Transformation: Chapter Seven

 

The first two weeks of spring term passed in a blur. As if to make up for the holidays, the professors seemed to assign twice as much homework, and when Harry wasn’t working or listening to Hermione tell him that he should be, he was meeting with Remus to plan for the DA or visiting Dumbledore to practice his Occlumency. And, nearly every evening, Harry and Draco would find each other – in the Room of Requirement or any number of dusty, unused classrooms, and even once in the Quidditch changing rooms, after Slytherin practice ended and all the other players had gone.

The first time, Harry had felt guilty about telling Ron that he was meeting Lisa about Potions, even as Hermione was giving him a suspicious, warning look from over the top of her Charms text. He had second thoughts all the way to the classroom and had nearly convinced himself that it was all a terrible mistake when he saw Draco, waiting irritably on top of a desk, and promptly forgot every reason he had.

The next time had been easier. And, while Hermione attempted daily to get him alone, Harry pointedly avoided that confrontation. It was something he wasn’t ready to face.

And besides, he allowed himself no time to think about it, afraid of what kind of doubts would crop up if he did. Instead, he spent his time learning the way Draco trembled when he came; the soft noises he made in the back of his throat when Harry slid his mouth over Draco’s prick; the way Draco looked, flushed and eager, when Harry pressed him against the wall and slid hard against him. They perfected the desperate slide of skin on skin, thrusting against each other in the shadows, their breathing harsh and loud in the silent classrooms. They became experts at swiftly half-undressing in corners and keeping silent after curfew. Harry knew the firm clutch of Draco’s fingers around his cock, and the way Draco fisted his hand in the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck just before he came.

They never went farther than that, despite Harry’s breathless suggestion just after they’d returned to Hogwarts; Draco had reacted with such violent surprise that Harry had flushed and kissed him to avoid having to speak.

By the second week of January, the weather had taken an unexpected turn for the worse, giving rise to the rumor that the Ravenclaw-Slytherin match would be cancelled. Nevertheless, that Saturday Harry found himself sitting in the Ravenclaw section with Lisa, Padma, and Theodore Nott, who looked sullen and not very enthusiastic about Quidditch, even if his House was playing.

“I hate winter,” Padma was saying, her teeth chattering as she leaned into Theodore. Beside her, Lisa’s cheeks were pink with cold. “Oh, here comes the team – look, there’s Cho–“

She and Lisa waved. Harry scowled.

“Where’s Hermione?” Lisa asked, as Draco coldly shook the Ravenclaw captain’s hand on the pitch and both teams turned to mount their brooms. “Isn’t she coming?”

“Doing Runes, I think,” Harry shrugged. “She isn’t much of a Quidditch fan.”

“No, but Ron Weasley is,” Lisa said slyly, and Padma giggled. “Nor do I remember Ron being in our Runes class, now that I think about it . . .”

Harry had to shout to be heard over Ackerley, who was exclaiming excitedly over Ravenclaw possession of the Quaffle. “He decided to keep Hermione company,” he yelled, thinking of how Ron had reddened that morning and mumbled that perhaps it was too cold for attending the match. Harry had never known Ron to miss a Quidditch match in his life.

Padma smirked. “What a surprise. I’m sure Anthony will be thrilled to hear that.”

“How is he?” Harry asked, then winced as Ackerley shouted just above them, “RAVENCLAW SCORE!” He cheered with the rest of the crowd, then added, “You aren’t mad at Hermione, are you? She liked him a lot–“

“We want Hermione to be happy,” Lisa said scornfully, as if that should be obvious. “Anthony’s liked her since fourth year. But I think he always knew – you know, about Ron.”

Harry stared at them in shock for a moment. He supposed he had been a bit caught up in fourth year, what with the Triwizard Tournament, but how had he missed that development? But then, he hadn’t known about Hermione’s friendship with Viktor Krum until the whole school knew. And besides, he doubted that, in fourth year, he could have even said who Anthony Goldstein was.

“Anyway,” Padma added, tucking her arm around Theodore’s elbow, “it’s Anthony. His Stodginess. I’d be surprised if he even got up the nerve to kiss her.”

Padma and Lisa giggled, but Theodore didn’t appear to be paying attention to anything, including the Quidditch match, and Harry was rather put off by the thought of Hermione kissing anyone, whether it was Ron or Anthony. He supported it in principle, of course, but he wasn’t exactly keen on thinking about it. But then, he very much doubted she’d want to imagine him kissing Draco, either.

“But we did see him chatting up Morag at the Hufflepuff party last year,” Lisa said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, that. Got into the Firewhiskey, didn’t he? Poor Morag.”

Just then, as if on cue, Ackerley shouted, “And there goes Baddock after McDougal, swerving around Chang, who’s sweeping the pitch for the Snitch – looks a bit rough out there, hard flying–“

“It’s really coming down,” Padma said, frowning as she picked up a pair of Omniculars and focused them on the field. “Oh, poor Cho, she narrowly missed that Bludger! It’s a wonder any of them can see past the tips of their brooms.”

It was beginning to snow harder, and Harry shook off the snow that was melting furiously in his hair. “Hey, Padma,” he said, “can I borrow your Omniculars?”

She handed them to him and he turned them towards the field. Cho came into focus, but he frowned and moved them away – yes, there was Draco, shouting and gesturing to Baddock as he flew by him. He was leaning forward as if to peer through the snowfall, and Harry wondered if it was even possible to see the Snitch in such conditions.

“And that’s another foul from Slytherin!” Ackerley bellowed. “Rotten cheaters – er, good for the Ravenclaws, I mean – and that’s a penalty to Ravenclaw as the players move towards the Ravenclaw side – there goes Morag from the center, and she’s up against Bletchley for the Slytherins–“

“GO MORAG!” Padma shouted out, right in Harry’s ear, and he jumped. Theodore looked similarly put out, though he merely brushed snow off his lap and stared disinterestedly at the Slytherin goalhoops.

“But what’s this?” Ackerley boomed. “It seems Cho Chang for Ravenclaw is shooting after what appears to be the Snitch – dodges a Bludger from Goyle, well spotted, Cho – must be hard to see a thing up there – and–“ Ackerley broke off, then began babbling rapidly. “And Hooch calls the match! What’s going on? Looks like Morag McDougal, Chaser for Ravenclaw, ran into a goal-post – Madam Hooch is – what’s that she’s signaling? Oh, match canceled, looks like the conditions are too rough–“

Through the Omniculars, despite the snow, Harry could see Draco glowering, red-faced, at his team. He looked enraged and was talking rapidly as they descended to dismount, and it was with reluctance that Harry handed Padma her Omniculars back and stood up, shaking off the snow.

