up; that fucking mouth, so hungry and eager; the feel of Harry’s heavy cock on his tongue; the slight ache of his jaw; the warm skin connecting them in the middle; Harry’s arse in his hands.

He tried to hold back, because he wanted more and more and more of this, but everything was building to an exquisite crescendo, and he couldn’t talk anyway to warn Harry, so he just squeezed the cheeks of Harry’s arse tighter and shuddered uncontrollably as he went diving over the edge.

Not a moment later, his mouth was filling with more salty-musky-hot come, a surprising amount of it, really, and he did rather well, he thought, swallowing it down without much trouble.

Harry, bless him, moved his legs after that, and Draco felt a rush of cool air on his hot face, and could breathe properly again. He felt Harry kissing over his prick, sweet, soft kisses that made him grin. “What the hell,” he managed.

“That was…I don’t even know what that was. That was madness,” Harry said.

“How does that feel so good?”

“I know.”

Harry shifted until he was face-to-face with Draco. Both their faces were damp, and when he kissed Harry, he tasted like come. It was so good. It was better than that.

“See, now I’m torn.”

“How’s that?” Draco asked, arching an eyebrow over at him.

“I thought nothing could possibly be better than sex, but. I dunno. It’s close.”

“Better?”

“Well, not better. But tied.”

“Mm. Yeah. Different, though. Good for different reasons.” Draco mused.

“This felt a bit kinkier than the sex, maybe.”

“Oh, my sweet Harry, if you think this was kinky, I have a feeling some of the other things I want to do to you are going to blow your innocent little mind.”

Harry kissed over his neck, laughter hot against Draco’s skin. “Oh!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Hey. You know what? It’s over. The invasion. I mean, I assume it’s over, anyway.”

“They’d have come for me by now if they’d gotten past the door. It must be over.”

They stared at the canopy overhead for a moment. “Shockingly nice night, considering,” Harry said.

“Yes, it was,” Draco said, feeling sated and debauched and altogether wonderful. He didn’t want to clean himself or Harry or the sheets or anything at all. It was nice just like this, to be sort of reveling in what they’d done together. He took Harry’s hand and kissed the knuckles, and felt a twinge in his palm.

Oh, the oath. He’d forgotten about it already. He looked down at his thighs and saw a bit of blood there. “Oops. I think we might’ve bled on each other a bit. From our palms.”

“See? This really was kinky. There was blood and everything.”

“Ew.”

Harry nipped at his neck softly, chuckling. “You love it.”

“I do.” He curled up into Harry and held on tightly, and wished there was a way to stop time. But there wasn’t, so all he could do was make what was left of it count.

Draco knocked on the heavy, wooden door. “Come in,” said the droll voice on the other side.

He slipped in and closed the door behind him as Professor Snape looked up from the parchment he was grading. The office, as usual, was dimly lit and jammed with artefacts and books, although they were organized with almost manic precision. “Draco, good afternoon. Give me a moment; you may sit.”

Draco sat, waiting patiently for Snape to finish marking the parchment. Finally, he set down his quill and looked up, letting out a sigh. “What brings you in to see me? My essay? Or another matter?”

“Another matter,” Draco said. “I’m looking for information about last night. I’ve heard nothing, not even from my friends.”

“Yes, well, it’s not exactly a proud moment for them, now, is it?”

“But it worked, right? I mean, obviously. Our plan worked.”

“Yes, it did,” Snape said.

“Does anyone suspect me?”

Snape shook his head. “No, thank Salazar. No, you’re in everyone’s good graces because of…because of what happened before that.” He cleared his throat. “And as it so happens, the moment Travers came through the cabinet, he panicked and sent off a blasting curse, which is what they’re all saying caused Argus to poke his head in. Travers is gone; the rumor is he fled to the United States. I don’t know whether that part is true or not, but, regardless, no one is looking at you. It went perfectly, really.”

Draco breathed a sigh of relief, and something that had been knotted tightly inside of him since the beginning of the year began to loosen. “That’s good news.”

