I am American, so apologies for that. (constructive) criticism is welcome.
Malfoy was up to something. Well, he was always up to something, but whatever it was seemed more nefarious than usual this time. It made sense, really, that as they got older his schemes became all the more convoluted and actually edged into the realm of dangerous. Harry pondered this as he stared at Malfoy's head across the great hall. He could only see the back of it, though, which was unfortunate. Sometimes, when Malfoy sat on the other side of the Slytherin table, Harry's eyes would dart away at the very last second before he was caught staring, and it filled him with a rush of adrenaline every time. The whole situation sort of reminded him of the times he would catch girls looking at him, when they weren't able to draw their eyes away in time. He squashed this thought immediately though, as the kind of staring he was doing was definitely not akin to Romilda Vane's heart-eyed glances.
Harry stabbed at his toast absent-mindedly instead of spreading anything on it and sighed. He was still looking at the back of that blond head, like it was a puzzle he just couldn't decipher. Then, someone was shaking his shoulder. Ron broke his reverie.
"Hey, Harry!"
"Oh, er, sorry," he said, somewhat sheepishly.
"We were trying to get your attention for ages, Harry," Hermione said.
"Yeah, mate, what were you staring at?" He wasn't blushing. This actually wasn't happening. He took a deep breath.
"I think Malfoy's up to something." The words had hardly left his mouth before Ron and Hermione were both groaning. Hermione actually rolled her eyes at him.
"Harry, we've talked about this ad nauseum. You think something's up, and everyone sane thinks there's no proof."
"No, it's just– I can't get him off my mind." That was probably not a good thing to say. "I mean, I just can't stop thinking about him." That was worse. Well, it was true, but not something he felt like admitting to himself, much less to anyone else. He could practically see the cogs spinning in Hermione's head. Her eyes widened with understanding.
"Ron," she hissed. "Can I have a word?"
"No one's listening, Hermione." He gestured to the mostly empty Gryffindor table. "Can't you just say it here?"
"No, I mean–" She grabbed him by the arm and stood up. "Just a moment, Harry." This was not good. Unless Hermione suddenly felt the need to drag Ron off and confess her love for him in a very mushy fashion and had wanted to spare Harry the trauma (unlikely), it was something to do with his obsession with Malfoy. Perhaps he had been staring a little more than usual lately. But it was only because of his growing suspicions. After all, Malfoy was a very suspicious individual. And anyway, what exactly did Hermione think was going on here? That he had a crush on him or something? Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, enamored with a potential (probable) (definite) Death Eater? It was preposterous. Well, he could see how Hermione might think that it wasn't. She wasn't called the smartest witch of their age for nothing. And all the classic signs were there: constant staring, talking about him all the time, ignoring romantic pursuits of Romilda Vane et al. (although, who wouldn't?), even the charged banter they exchanged on a regular basis.
Well, there was a first time for everything. Hermione was wrong. Harry was interested in what was under Malfoy's robes, yes–but only his left sleeve. And any sexual tension between them was nothing but the work of raging teenage hormones.
Ron and Hermione waltzed back into the Great Hall. Ron had a strange sort of grimace on his face, but Hermione was the picture of tact. She sat down smoothly next to him, and Ron took a seat across the table.
"Harry, is there anything you would like to tell us?" She gave him a pointed look. He didn't really pick up on it.
"Yeah, I think I know how we can get Malfoy to reveal his dark mark..." he said, distractedly. He scanned the Slytherin table out of habit, but it looked like Malfoy had left while Ron and Hermione were gone.
"Don't you think you spend rather a lot of time talking about him? And you must spend even more time thinking about him."
"How else am I supposed to find out what he's up to?" This was an argument he had had with himself many times. Hermione sighed resolutely. She didn't speak for a moment, and Harry thought this whole thing was finally over. He was very wrong.
"He is, er, quite attractive, isn't he?" She didn't sound as though she particularly thought this herself. Ron didn't believe it either. He broke out into a coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like concealed laughter, but straightened up after a glare from Hermione.