“Oh, I’m glad they canceled,” Padma said, smiling at him. “But Cho was so close, there! Still, it’s awfully cold out. We’re going to the kitchens to warm up, Harry, do you want to come?”

For an instant, the thought of the bright, busy kitchens with their pleasant aromas and roaring fireplace was nearly too much to resist. But he thought of Draco and said reluctantly, “I’d better not. I’ll see you in Potions, though.”

“Bye, Harry,” Lisa and Padma waved, and Theodore might have grunted something akin to a goodbye.

Harry dawdled in the stands for awhile and had a brief conversation with a shivering Stewart Ackerley, who at first forgot to use the Quietus spell and shouted, loud enough for the whole crowd to hear, “HELLO, POTTER!” Finally, when Harry glimpsed several Slytherins leaving the changing rooms, he too trudged back towards the school, hoping Draco would be one of the last to come. But then, knowing him, he would be; he always took an inordinately long time after Quidditch practice, and Harry guessed he did the same every morning. He could already hear Draco saying, in lofty tones, “A Malfoy must always look impeccable, Potter.” Harry snickered to himself at that, which earned him a suspicious look from Blaise Zabini, who was passing at the time.

He was still waiting for Draco when, nearly a quarter of an hour later, Draco stepped inside the Entrance Hall, looking wet and furious. He started in surprise when he saw Harry.

“Hi,” Harry said, glancing around before stepping closer to Draco. “That was some match. Even if Baddock couldn’t keep his hands off Morag’s broom – and that Bludger that Goyle hit to the crowd–“

“He wasn’t bumphing on purpose,” Draco snapped. His hair was wet with melting snow and his cheeks red with cold. “If you happened to miss it, Potter, my entire team was blinded by snow. Naturally he had no idea McDougal was going for a goal.”

Harry snorted, but he let it go. “When’s the re-match?”

“Hooch hasn’t scheduled it yet,” Draco said. “In a few weeks, I should think.” After a moment, he said with a sneer, “Stupid Chang was sniveling in the snow, of course. Pity that’s the closest she’ll ever get to the Snitch.”

“Cho’s a good player,” Harry said honestly, though he had to agree that Ravenclaw had been looking at a fairly sure loss to Slytherin when the match had been halted, even with all of Slytherin’s fouls. “It was a pretty good match, too.”

“If you call flying blind through a blizzard a good match,” Draco complained. “I can’t feel my toes. I likely have frostbite. Of course Hooch wouldn’t dare stop the match for Slytherin, even though it was obvious that Pritchard nearly fell off his broom. Only when a Ravenclaw gets hurt, then it’s clear the weather’s too bad to play. This sort of treatment is insufferable–“

“Draco,” Harry said affectionately, and stepped closer, “shut up.”

Draco’s eyes widened, however, and he stumbled backwards. “Potter, what exactly do you think you’re doing? Anyone could see!”

“There’s no one around. Dinner’s not for hours, no one will come down here–“

“No,” Draco said heatedly, “you have to stop doing this, people are starting to suspect something! Pansy saw you lurking around Slytherin on Thursday, she keeps demanding what you could want with me, and I keep telling her you’re just desperate for Potions help, but she doesn’t–“

“Why can’t you just tell her?”

Draco stared at him in shock. Finally he snapped, “Potter, that’s impossible.”

“I thought you said Pansy was your friend,” Harry shrugged. “Maybe she’d understand.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t understand,” Draco hissed. “Maybe it’s all rainbows and Butterbeer up in Gryffindor Tower, but don’t you dare tell me how to act in my own House!” He locked eyes with Harry and, seeming to have glimpsed something in Harry’s gaze, added pointedly, “Besides, you haven’t told the Weasel, have you?”

“Don’t call him that, and no, not yet,” Harry muttered. “But he knows I’m doing Defense with you. He said he couldn’t stop me. And Hermione says–“

“As if I care what Granger thinks,” Draco interrupted bitterly. “Don’t you think it’s bad enough with Nott? Oh, I saw him at the match with you.”

“Nott didn’t say a word to me! He just sat there with Padma and looked angry!”

“It’s the principle,” Draco seethed. “Nott’s a traitor now – he’s never been much of a Slytherin, but now that he’s friends with Dumbledore’s favorite, now that he goes around with Harry Potter–“

“Stop it!” Harry retorted. “What are you, jealous? He has nothing to do with anything, Nott and I aren’t even friends–“

“Potter,” Draco shouted, suddenly loud in the empty entranceway, “you put my father in Azkaban!”

They stared at one another in the strained silence, dim light streaming in around them, until Harry finally said fiercely, “Yeah. I did.” He reached out and yanked Draco towards him until they collided and Draco gasped in spite of himself, already hardening against Harry’s thigh. Harry said, low, “And here I thought you’d forgotten.”

“As if – I could,” Draco hissed out, his eyes locked with Harry’s. His hands flew up almost involuntarily to grasp Harry’s hips, dragging him closer.

Draco’s hands were freezing and Harry jerked back in surprise, but before Draco could move, Harry had seized him again. For a swift moment, he crushed his mouth to Draco’s; it was angry, brutal, as he shoved his tongue in Draco’s mouth and Draco fought back; no finesse, no tenderness, just Draco thrusting against his hip and them devouring one another. Draco hissed when Harry pulled away.

“I’d do it again,” Harry said roughly, dangerously. “Don’t you ever doubt it. I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

Eyes wide and furious, Draco snarled, “Fuck you, Potter.”

“Actually,” Harry retorted, unable to stop himself even if he wanted to, “I don’t think you’re ready for that, are you, Malfoy?”

Draco sprang away from him then, looking murderous, but before Harry could even react, one of the entranceway doors creaked open. It let in an enormous gust of wind and snow, and with it . . .

“Tonks?” Harry said, every bit of his anger and arousal vanishing, so overcome was he by surprise. His heart was racing at how close they’d come to being caught. “What are – what are you doing here?”

She looked wet and bedraggled and almost unrecognizable without her familiar smile, but when she saw him, it peeked out. Dressed in shocking red robes, with her hair blonde and spiky, she stood there dripping and grinned at Harry. “Quite the snowstorm out there,” she said, stomping her feet a few times. Harry noticed that she was wearing the same large boots she’d been wearing at the Three Broomsticks. “Weather’s not like this in London, I can tell you that much. Anyway, I’m back for good, didn’t Remus tell you?”

“I haven’t talked to him in a couple days,” Harry said guiltily. The last time he’d spoken to Remus, it had been after a DA meeting, and he’d quickly made up an excuse to go meet Draco. Remus had looked at him so suspiciously that Harry had avoided any one-on-one conversations since, in the fear that Remus knew and would do something drastic, like drag Harry before Dumbledore. “What happened? Did you–“

It was then, when he was about to ask if they had caught Lucius Malfoy and his friends, that he remembered Draco standing furiously beside him, and glanced over. Draco’s fists were clenched and he was glaring daggers at both of them.