“Yes.”

“Is there any news of my father?”

“He was freed after his appeal the day before the invasion, as I’m sure you heard.” Draco had. “I believe it was the result of a few strategic threats to Wizengamot members. And then yesterday, he was here, in the Room of Requirement, with the rest. I’ve heard nothing further -I haven’t had the opportunity to speak to him yet.”

Draco took that in. “Does he even want me to come home this summer?”

Snape looked at him, an expression of pity painted over his face. It did not suit him and made Draco feel hot and embarassed. Draco sat up straighter and tried to look indifferent, tried to convey without words that that look was unnecessary. “I haven’t heard anything. But I promise you that I’ll tell you as soon as I do.”

Draco wasn’t completely surprised by this. His father had made no attempt to contact him since that first letter; perhaps he had no desire to. Maybe Draco wouldn’t be able to serve as a spy for the Order because his father wouldn’t let him come home. “I see,” he said.

But there was another matter he wanted to settle while he was here. “Sir,” he began carefully. “I also wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. For not cooperating with you earlier in the year. It was foolish of me – you’ve never done anything but support and encourage me. I should never have doubted you.”

“That’s good to hear,” Snape said, folding his hands on the desk. “And yes, I have always been supportive of you. I’ve known your family for a long time, Draco. I’ve known you since you were two years old. I promised your mother I’d help you, and not just because she asked me to, but because I wanted to help you. I would not have offered it to just anyone.”

“I know. I ought to have realized that. But for some reason, I thought you only wanted…” He trailed off, feeling idiotic.

“To steal your glory, I know. I hope you know nothing could’ve been further from the truth.”

Draco nodded. “I see that now.”

“Good,” Snape said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m glad we’ve cleared the air. We’re going to have to trust one another in the coming months. Rely on each other. Can you manage it?”

“Yes, Sir. I can. I – I trust you.”

“I’m happy to hear it.” Snape’s dark eyes continued to examine him. “Is there anything else?”

Draco rose. “No. Nothing else. Thank you, Sir.”

“My door is always open, Draco, should you need anything.”

Draco nodded, and slipped out of the close, cramped office.

Harry was enjoying the tail-end of the school year far too much, considering. He realized that war was looming, Dumbledore was dead, Draco’s mum was dead, Voldemort wanted Harry dead, and another summer at the Dursleys was quickly approaching. He knew those things ought to be enough to make him miserable, but he wasn’t.

But not everything was terrible, he supposed: they’d thwarted the Death Eaters and kept Hogwarts safe; the weather was gorgeous; he was actually doing acceptably in school thanks to Draco and Hermione’s combined nagging; Hermione and Ron weren’t fighting; McGonagall, not Snape, was the Interim Headmaster; and he had been in Draco’s bed every night for the last week.

It was a testament to Draco’s privacy and silencing spells that none of his roommates had any idea that Harry was there, because Harry was positive they weren’t always quiet. They hadn’t had sex again since that first time – he suspected it had happened a little too soon, for both of them, and they were taking their time before doing it again – but they’d done a number of other, excellent things that were nearly as interesting.

He was outside, by the lake, lying on his back in the sun. Ron and Hermione were discussing summer plans, but Harry was tuning them out. He didn’t want to think about the summer. He just wanted to think about how good it felt here in the sunshine, and about how Draco had looked last night, arching up into Harry’s mouth, face flushed and sweaty. He smiled to himself as the sunshine made the inside of his eyelids glow. Everything was warm and bright, the air filled with the scent of spring flowers and new grass.

Suddenly, a wadded-up piece of parchment hit him in the nose. “Hey!” he cried, his eyes flying open. “What’s that for?”

“You’re doing that thing again,” Ron said, looking irritable. “Where I know you’re thinking about doing god-only-knows-what with Malfoy, smiling like a git to yourself. And I need you to stop it right now or I’m going to vomit.”

Harry laughed.

“I’m serious, you plonker!”

“I’m sorry that I’m happy, Ronald.”