"Malfoy?" Harry thought back to his silvery hair. His sharp sneer, or the way the corner of lips quirked up when he smirked. His lips... "I dunno." Well, that was a lie. Now that Hermione had put these thoughts in his head, he couldn't get them out.
"Well, you spend enough time looking at him," Ron muttered, almost low enough so that Harry and Hermione couldn't hear him. Almost. If looks could kill, Ron would have been deader than Voldemort's sense of remorse. "I mean, I am glad that you are following your heart." The first thing Harry registered was that it sounded kind of rehearsed. And then he got to the part about following your heart. His first instinct was to refute these outrageous claims, but he allowed himself to think things through before responding. Was this really such a terrible thing to admit to? It was only Ron and Hermione; there was no doubt his secret would be safe with them. This was really no more embarrassing than the time Hermione had turned into a cat in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, or Ron's awful dress robes for the Yule Ball. Okay, maybe it was. But Ron had just said that he was okay with this, in a roundabout way, and clearly Hermione was too. The real question was, was Harry?
Too much time had passed after Ron had said the bit about following his heart to simply brush of the allegations now. Anything he said to that effect would sound forced and fake, and it would be just that. He took a deep breath.
"Okay. My heart may be leading me to Draco Malfoy." There was a loaded silence. Ron and Hermione exchanged a look.
"I did not expect that to be so easy," Hermione said, finally relaxing. She smiled at him. "I'm so glad you've been able to come to terms with your feelings."
"No, this is not– Don't you see? He's evil. He's getting ready to join up with Voldemort, and I'm sitting in the Great Hall, moping about, and– This is not a good thing!"
"Harry, he's only a teenager. We're only teenagers. He's not You-Know-Who, or a Horcrux, or the absolute embodiment of evil. He's a boy!" Harry wasn't really listening.
"How am I supposed to do it, how am I supposed to find all the Horcruxes, save the wizarding world, how can I do it if I can't even stop thinking about Malfoy like, like that long enough to find out what he's really up to?" This would not, could not be his downfall, but it already was.
"You'll have time for all that later." Hermione put her hand on his shoulder firmly. She was talking like Mrs. Weasley, or Professor Mcgonagall. It gave the words she spoke the effect of being rational, grounded, and hard to object to. "But right now, you're a sixteen-year-old boy. Enjoy this while you can. To be young and in love is a magical thing." She looked nervously over to Ron at this last bit, and his ears turned bright red.
"Yeah, mate, go for it," Ron said. Harry laughed.
"I hate to break it to you guys, but I'm pretty sure this whole thing is unreciprocated." Ron took a sip of pumpkin juice just so he could spit it out in surprise.
"Don't even get me started on this. Have you ever heard a conversation between the two of you? Don't answer that. I have. I feel like I should look away or something because of the sheer sexual tension alive between you two at any given moment."
Hermione spoke over Harry's indignant protests. "Seriously, the sparks between you two are actually getting dangerous. You could set something on fire, really. You ought to be careful. I rather like this castle." Harry took a moment to reflect on his interactions with Malfoy over the last six years. A great many of them were heated arguments, and a few were actual physical brawls. Yes, full of sexual charge. Although, in recent years, he did see how some of their banter could be construed as such. Misconstrued, of course. Well, maybe construed. There was no point denying it any more.
"Okay, okay. I get how you might see that. A little."
"A little? Harry, you could power half of England with the sparks flying."
"Alright, I get it. Resolve the sexual tension before something dangerous happens. Horcruxes later." That was a tall order, not even including the Horcruxes part of the equation. An odd feeling in his stomach sort of crept up on him, and it was not his breakfast, which lay mostly untouched on his plate. The fluttering sensation was not butterflies, because that would be terribly clichéd. It was nerves. Nerves of the pleasant sort, a breed of which he did not have much practical knowledge. No, he was more accustomed to the kind one gets before facing down a Hungarian Horntail, or dueling with a powerful dark wizard. But he could get used to this other type. He had a feeling he would gain a lot of experience with it in the year to come.