“Botched up a job, actually,” Tonks said, something like guilt crossing her face. “Rough spot up there, we thought Moody might be captured, but it turned out all right. Still, you know how he is; he maintains I scared all the Death Eaters off, being dead clumsy. Good old Mad-Eye, he got in a bit of a stink – he’s been after Bellatrix for ages, you know – and he sent me back here.” She appeared to notice Draco then, too, because she looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Well, Malfoy. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from your father lately, have you?”

“Of course I haven’t,” Draco snapped. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Harry turned on him sharply, their previous exchange looming recent in his mind. “You haven’t, have you?” he demanded, his gaze so piercing that Draco took half a step backwards. “You would tell me?”

Draco looked livid. “I don’t have to tell you anything!”

“Well,” Tonks said abruptly, interrupting just as Harry opened his mouth to shout at him, “no sense standing around in wet clothes, is there? I’m off to have a nice bath before dinner. See you, Harry.” And, to his shock and discomfort, she gave him a wink before stomping wetly off towards the stairs.

There was silence for a long moment before Draco hissed, “Get out of my sight, Potter.”

Harry didn’t need telling twice.



&*&*



It was still snowing fiercely outside the next evening; Harry watched it come down outside the windows of the Gryffindor common room, turning the world white. All around him, he could hear people talking and laughing, and he had his Transfiguration book cradled in his lap, but he was thinking instead about Draco, and the way he had stared at Harry in such shock when Harry had hissed about his father.

Technically, it was their first fight. Although if you looked at it that way, it had been a long time in the making; they’d only been practicing for years how to hurt each other.

But Harry had thought, naively perhaps, that what had happened at Grimmauld Place had changed some things between them. Maybe he’d been wrong. Was this the issue they’d been dancing around all this time?

On some level, Harry couldn’t blame Draco; Harry, of all people, knew what it was like to be missing a father, and moreover, to feel stunned and betrayed to find out that his father wasn’t perfect. But everything Harry had said was true, and it chilled him to know that, despite all of Harry’s rationalizing to the contrary, Draco might still be the loyal son of which Lucius could be proud.

“Harry!” Hermione said sharply, slamming a book shut on the table. Harry jumped in surprise.

“What?”

“I’ve only been calling your name for five minutes,” she explained with exasperation. “You haven’t been paying attention all night. You’ve been on the same page for nearly half an hour.”

Harry gave her an annoyed look. “Maybe you should pay attention to your own reading instead of mine,” he snapped.

“I’ve finished my own reading,” Hermione said patiently, “and so has Ron. We were talking about who the new spy could be, and Ron said he reckoned it was Professor Kothari, but I told him that she didn’t seem like a spy, and then I asked you what you thought.”

“Oh,” Harry said, at a loss for anything else. “Well, I suppose she could be.”

Ron snorted. “Real helpful, Harry. Thanks loads.”

“I’ve seen her wrists, though,” Hermione offered. “She rolled up her sleeves the other day, when we were making those potions for heat compresses. She doesn’t have a Dark Mark.”

“And she’s nice,” Harry added. “Way better than Snape.”

“Of course,” Hermione hurried to qualify, “just because she’s nice doesn’t mean she couldn’t be a spy. And maybe they’ve got her under Imperius, I suppose that could be one possibility. But why would Dumbledore trust her? What could she really do?”

Harry suddenly remembered Professor Kothari telling him sadly that she lamented Snape’s death as a colleague, and something itched, some missing link. He frowned. “I know I heard something about her, what was it? I was . . . reading . . . oh! Draco’s letter!”

Ron stared at him in shock.

“I mean, Malfoy had a letter from his mum,” Harry said quickly, “and I read it. You know, I was looking for any signs he was working for Voldemort. It was all rubbish about decorating and France, but she did say that she’d heard, what was it? Positive things about Kothari?”

“Positive things don’t mean Order of the Phoenix members in Narcissa Malfoy’s circle, I’m sure,” Hermione said darkly. “But that doesn’t mean it is her. Still, we should keep an eye out.”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered. “Like an eye in Malfoy’s correspondence. He didn’t get anything over the hols, did he, Harry?”

Harry felt a stab of guilt. Ron had never really got over the fact that Draco had visited Grimmauld Place for over a week. “I didn’t see his letters, Ron,” he said quietly.

“Then what was the bloody point of having him there? Weren’t you checking up on him? He could have been getting secrets of the Order–“

“There wasn’t anything going on!” Harry snapped, his voice rising. Ignoring the fact that he was fighting with Draco and still sticking up for him, he pushed on, “Look, at least he didn’t go off to the Manor and meet Voldemort, all right?”

Hermione gave Harry a skeptical look. “You’re trying to save him from Voldemort? That’s why you had him for the hols?”

“I’m not trying to do anything!” Harry shouted, causing what appeared to be every fourth year Gryffindor to look over at him from the fire. He quieted, embarrassed. “I know who Draco Malfoy is, all right? I’m not an idiot and I haven’t forgotten the past five years, so don’t look at me like I’ve gone mad. It’s just–“

“It’s just what, Harry?” Hermione said, almost gently, when Harry stopped. But at that moment, Ginny sauntered up to them.

“What’s all the noise about now?” she said, her fifth year Transfiguration text tucked under her arm. “I could hear you yelling upstairs, Harry.”

“We were just talking about Malfoy,” Ron said dismissively. “It’s none of your business.”

“That’s nice,” Ginny said, as if she hadn’t heard him, and sat down next to Hermione. “What about Malfoy? He’s been strangely quiet lately, hasn’t he? I suppose the Slytherins are all still sad about Snape.”

Harry gave Ron a sharp look, as if to say, You didn’t tell her? Ginny, however, caught the glance, and leaned forward.

“What? What’s going on? There’s no point in hiding things from me. I’m fifteen, Ron, don’t give me that look! Besides,” she added triumphantly, “I listened at the door with Fred and George’s Extendable Ears when you and Hermione were arguing at Christmas. Did Malfoy really stay with you, Harry?”

“It’s none of your business!” Ron said again, looking furious. “What’d you hear? You don’t have any right listening at my door!”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “If you’re worried that I know about you and Hermione, Charlie saw you kissing on the stairway the day before he left, didn’t he say anything? That’s why he kept giving you funny looks and chuckling at dinner.”

Ron had gone crimson and Hermione looked rather pink, but Harry couldn’t help grinning at Ginny, who looked pleased with herself. He had wondered what had come of Ron’s revelation in Diagon Alley, but neither Ron nor Hermione had had the wherewithal to mention any new developments to him.