Ron rolled his eyes, but couldn’t quite keep a grin off his face. “You’re literally the worst.”

Hermione, though, was looking at him with something like concern. “What?” he asked her.

“Oh – nothing. Just thinking about something. Unrelated. Exams.” She gave a tight smile.

He settled back down and went back to enjoying the warmth of the sunshine on his face.

Exams were rapidly approaching, and Draco was trying to study. It was impossible. He was an absolute mess, his emotions all over the place. He was vacillating between a dark, pressing panic (in which he fixated on his mother and on leaving Harry and on what fresh hell awaited him at Malfoy Manor besides his father’s fury and disappointment) and an almost manic joy, reveling in the sweet warmth of spring, and in Harry’s attentions, and in a strange sort of hopefulness that seemed to pervade Hogwarts in the wake of Dumbledore’s death. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt like everyone was determined to enjoy themselves for the rest of the year. It was all coated in a tang of bittersweetness, though, at least for Draco, and even the most innocuous things – Pansy slinging an arm around him, Blaise taking an hour to pick out an outfit, the sight of Harry bounding into class with Granger and Weasley on his heels – were making him misty.

It felt like an ending, like the final chapter of this part of his life. It was exactly that, he realized, when he thought about it. And no matter how hard he clung to the days, he couldn’t keep them. They kept falling away, one by one, like leaves dropping from trees in autumn.

One day, he gave up on studying. What did it matter, in light of everything? What was school, what were grades, compared to what was ahead? Instead, he sprawled out on the Slytherin Common Room sofa, his head in Pansy’s lap, listening to Blaise brag about his latest sexual conquests. He exchanged eyerolls with Daphne when Theo made know-it-all remarks about the Dark Lord. He met with Harry and Granger and Weasley in a tucked-away courtyard behind the kitchens and listened contentedly to the buzz of their easy banter. And, of course, he spent his nights with Harry.

Draco had taken to joining Harry and Ron and Hermione in a tiny courtyard off the kitchens in late afternoon, and Ron and Hermione were strangely okay with it. It was, frankly, incredible.

Draco didn’t say a lot. It seemed like he was still getting used to rhythm and flow of their conversation, which, Harry admitted, must be intimidating. They’d been friends for so long and were so close that it was almost like they spoke a foreign language. They had a massive horde of inside jokes and shorthand references that they’d been compiling for years, and though they tried not to go overboard with them when Draco was around, it was difficult to avoid them completely.

But Draco didn’t seem to mind too much. He listened, and laughed, and added things here and there, and, most importantly, kept coming back. He and Hermione, especially, seemed to have come to some sort of understanding. It was the strangest thing, but Draco seemed, frankly, fascinated by her. Whenever she went on one of her tirades about house elf enslavement or the treatment of centaurs or sexism in the wizarding world (all the things that Harry and Ron tended to tune out), Draco would listen attentively, sometimes nodding along with her, sometimes engaging in friendly debate (although he almost always ended up agreeing by the end).

As time went on, he became brave enough to ask her questions about Muggle life, things he hadn’t ever asked Harry (how do pictures get onto the ‘telly-vision’ without magic, or what was the point of a royal family if there was a Prime Minister). Hermione, too, was getting more comfortable around Draco. She was fascinated by some of the pureblood traditions and lore that he’d grown up with, things that, to everyone’s surprise, Ron seemed to be familiar with and understand.

Harry liked it. He liked watching Draco get to know them, liked watching them all loosen up bit by bit. It made his chest feel warm and full. Afterward, he always shoved Draco into the nearest empty classroom and snogged him breathless, which made Draco laugh. “Potter, you get off on the most wholesome things. It’s ridiculous.”

Harry wished, sometimes (all the time), that neither one of them had anything to do with the war. If he and Draco were just normal students – if they were any of the hundreds at Hogwarts not directly in the eye of the oncoming storm – they’d be free to sit together in classes, in the Great Hall, in each other’s common rooms.

Ginny and Dean had ended things, and she’d taken up with Michael Corner again, and he was always in the Gryffindor tower with her, studying or lounging with her on one of the couches, and nobody cared. Harry resented that it would never be like that for him and Draco, that there was no point, at least in the foreseeable future, that they could just be a normal couple. He wanted to be able to hold Draco’s hand in the hall, to press the slow-healing marks on their palms together where everyone could see, but he couldn’t. He would never be able to do that.

But it was still nice, to be with him in the sunny, quiet courtyard, to watch him leaning forward, mesmerized by Hermione’s impassioned argument regarding the lifetime terms of Wizengamot members. It was lovely to watch him bicker with Ron over whether or not the Cannons were ever going to win the National Cup again. He tried to focus on those moments rather than feel bitter about the ones they couldn’t have.

And really, most of the time he was so amazed by the mere fact of Draco in his life that he hardly had room for anything but an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

It was after one of those late-afternoon courtyard sessions that he talked Draco into skipping supper (promising that he would run to the kitchens to get them something later) in favor of fooling around in Draco’s empty room.

The roommates were all at supper, so they didn’t have to be as careful as they usually were, or as quiet. And things were just getting good – Harry had his hand wrapped around Draco’s cock and Draco was making the most delicious sounds – when there was a knock on the door.

Draco put his finger over his lips and Harry rolled his eyes, because he obviously knew to be quiet. He slipped the invisibility cloak over his head while Draco pulled up his trousers.

Draco opened the door to Pansy, and Harry let out a sigh of relief and slid the cloak off, and Draco let out a huff of irritation and asked her if this couldn’t wait.

She looked over his shoulder, her dark eyes meeting Harry’s. “Hi, Harry,” she said, then bent close to Draco and said something quietly, and Harry watched as Draco’s whole body went taut.

“What?” Harry said.

Pansy looked over at him again. “He’s needed in McGonagall’s office,” she said. “Right away.” She exchanged a meaningful look with Draco before stepping out of Draco’s room and closing the door behind her.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

Draco was still looking at the door where Pansy’d gone. Harry slid off the bed, suddenly nervous. “What is it? Tell me,” he said again, grabbing at Draco’s arm.

Draco shook his head. “It’s my father. He’s here. He’s come to collect me.”

“What? We haven’t taken any of our exams yet. The term’s not over!”

“I don’t think he cares very much about that,” Draco said, his voice monotone. He wasn’t looking at Harry.

“Well, you’re not going with him, right? I mean, they can’t make you.”

“He’s my father.”

“No, but you’re nearly seventeen. And you could – you could just refuse. Like Dumbledore said, the normal rules don’t apply. We’re at war! Honestly, what the fuck! He’s been out for weeks now – why is he showing up now?”

Draco was pressing his fingertips into his eye sockets and shaking his head. “I need to go to McGonagall’s office. She sent for me.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, you don’t need to –”

“I want to. You can’t go in there with him without some backup.”

“He is my father. What are you not understanding about this?”

“He’s also a fucking Death Eater!”

“Potter, I’m a Death Eater!”

Harry stared at him. “No, you’re not.”

“I am as far as they’re all concerned,” he said, his voice softer now.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you are not.” Harry tried to argue, but Draco shouted over him. “You’re not! You don’t get to dictate the terms of this, Harry! I’m going to talk to him and you’re going to stay here. Understood?”

Harry scowled at him. Of all the stubborn, stupid things. “Fine,” he said.

Draco nodded and went over to the mirror that hung over the little sink in the corner of the room and smoothed back his hair and adjusted his green silk tie. Harry swore he could see him shifting, changing, morphing back into the person he used to be, and it was filling him with a sick sort of rage.

“I’ll be back soon,” Draco said to him before striding out the door.

Harry sat down on Draco’s bed for about five seconds before throwing the invisibility cloak over his head and slipping quietly out of the room behind him.