“The next time I see Charlie, I’ll kill him,” Ron muttered. “And as for you–“

“Tell me what you were talking about and I won’t tell Fred and George,” she said, grinning mischievously.

“You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, I would and I will,” Ginny said. And then, with a guilty look to her side, she said, “Sorry, Hermione.”

“We were actually talking about whether or not Professor Kothari is a spy for the Death Eaters,” Hermione said calmly, and when Ron glared at her, she sighed, “Oh, Ron, she’s got just as much of a right to know as we do. Ginny, Malfoy’s mum told him that she’d heard good things about Professor Kothari. That’s all. It could mean she’s the spy, but then again, it could mean nothing. What do you think?”

“Well, she is the only new staff,” Ginny mused. “Unless you count Tonks and Lupin–“

“This is why she shouldn’t be allowed to listen in!” Ron exclaimed. “Gin, Tonks is a half-blood! She’s an Auror! Lupin’s been fighting You-Know-Who since the first time! He knew Harry’s dad!”

Ginny gave him a withering stare. “I wasn’t saying either of them could be the spy, Ron. I was only listing new professors. But it could be a student, haven’t you thought of that? There are loads of kids You-Know-Who could get a hold of, I’ll bet.”

Ron looked grudgingly impressed. “That’s true. Maybe it’s Malfoy.”

Harry said immediately, “I already told you! It isn’t Malfoy!”

“You don’t know that,” Hermione said, though she sounded much calmer than Ron, and less thrilled at the prospect. “I know you think he’s too obvious of a choice, but maybe that’s the point. And you must admit, Harry, he’s got awfully close to you this year.”

“We’re practicing Defense!”

“So he can hex you?” Ginny asked, gazing across the table at him. “If he’s the spy, that’s not very smart, is it?”

“He helps me with Potions,” Harry said, rather weakly. “You don’t understand, it’s not like–“

“What reason would Malfoy have to help you with Potions?” Ron burst in. “He hates you, Harry! But if somebody told him to get close to you, then he would, right? I mean, you put his dad in Azkaban, why would he want to study Potions with you?”

Hermione said gently, “Ron does have a point, Harry.”

“You don’t understand!” Harry exclaimed again, his fight with Draco forgotten. The way Draco had pressed against him after flying the motorbike, his hair mussed from the wind and his eyes both fearful and hopeful . . . the way he had leaned over and kissed Harry the first time, so simply that there could not possibly be a hidden agenda there . . . how surely he had argued with Harry after the attack on Hogsmeade, telling him how it could not possibly be his fault . . .

“I don’t doubt you see some side of Malfoy he’s never shown to us,” Hermione told him. Her voice was patient, but even she sounded skeptical. “I trust your judgment. I know you wouldn’t go chasing after Malfoy if he hadn’t done something to merit your attention. But I wonder if he could be hiding something. He is the most likely suspect.”

Harry felt like taking his Transfiguration book, throwing it on the floor, and stomping on it repeatedly. Instead, he snarled, “I thought we’d agreed Professor Kothari was the most likely suspect.”

“Are you blind?” Ron shouted at him. “Her or Malfoy? Who’s more likely to work for You-Know-Who? What’s happened to you, Harry? Has he hexed you senseless?”

“He hasn’t done anything to me!” Harry shouted back, even as he knew that Draco had. If he thought about it, truly, Draco had sparked something in him from the first time he’d stared at him so singularly, and Harry couldn’t think about him the same way anymore. But how could he explain that to them? How could he tell them the way Draco smiled sometimes, or the way there was a hidden vulnerability in the way he raged, or the way Draco thrust into Harry’s hand, his eyes squeezed shut with pleasure? How could he explain how Draco made him feel? Frustrated, yes, sometimes furious, but also –

Hermione was looking at him with a serious expression on her face, and Harry knew she’d gone beyond thinking it was good for House unity that he was working with Draco. “Oh, Harry,” she said softly. “You know he has.”

And Ginny, arms folded across her chest and her head tilted in curiosity, said so casually that Harry thought for a moment she’d been possessed by Luna Lovegood: “Do you fancy him?”

“What?” Ron yelped. “Gin!”

But Harry was speechless.

“Of course Harry doesn’t fancy that ugly little ferret!” Ron said loudly. “Ginny, how could you even ask him that? Harry would never . . .” He trailed off, just as his face drained of color. He turned and looked at Harry.

“I can explain,” Harry said weakly, but it was too late.

“YOU’RE SHAGGING MALFOY?” Ron shouted, leaping to his feet and causing everyone in the common room to swivel their heads in surprise to stare at Harry.

Hermione said quickly, “Ha, ha, Ron, that’s not funny! And sit down!” She looked agitatedly at the other occupants of the room, but once Ron seemed to have no more to say – probably due to the fact that Hermione was glaring at him so steadily that even Harry was afraid – they turned back to their work. “Ronald Weasley,” Hermione said, in a low voice, “if you know what’s good for you, keep your voice down. Now, can we talk civilly, or do you have to act like a bunch of stupid boys?”

“Ron,” Harry said, feeling sick, “listen, I–“

“First you can’t tell me that you’re meeting him for Defense, and now I’ve got to find out that you’re shagging him? In what, the bloody Room of Requirement? I’ve probably sat – where you–“ Ron blanched and turned his anger on Hermione. “Why are you just sitting there? You knew, did you? I’ll bet you did!”

“We haven’t, er, shagged,” Harry said, crimson, “it’s not like that–“

“What have you done, then?” Ron hissed. “So that’s why you don’t think Malfoy’s the spy – because he’s got his mouth on your cock all the time–“

“Ron!” Hermione said shrilly. Even Ginny looked taken aback.

“I told you after the Hogsmeade attack that he wasn’t the spy, and nothing had happened between us then,” Harry snapped, and even Ron quieted at the tone in his voice. “You know me, Ron. And he’s different, okay? I can’t explain how, but I know it. He wasn’t even at Hogsmeade when the attack happened, he couldn’t have had anything to do with it, and he was really upset about Snape, it was like losing his father all over again–”

“Right,” Ron said, “because I’ll bet you’re going to tell me Lucius Malfoy’s the newest Order of the Phoenix member, is that right?”

“Look, I’d put his dad in Azkaban again in an instant and he knows it!”

“But now he doesn’t insult your mum and dad or laugh about Sirius or call Hermione a Mudblood – sorry, Hermione – anymore?” Ron demanded. “Is that what you’re saying? Because I’m pretty sure he tripped me last week and laughed when my robes ripped and called me a poverty-stricken weasel who goes at it with his sister – sorry, Ginny – for a good time, and that’s not really Malfoy being any different from the rotten little shit he always is, is it?”

“I didn’t know that,” Harry muttered, a wave of guilt overtaking him. By now, Ginny was staring at him in reproach, and even Hermione looked disappointed.