He managed to get right up on his heels, and thankfully, Draco was too distracted to notice. McGonagall was waiting for him outside of her office, looking concerned. “Mr. Malfoy,” she said, standing before him. “I assume Miss Parkinson informed you that your father’s come.”

Draco nodded, and Harry searched his face for signs of fear, of uneasiness – Harry knew he was afraid of facing his father; Draco had told him as much – but there was nothing. He looked unflappable, hard, like a slab of granite.

McGonagall leaned closer and spoke quietly then, and Harry had to strain to hear it. “I will tell him to leave if you’d like. Professor Dumbledore made it clear that we are to keep you here under our protection if you should request it. I’ll tell him to leave, or I can sit in on the meeting with him. The floo is closed off and he cannot disapparate from inside.” Her eyes swept over Draco’s face.

“I’ll be fine,” Draco said. “But thank you.”

She nodded, obviously surprised by this response, but stepped aside and opened the door for him. Harry glimpsed Lucius Malfoy inside, and it sent a shock of revulsion through him. He hated the man even more than he already had the last time he’d seen him, if that was even possible.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” McGonagall said, frowning. “I shall be right outside, should you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Lucius said, inclining his head.

Harry nearly ran into McGonagall while trying to slide around her and through the door, but managed to slip in right before she swung it closed. He plastered himself against the wall by the door and held his breath.

“Draco,” Lucius said. He looked different, Harry realized. Older. He was still imposingly tall and stood ramrod straight, he still wore the expression of disdain that he always seemed to wear, like he was smelling something vaguely unpleasant. But his hair, which had always been platinum like Draco’s, was streaked with grey, and his face looked haggard, circles under his eyes the color of plums.  

“Father,” he heard Draco said, his head held high.

And then, to Harry’s amazement, Lucius stepped forward and pulled Draco to him, hugging him fiercely. Harry couldn’t see Draco’s face, but he saw his body freeze and then gradually go slack, saw his head drop against his father’s shoulder. Lucius still had an inch or two on him. “I’m so sorry,” Lucius said gruffly. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to stop it. I’m sorry I wasn’t here with you when it happened.”

Draco said nothing, but also did not pull away, and Harry found himself getting angry. Draco should not need this, should not need this man who had caused every single thing that was wrong in Draco’s life. But he did. It was so obvious that he did.

Harry knew he oughtn’t think it, but he couldn’t stop himself: why wasn’t he enough? Why wasn’t he enough for Draco? He thought he had been, but watching this, it was clear that he was not. Draco needed this, and Harry hated – hated – that he did.

Finally, Lucius stepped back, and Draco turned to look at the bookshelves, his arms dropping stiffly to his sides. Harry caught a glimpse of the side of his face, which was blotchy and pink.

“What are you doing about it, then?” Draco said after a pregnant pause.

“Quite a lot. Trust me on that. I’ll explain it to you later.”

Draco nodded. “Why are you here?”

“Because you’re coming home with me. It’s ridiculous that you’re here at all. Your place is with your family. With me. That’s where you’ll be safe.”

Harry waited for Draco to tell his father to get lost. And he waited. And waited.

But Draco was saying nothing, just looking at the bookshelves again, his brow furrowed. “It certainly wasn’t safe for her there, was it?”

Lucius sucked in a breath and his face looked pained, like Draco had punched him. “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t protect her. But I’m here now,” he managed.

Draco was quiet again, and Harry felt the world beginning to tip sideways. Why was he staying quiet? Why was he not coming out with it? I’m not going. That’s all he had to say. It wasn’t complicated, for fuck’s sake.

Come on, Draco, he whispered to Draco in his head. Come on.

“I’ll need to get my things,” Draco said, and Harry found himself stepping back against the wall, reeling. Draco spun around, so that Harry could see his face head-on for the first time during the conversation. He still looked cold and distant, and a little pinched, despite the pink of his cheeks. He looked like Malfoy again, fully.

“Of course,” Lucius said, stepping forward, a hand on Draco’s back. “Draco…I also wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you. I’ve heard about all that you’ve accomplished. I know it must have been a great burden, but you succeeded. You did so well.”