“Well, now you do,” Ron said loudly. “So you can go off and snog Malfoy all you want, but don’t say nobody warned you when he drags you off to visit Daddy in Wales!” He shoved back his chair and it toppled with a clatter.

“Ron,“ Hermione pleaded.

“No, you know what, Hermione? I don’t care about the sodding spy at Hogwarts. I’m going to bed.”

And without looking at Harry, Ron stormed up the stairs. Harry felt as if his stomach had just been ripped out.

“It’s not because you’re gay,” Hermione said in a small voice, after several awkward moments had passed in silence. “Ron wouldn’t care about that, it’s only that it’s Malfoy.”

Ginny nodded and gave Harry a guilty look. “I’m sorry I brought it up, Harry. I didn’t know you were going to say that, honestly. But,” and she frowned at him; she’d been particularly affected by Malfoy’s insult concerning her and Ron, “maybe you should think about what Ron said.”

“I am!” Harry snapped. “Don’t you think I’ve thought the same things? Don’t you think I fought with myself for months? And I’m not talking to Draco right now anyway. We had a fight.”

“Over what?” Hermione asked, and though she didn’t sound smug at all, Harry resented her for it.

“Over his father, what do you think?” Harry muttered, annoyed. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s late, anyway, and I’ve got to read for Transfiguration.”

Hermione gave him a long look, but he busied himself with turning pages and finally, she and Ginny said, “Goodnight, Harry,” and walked away towards the stairs. He felt like collapsing.

While last chapter we briefly covered methods of full body disguise and in Chapter Seven learned about minor and cosmetic alterations, this chapter we will address the complicated matter of full body Transfiguration . . . several methods known to wizardkind, among them the Polyjuice Potion and simple costume charms, but true Transfiguration is left to the most powerful wizards or Metamorphmagi . . . however, even for those who can change appearance at will, to assume an entire identity consumes a great deal of concentration . . .

Harry shut his book with a loud bang and stared down at the cover without seeing it. He wasn’t in the mood for Transfiguration, especially for reading about Metamorphmagi. If Ron had been there, he would have laughed, “How do you recognize a Metamorphmagus? That’s easy: her name is Tonks.”

But Ron wasn’t there. Ron was probably in bed, fuming over Malfoy. He probably felt betrayed. As if Harry had chosen the enemy on purpose. As if he’d had a choice.

His mind still on Tonks thanks to the Transfiguration text, Harry thought bitterly that Ron would have been whooping with excitement when Harry told him about Tonks. Only now that it was Draco, he was furious. He was incensed at the idea, convinced that Harry was making the mistake of his life.

But was he right?



&*&*



Ron still wasn’t talking to Harry when Defense class ended on Monday; he’d partnered with Hermione, leaving Harry to pair up with Anthony Goldstein, who gave them a sidelong look and nodded at Harry. He spent the rest of class, which didn’t involve wand work, staring doggedly at Ron and Draco, but both refused to look at him. As class ended, Hermione gave him a wide-eyed, sorry glance as she followed Ron out the door.

“In a spat with Ron, are you?” Tonks said from behind him, leaning on her desk. “What’s the matter now?”

Harry frowned and stopped by the door. “Nothing. We just had an argument, it’s stupid. Stuff about Dr – Malfoy.”

“Oh,” Tonks said. “Speaking of Malfoy, what were you doing with him the other day?”

“We were just. Arguing.” Technically, it was true. “After Quidditch.”

Tonks chuckled. “Oh, there was a match! Heard the shouting from my carriage. I thought so. Shame I missed it.”

“It’s going to be rescheduled for the weather,” Harry shrugged.

“Oh, good.” Tonks gave him a long look, then, and lowered her voice. “Harry,” she said conspiratorially, “I’d watch out for Malfoy if I were you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know who his father is, Harry. And Narcissa Malfoy is nobody to brush off. She’s a Black at heart, and I don’t mean like Sirius, either. Malfoy comes from a dangerous family. You can’t trust what he says. If he tells you anything, I wouldn’t believe him.”

“He is his own person,” Harry said hotly. He couldn’t believe this was the second time he had to defend Draco in less than twenty four hours.

Tonks grimaced. “I’m just saying, the apple doesn’t fall so far from the tree, you know what I mean? We haven’t got any evidence that he’s been communicating with his father, but it’s possible his mother could be passing on information–“

“I thought you said he didn’t tell you anything when you interrogated him under Veritaserum!”

“Ignorance doesn’t mean he’s harmless,” Tonks answered. “And anyway, that was months ago.”

Harry said desperately, “But Remus knows, he met him over the holidays, he showed him pictures of Sirius and my dad. Remus–“

“Thinks he needs some watching,” Tonks intercepted smoothly. “Which is why Remus is sticking around the school for the rest of term, just to keep an eye on things. Just in case.”

Harry thought, for the briefest of instants, that maybe Remus was staying because he was the spy. Then he shook it off. How dare he accuse Remus, Remus, of spying for Voldemort? All this hypothesizing was making him paranoid.

“Look,” he said, uncomfortable, “I’ve got to get to Potions.”

“Think about it, Harry!” Tonks called after him. “He can’t be trusted! If anybody’s up to something, it’s Malfoy!”

Harry left, but her words rang after him, so much so that he had to stop outside the Potions classroom and take a deep breath. Two warnings in two days. Didn’t that mean something?

Yeah, it means you’re starting to think like bloody Trelawney, Harry thought.

It made him miss Ron.

He was predictably late to Potions and Professor Kothari gave him a disappointed look and took five points from Gryffindor, but Lisa gave him a smile when he slid into his seat, and that bolstered him a little. Although the way things were going, the next thing he knew, she’d probably be warning him about Draco.

Draco. Who was sitting just to the right and a little behind Harry, and who sneered deliberately at his notes when Harry twisted to look at him.

Please, Harry sent frantically at him. Look at me. I can’t have blind faith in you. Not after what you said. Look at me.

But Draco didn’t look up.

“I was thinking,” Hermione said, catching him by the elbow when class was over, “maybe you could try talking to Ron tonight, what do you think? If you just tell him rationally – Harry?“

But Harry wasn’t paying her any attention, as Draco had just shouldered by him and was making his way out the door. Harry seized his bag and said hurriedly, “I’ve got to go, Hermione,” before racing after him.

“Harry,” he thought he heard Hermione say with exasperation, but he didn’t have time to turn back.

“Malfoy!” Harry shouted down the cold stone hall, and the other boy’s steps slowed on his way towards Slytherin. He turned around.

“I thought I told you to leave me alone, Potter,” he snapped.

Harry took a few steps forward. “Actually, you told me to get out of your sight, which I did,” he retorted. “I don’t recall you saying anything about leaving you alone.”

“I’m telling you now, then!” Draco spun around, looking as if he were about to stalk away.

“Wait,” Harry said desperately.

Draco stopped, his back still towards Harry. Finally, he turned, eyeing Harry with disdain.

“I just wanted to – look, what I said on Saturday,” Harry said in a hurry. “That’s now what I meant, I didn’t mean I would enjoy putting him in Azkaban again, but I’d have to – Draco, he tried to kill me–“

“And it’s a shame he didn’t succeed!” Draco snarled, such ferocity in his voice that Harry almost recoiled. “I hope next time it’s Granger! I hope my father has to use a thousand Scouring Charms to wash off all her dirty, disgusting blood! I hope Weasley has to watch her die!”

Harry stared at him for one long, disbelieving second. Then he seized Draco by the robes and slammed him bodily against the wall. Draco whimpered when his head cracked the stone.

“I stood up for you,” Harry hissed, barely recognizing his own voice. “I said you were better than your father, I said you were worth my time, I said you didn’t mean it–“

“Who did you think I was?” Draco shouted at him. He was speaking so furiously that Harry could feel flecks of spit flying from his mouth. “What did you tell the Mudblood, Potter, that I was misunderstood? That she just didn’t know me? I’m not your pet Slytherin, Potter, you have no idea who I am–“

“You want to know who you are?” Harry leaned in close to him, his whisper so furious that the muscles in his throat ached. “You’re nothing. You’re nobody. You don’t deserve my fucking touch, Malfoy. You don’t even deserve me looking at you.”

“Funny,” Draco choked out, though his face had gone white. “I seem to remember you being the one who followed me.”

“I won’t make that mistake again,” Harry seethed.

“Then get your filthy hands off me,” Draco snapped. “Get off me and go running back to Gryffindor where you belong, Potter! That’s how it always is with you!”

“What d’you mean, that’s how it always is?” Harry leaned in closer to him, one hand still fisted in the collar of his robes. Draco pressed back further against the wall, his glare baleful.

“Starting things you can’t finish,” he said furiously. “Walking into things you know nothing about–“

“I think you’re the one messing around with things you don’t know anything about,” Harry retorted, his tone dangerous. “Be careful what you say, Malfoy, or you could end up just like your dad – or worse – I’d kill him if I got the chance–“

“Shows how much you know,” Draco spat. “You think you’re such a hero, Potter, you think you’ve got everybody pegged, don’t you? You and your fucking simple answers–“

“I do have you pegged!” Harry yelled. “You’re nothing but a worthless little toady, you think everybody cares about you but you’re nothing, even your dad couldn’t come back for you–“

“MY FATHER LOVES ME,” Draco shouted, face contorted with rage. Harry shook him furiously and shoved away from him; Draco sagged against the wall with his fists clenched, looking very much as if he couldn’t stand on his own. “YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT IT, POTTER! YOU’VE GOT NO IDEA WHAT’S GOING ON!”

“Neither do you,” Harry retorted, “nobody tells you anything, bet that really gets you angry, Malfoy, that even Voldemort’s written you off! I should have known better than to try and be your friend, I should have known – when your dad killed all those people, I should’ve–“

“You started that!” Draco snarled, clearly remembering their eerily similar encounter by the Potions classroom as well as Harry did. “There you go again, one minute you’re all smiles, the next you’re shoving your wand in my face–“

“YOU PUNCHED ME,” Harry roared. “Did you write to your dad about that one, Malfoy? Real proud of getting in a hit for the first time in six years?”

“YOU ATTACKED ME LAST YEAR,” Draco shouted back, shoving forward with his fists at his sides, fury screwing up his features. “NOW WE’RE EVEN, POTTER. ISN’T THAT WHAT IT’S ABOUT? ISN’T THAT WHAT IT’S ALWAYS BEEN ABOUT, GETTING EVEN?”

Harry looked at him for one, long moment. Then he snapped, “We’ll never be even, Malfoy. I am always, always going to be better than you.”

Something seemed to snap in Draco; in one fluid motion, he’d yanked his wand from his pocket, and was advancing on Harry; he spat out, almost incoherently, “I hate you, Potter, I hate you, I hope the Mudblood suffers like your parents suffered, I hope they screamed, I hope you were covered in your mum’s dirty, filthy blood when they found you–“

Furious loathing flooded through Harry like he’d never known it; he was filled with revulsion for the words spilling from Draco’s mouth, but he reviled himself, too, for having ever wanted him, for having kissed that mouth, for having ever thought anything could change. He wanted him to know what he was saying, to know the crippling anguish coursing through Harry; he wanted him to stop, he wanted it all to stop, he wanted . . .

Sick with horror and hatred, he pointed his wand straight at Draco and said, without thinking, “Crucio!”

Draco screamed, then, dropping to his knees, and contorted so awfully that Harry was afraid his limbs were going to wrench apart; his face was twisted up in pain and, even after Harry stopped the spell, he curled around himself, what appeared to be tears squeezing out of his eyes, which were still clenched shut. He looked like a child, lying there, unmoving.

Harry thought he was going to vomit.

“Malfoy,” he said, terrified. “Malfoy, look at me. Are you all right? Are you–“

Draco stared up at him, something cold and strange shining in his eyes. He said, very distantly, “My father . . . my father will hear about this . . .”

Sparked by fear into anger, Harry snapped, “That’s a real plan, Malfoy, go on and tell your fugitive dad about how Harry Potter cursed you, I bet he’ll be real proud of you then–“

“DON’T YOU EVER TALK ABOUT MY FATHER AGAIN,” Draco shouted, immediately on his feet. He looked even paler, but he was trembling with fury, and that only urged Harry on. The less he had to think about what he had just done, the better.

“You can’t stop me,” Harry snarled. “I’ll bet he’s forgotten about you already, bet he thinks you’re just a pathetic little crybaby–“

“You shut your mouth,” Draco hissed. He was white with anger, though his cheeks were pink, and his eyes held something dangerous that Harry had never dared acknowledge; he was standing there, glowering, and for the first time in weeks, Harry thought he saw him exactly as he was. A prickle of the familiar loathing began behind his eyes, and it almost relieved him, this return to how things had been.

“Oh yeah?” Harry demanded. “And what would your precious father say if he knew about what happened between us, Malfoy?”

Compared to Harry, Draco’s tone turned abruptly level and cold. It was a shock, after they’d been screaming, and yet it sounded loud in the suddenly silent hallway. He said, somehow furiously calm, “I wouldn’t exist to him, Potter. He wouldn’t be my father any longer.”

For an instant, Harry was caught off guard. And before he could recover, Draco said icily, “Now leave me alone,” and he stalked off down the hall without a backward glance, something in his stride looking unexplainably broken.

Harry could have stopped him. But he didn’t.