“Thank you,” Draco said, squeezing his eyes shut for an instant. Harry wanted to sick up. Lucius was congratulating him for killing a man.

But Harry also knew what those words must have meant to Draco. He knew that Lucius, as a rule, did not say things like that. Lucius was never proud of Draco for anything. He was either disappointed or not disappointed. All Draco had ever done to please him had not been done in an effort to garner his praise. It had been done to avoid his displeasure.

“I’ll wait for you near the entry. We’ll walk to Hogsmeade.”

Draco nodded, then opened the door, stepping past Harry. Harry knew him, knew the things he thought and felt, the things that made him laugh and the things that upset him. He knew how prickly he got when he was feeling threatened, knew how soft he could be when he was at ease. He knew how his skin felt under his hands, knew the way his heartbeat felt against his own. He knew him better than he’d ever known anyone.

But looking at him now, as he left McGonagall’s office, Harry felt like he was looking at a stranger.

He ran ahead and, since no one was near the entry to the Slytherin dormitories, he whispered the password and beat Draco back to his room and waited there with a pounding heart, breathless, and not just because he’d just been running.

“Well?” he said, when Draco, looking like he was holding up the weight of the world on his shoulders, opened the door.

Draco said nothing, just went to his trunk and opened it, then began putting his things inside.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like, Potter?”

“Why?” Harry said, trying not to sound as devastated as he felt. He did not think it worked.

Finally, Draco paused and stood up, crossing his arms in front of himself. “I’m leaving. I’m going home with my father.”

Harry stood, moved by how shattered Draco looked all of a sudden, and took his face in his hands, holding the soft, warm cheeks carefully. “You can’t do that,” he said.

“I can. I am,” Draco said, his voice breaking.

“You can’t. Not after everything –”

“I told you that I was the same person. I told you I hadn’t changed. You just didn’t believe me!” he replied, wrenching out of Harry’s grasp.

“But I watched you change!” Harry cried. “You saved this school by coming forward. You’ve been so brave. And you’ve made peace with Hermione, even, and –”

“I put up with the Mudblood for you, you idiot. That’s all.”

“You’re lying –”

“You’re seeing what you want to see, Potter. I had to turn to Dumbledore or I was going to be killed. This has always been about survival for me. And look! I’ve survived. I’m still here. And now my father’s come, and I know I’m safe with him. Everything’s fine, and it can go back to how it was. We’ll all be better for it, really –”

Harry’s chest was heaving, and his throat was swelling so much he almost worried he was choking. He lunged forward and caught Draco’s mouth with his, kissing him to shut him up, to keep him from saying all these lies. He kissed him because maybe it would make him remember. Maybe it would bring him to his senses.

Draco melted under his touch, kissing him back desperately, his tongue hot and his face damp. He twisted his fingers in Harry’s hair, pulling him in closer, kissing him so hard it hurt. “You cannot do this,” Harry said, pulling back after a while. “You can’t.”

Draco let out a choked sort of sob and kissed him again. “I made an oath to you,” he said. “I’ll keep it. But I’m leaving.”

Harry’s breath hitched and hitched again, his lungs refusing to fill properly. “Please don’t. Please. God, please, Draco. You can’t.”

Draco pulled away, his mouth trembling. “I’m sorry.”

Harry pressed a fist to his mouth. He wanted to bang his fists against Draco’s chest, scream at him. He wanted to sob like a child and cling to his robes. “You never meant any of it, did you?” he whispered. And then, before he made even more of a spectacular fool of himself, he threw the cloak on and fled.

The Manor was in shambles. Only his room and his parents’ room, which had been locked up tight, and the library, which had been repaired by his father in the last two weeks, looked anything like they had before. All the house elves besides Mitsy had either disappeared or been killed. Mitsy threw herself at Draco’s legs, sobbing her gratitude that he was home, until Draco’s father kicked her and told her to remember herself. Draco cringed at the vile treatment but said nothing.