&*&*



It was late Wednesday evening when Harry trudged through the portrait hole, too tired to even smile as the Fat Lady let him through. It had been an awful few days, between Ron ignoring him and his final fight with Draco, and every time he thought of it, he was torn between fury at himself and the guilt that Ron had, perhaps, been right. All of this reflected on his abilities at Occlumency with Dumbledore, who had given him a handful of lemon drops, smiled down his nose at Harry, and finally just dismissed him.

By the time Harry got back to Gryffindor Tower, having spent the last hour stalking furiously around the lake in the blowing cold, he was shivering, wet, and exhausted. The Gryffindor common room was dim and appeared abandoned, though when Harry entered, a tall figure stood up by the dying fire.

Harry said, shocked, “Ron?”

Ron looked at him, his hands stuck in the pockets of his robes. In the dim light of the common room, Harry couldn’t make out the expression on Ron’s face. After a moment, Ron said carefully, “You were out with him, weren’t you?”

For an instant, Harry was truly bewildered, and then he shook his head. “Occlumency. With Dumbledore.”

“It’s past curfew,” Ron frowned. “You never have Occlumency later than seven.”

“Look, I went for a walk,” Harry snapped. “First you don’t talk to me, and now you have to know everywhere I’ve been?”

Ron didn’t seem to hear him, or rather, didn’t seem to want to respond. He said instead, “Walking with Malfoy?”

“No, I wasn’t with Malfoy!” Harry said loudly. “And I haven’t been, all right? Are you happy now?”

“I’m not happy if you’re miserable,” Ron muttered. “Look, I just wanted to say that, er, Hermione’s right, and you’ve got to see something in him that nobody else does, or he wouldn’t be worth your time. And that, er, I’d rather be your friend and know you’re shagging Malfoy than, er, not be your friend and know that you’re shagging Malfoy. That’s all.”

Harry felt something tighten in his throat and he had the sudden, strange urge to fling his arms around Ron. Instead, he flopped into a chair by the fire.

“I’m not,” he said dully. “And I don’t see anything in him.”

Ron sat down next to him. He looked bewildered. “What d’you mean? Didn’t you say – but I thought–“ For an instant, Ron’s expression was horrified, as if he’d made a terrible mistake. “You mean to say you and Malfoy never–“

“No, we did,” Harry said. “And now we don’t. Okay?”

“Well – I – but–” Ron stammered. He seemed overwhelmed by this new information. “You didn’t – but – because of me?”

Harry ran a hand over his face, feeling exhausted. Something still twisted painfully in his stomach, some aching reminder of his stupidity, but just hearing Ron’s voice directed at him made a lump rise in his throat. He wondered if it were possible to express how much he’d missed Ron without sounding like a girl.

“Because of him,” Harry shrugged, his voice still emotionless, “but you were right, Ron. I don’t know what I was doing. It was stupid.”

Ron was speechless. “What happened?” he finally asked.

“We got in an argument,” Harry said flatly. “He said some horrible things about you and Hermione. And I told him that he was nothing to me. And then I cast Crucio on him.”

The silence in the common room was deafening. Harry realized, after a moment, that this was Ron he was talking to, and not a Slytherin, who would have merely taken it in stride. He swallowed.

After a moment, in a rather small voice, Ron said, “You cast the Cruciatus Curse on Malfoy?”

“I – yeah.”

Ron said, still sounding strange, “Did it work?”

Harry looked at his hands. If possible, he felt even worse than he had when Ron had found out several nights ago. Now he felt as if he should be kicked out of Gryffindor for good. Perhaps the Sorting Hat had been right all along and he did belong in Slytherin. He felt like he was a Slytherin, from the way Ron was staring at him in shock. “Yeah,” he said quietly, unable to meet Ron’s eyes.

After a moment, Ron said, “Oh.”

Silence ruled until finally, his shame turning slowly into frustration, Harry snapped, “Months ago you would’ve been talking about it for days. You would’ve thought it was brilliant. You hate Malfoy.”

“But you don’t,” Ron said, with such unexpected conviction that Harry believed him for a moment. “Anyway, I wouldn’t’ve. Harry, it’s an Unforgivable!” His voice might have wavered.

“I’ve cast it before,” Harry said without thinking.

Ron stared.

“On Bellatrix,” Harry qualified, feeling ill at the way Ron looked at him. But he couldn’t stop now. “Last year at the Department of Mysteries. It didn’t last very long. But I’ve practiced a couple times since the Hogsmeade attack.”

“It’s against the law,” Ron said faintly.

“Yeah.”

Ron appeared to be thinking for a long minute. Then he said, tentatively, “Does it hurt, Harry? The curse?”

Harry felt sick. “Yeah. Yeah, Ron, it does.”

There was another pause. “Does Hermione know?”

“If she does, I didn’t tell her.”

“But you could get in so much trouble–“

“Or I could get killed by Voldemort!” Harry said fiercely. “It didn’t stop Bellatrix from using it on Neville because the Ministry said it wasn’t allowed, did it?”

Ron worried at his lip. “I know, but, Harry – it’s one thing to break Umbridge’s rules, but the Aurors don’t even use Unforgivable Curses–“

“This isn’t a game, Ron! I cast it on Bellatrix, but it didn’t work very well. She said I really had to mean it. Well, if I would have known how to cast it, maybe she wouldn’t be loose now! Maybe she wouldn’t kill anybody like Sirius or hurt anyone’s parents anymore. Maybe Lucius Malfoy wouldn’t have got free in Wales. Maybe Voldemort wouldn’t be so strong.”

Still looking hesitant, Ron muttered, “But you’ve fought him before without using any Unforgivable Curses, and you’ve done all right.”

“I’ve done all right, have I?” Harry challenged. “How about Cedric, then? Sirius? Seamus? Are they all right?” Before Ron could open his mouth, Harry plowed on, “Who’s next, your mum and dad? Charlie? Ginny? Maybe Hermione, what about her–”

“I get it,” Ron snapped. “I get it, okay?”

Harry felt suddenly drained. He couldn’t tell if they were still arguing or not. He looked into the dying fire, its embers barely glowing. “Okay,” he said.

Quietly, Ron asked, “Did Malfoy scream?”

Again, Harry felt sick. The image of Draco, contorting on the floor, came unwanted into his head. He shut his eyes. “Yeah, he did.”

Ron said nothing. Rather than triumphant, he looked ill, too. He glanced towards the fire, then back. Harry was afraid to meet his eyes, afraid what he would see there, but in the shadows between them, all he saw was Ron, smiling ruefully at him. “You’re my best mate, Harry,” he said, after a minute. “And you’re braver than anybody I know. And if you tell me Malfoy’s not half bad, I’ll try to believe you. Or if you say you’ve got to know how to use the Cruciatus Curse. I’ll believe you then, too.”

“Ron,” Harry said, and his throat tightened around the word, he couldn’t say any more. He hoped Ron got the message. After swallowing several times, he said, “But it doesn’t matter, Malfoy’s the same he’s always been. You were right.”

Ron looked across at him in the dark. “Sorry, Harry.”

Harry knew the feeling. But sorry for what? For trusting Draco in the first place? For letting himself believe there could be something more there? For giving him a chance? For letting Ron down? For shattering his illusions about the war, about Harry himself?

For all of it, maybe. For Harry, for how empty he felt, despite it all.

“Me, too,” he said.



&*&*



It was at least another week before Harry could get away to practice Defense on his own. Hermione and Ron seemed so concerned about his anger or betrayal after Draco that they aimed to keep him constantly occupied, and it was either Ron suggesting they go for a fly or Hermione conning him into studying Herbology with her and Neville. On top of the DA with Tonks and Remus, Occlumency with Dumbledore, preparation for the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match in February, and the amount of homework they were getting, he hardly had a minute to think.

Which was better, really: he already remembered the press of Draco’s lips just before he fell asleep, and he still wanked over the way Draco sank to his knees and took Harry in his mouth. Sometimes he remembered the way Draco had looked, broken, on the dungeon floor. The curve of his smile. Sometimes he doubted himself.

And he missed him, despite the fury that still flared when he thought of the things Draco had said to him, how Harry had trusted him. He missed the particular way Draco had of talking, the snide way he had of laughing. He missed kissing him. He missed practicing Defense with him and seeing the particular light of triumph in Draco’s eyes when he managed to hex Harry.

He wondered now if it had just been the triumph of accomplishment, or something more sinister altogether.

January was winding down when he finally escaped to the Room of Requirement on a Friday evening, giving Ron and Hermione time to themselves. Yet once he got there, he didn’t feel like doing much of anything; even the lengthy essay Professor Kothari had assigned them on healing potions could not motivate him. It was a relief to finally be alone. He sat by the window instead, gazing out at the dimming sky, as his thoughts drifted . . . Colin had accosted him at dinner and poured out so many childhood stories about Dennis that he’d let his food get cold . . . Hermione was going spare about her Apparation test and would not stop dispensing random facts about Apparation accidents that she’d found doing unnecessary research . . . it had been less than three weeks since he had been here, in this very room, with Draco . . .

Behind him, the door clicked open. Before Harry could even turn around, a too-familiar voice said, “Expecting someone, Potter?”

“Malfoy,” he said, something in him turning hollow and cold. “What are you doing here?”

Draco let the door fall shut and leaned against it. He lifted a lip in disdain. “Looking for you, naturally.”

Harry stared at him. He could hear the echoes of Draco’s sneering taunts, the way he had shouted, “I hope next time it’s Granger!” He knew, in the back of his mind, that Draco was still a horrible, hateful little bigot who thought nothing of using other people, and the knowledge had frozen him, it was impossible to ignore. Yet here, staring at Draco standing so simply before him, he could almost feel his resolve melting away.

“What?” Harry snapped.

“I was looking for you,” Draco said again, impatiently. “Look–“

He steeled himself and said with enough disdain to rivaled Snape’s old rancor for Harry, “If you haven’t come to apologize, Malfoy, you might as well leave now and save me the bother of hexing you. I don’t want anything to do with you. You make me sick.”

Draco stared at him with unexpected surprise. After a moment passed, when Draco hadn’t spoken, Harry said tiredly, “Fine, Malfoy. I’ll leave.” He seized his bag and made to shoulder past him.

“Wait,” Draco exclaimed, and it was so unlike him that Harry spun to face him. Draco’s features quickly twisted into a sneer, but he pushed on, “I was upset, Potter, and I didn’t mean whatever it was that–“

“You didn’t?” Harry hissed, stepping deliberately nearer. Draco backed up against the door. “You didn’t mean it when you said you hoped Hermione would bleed all over your dad when he killed her? Or when you hoped my mum suffered before she died? Or maybe you didn’t mean it when you said your dad loved you, was that it? If you’re here to admit your dad’s a scumbag who’s after a bunch of innocent people–“

“Potter,” Draco said, sounding furious and desperate all at once, and without warning, he seized Harry by the robes, wrenched him forward, and kissed him.

Caught entirely off guard, Harry found himself kissing back.

It was angry, frantic, Draco’s grip nearly strangling Harry, Harry’s hand flying up to seize his arm hard enough to bruise. And he’d missed this, this heat, this slick union of tongues and lips, Draco’s hand solid against his back. He’d missed Draco –

Draco seemed as shocked as Harry was when Harry broke away. “Oh god,” Harry said, raggedly, “look, I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Draco looked at him strangely. “If you have a problem with kissing–“

“I have a problem with you,” Harry said, turning and pacing towards the bookshelves. “I’m supposed to forgive you just like that? Forget the things you said? How am I supposed to trust you if you still say things like that you want Hermione to die, what am I supposed to think?”

“I could care less about Granger,” Draco said impatiently. “Potter, come here.”

“Well, I do care about Hermione,” Harry snarled. “You can’t just come marching in here like that and expect it all to go away, Malfoy! Nothing’s changed! I’d put your dad in Azkaban if I could! I want you to know that, I hope they catch him, it’s what he deserves!”

“Don’t talk about my father–“

“Why shouldn’t I?” Harry said insolently. “He tried to kill me, I can say whatever I want.”

“Potter,” Draco said. He said it so simply and insistently that Harry stared at him, still half-leaned up against the door, eyes pale and unreadable, frowning. In that moment, standing strangely still and somehow open, he looked so much like Draco that Harry couldn’t imagine him killing anyone. He swallowed and took a hesitant step back towards him.

“Potter,” Draco said again, sounding frustrated, “look, I just came to give you this, all right?”

And he held out his hand.

Harry frowned. He said, challengingly, “I don’t take charity, Malfoy.”

For an instant, Draco looked perplexed, and then he said, “It’s not, it’s a present.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, Harry stepped forward and demanded irritably, “Well, what is it, then?”

They were dizzyingly close for a painful second, and Draco’s knuckles brushed Harry’s palm before Harry stepped back. It was another tiny dragon, heavy and warm in his hand, nearly identical to the first one. He closed his fingers around it instinctually, mind racing. What was Draco playing at? What was this supposed to mean? And if he was trying to send some sort of message, what was it?

Harry turned it over in his fingers, frowning. “I thought you–“ Harry began, when he looked up at Draco and saw him smiling strangely, almost sadly. Harry said, confused, “What is it?”

And then he felt a familiar, aching tugging around has navel, as if someone had wrapped a hook around his insides and yanked, and the world blurred around him . . .

 

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