Voldemort was not there. He was out of the country at the moment, recruiting more followers somewhere on the continent. Dolohov had made himself scarce since Draco’s father had returned. It was Dolohov and Greyback that his father blamed for the death of his mother, and he had vowed revenge on them both, privately.

Bella was there, madder than ever, and crueler, and Uncle Rudy was too busy kissing his father’s arse to bother Draco much.

Theo’s father came by the second day that Draco was home, and as far as Draco could tell, he was trying to play both sides, appease both Dolohov and Lucius. Greg’s father came too, pulling Draco in for a hug and squashing him against his big belly, telling him he was sorry about the thing with his mother, that he’d been against it.

Draco spent most of his time in his room, where he could pretend none of it was happening. In his room, he could pretend he was still back at Hogwarts, that Harry didn’t hate him, that he hadn’t broken Harry’s heart into a million pieces. He ran his thumb over the healed cut on his palm and slipped away into memory, into those final golden days. He decided that perhaps he would just stay there until this was all over.

“Harry, come on,” Hermione said. “Come outside with us. It’s beautiful out.”

“No,” Harry said stubbornly. He was sitting on his unmade bed, and had been staring at the same page of his DADA textbook for the last hour. Two weeks had passed since Draco left.

“Mate, you have to get on with things,” Ron said. “The world didn’t actually end.”

“We need to talk about the Horcruxes anyway,” Hermione said. “Once school lets out, we won’t be able to.”

Harry knew this was true, and he knew it was important, but he simply couldn’t get himself to care. “I’m studying.”

“Oh, you are not,” Hermione said, yanking his DADA textbook out of his hands. “You’re sad, and that’s okay. But you need to get out.”

“I’m not sad,” he said, and he wasn’t. He was fucking furious. He was so angry that he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t focus. He was just a mass of raw nerves, a burning, seething flame. “I’ve got a headache,” he said.

“Then maybe the sunshine will do you some good,” Ron said, pulling gently at him.

Harry let himself be pulled, let them guide him out into the golden afternoon. It seemed so ridiculous now, all this beautiful weather.  It seemed like a lie, or a joke. He sat down with them by the lake and tried to get himself to think about Horcruxes. It was necessary, he knew. Necessary if they were going to save the world.

So, he forced himself to think and brainstorm, going over what he knew from Dumbledore – Dumbledore, cold and lying in a tomb (shut up, Harry)– and coming up with possibilities. Hermione was looking on with approval, and he thought: I can do this.

It was the first time he’d thought anything like that since Draco had gone. It felt good to think it. Felt good to feel it.

He kept going, throwing himself into it, into the task at hand.

By suppertime, he was almost feeling like himself. In the Great Hall, he caught Pansy Parkinson looking at him, her dark eyes sad, and he looked away.

“Hey, Gin,” he said, calling over to where she was sitting with a couple of the girls in her year. “Where’s Corner?”

Ginny gave him a little sideways grin. “Oh, that’s all done,” she said. “Moving onward and upward, you know?”

“Good for you,” he said lightly, holding her gaze before looking away. Ron snorted and Hermione gave him a dark look.

He could do this.

He could forget about Draco, forget about him completely. He was still Harry Potter, and it was his job to save the world. He didn’t have time to be crying into his beef stew. He took a slug of pumpkin juice and said something to Seamus to make him laugh so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

He could do this. He had to do this.

The Draco Malfoy chapter of his life was over, which was for the best. It was never going to end any differently, not when Malfoy had always been a selfish prat at his core. Not when he’d faked half of it (or more) to win Harry’s affection, and, most importantly from Draco's perspective, his protection. Harry could kick himself, really. Malfoy’d told him, when he told him about his last conversation with his mother, how she’d said to do what he had to in order to keep Harry’s affections in case Harry’s side won.

He wondered, sometimes, exactly how much of it was a lie, and how Draco could’ve lied so well, but then he stopped and shut the thoughts down before they got too far.

It was over. That’s all there was to it.