Harry Potter was dreaming again.
He was tied to the stone in the graveyard, screaming in pain as his arm was cut open. He did not notice that it was a fully formed Voldemort, and not Peter Pettigrew. Golden webs filled the air around him, and he saw green flashes in front of his eyes as his hand was being cut off by the Dark , Voldemort morphed into the corpses of the people he loved. Dumbledore, Lupin, Tonks, Fred, his parents…. Then Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny…. It was more painful than the hand. It was more painful than everything else. His dream self was released from the stone, and his face buried in the wretched gray earth, and he convulsed in despair.

Then, a tapping sound. It broke through his sobs, like shards of sunlight. He realized slowly that the tapping and the light were real, and he was in his bed instead of the graveyard ground. His sobbing stopped as he told himself it was only a nightmare.

It had been nearly two years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and the nightmares never neither did the tapping just then. It was coming from his window, growing louder and more urgent. Harry rolled over, dragging himself out of bed to open the window. A large, black owl with orange eyes was outside his window, looking agitated.

It was Ginny's owl, Martimus. He had what looked to be today's edition of emThe Prophet /emin one of his talons, waving it about. Harry sighed, and rolled out of bed to open the window and let him in. The owl was bitter with Harry for making him wait so long, or so it seemed, as he thrust the paper into his hand and pecked him hard as he did so. Wincing, Harry unrolled the paper, and a small piece of parchment fell out. As Harry bent down to pick it up, Martimus took the opportunity to peck the top of his head, and then flew out the window without waiting for a response. Rubbing his head, he watched the owl fly out, and then read the note.

Harry,

I know you hate The Prophet, but I think you've ought to read the article on page 4. Once you're awake enough. We both know you're still in bed, you bum.

—Ginny

He frowned. What was possibly in the papers that he would want to read? They hadn't done another article on his toiletry shopping, had they? He honestly didn't know why they still bothered reporting on him. It had been four years since he defeated the Dark Lord—he was old news now, and by no means a hero any longer. Harry Potter was an average guy, who happened to need copious amounts Dreamless Sleep to keep the nightmares at bay. So, what?

Rolling the newspaper up and tucking it under his arm, he made his way downstairs to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. The kitchen at Grimmauld Place was large and empty, sullen with unending shades of brown for everything in it. The sunlight broke in through the window, lighting up the paper as Harry sat down at the round, wooden table.

The front headline was Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes Cheers the Chudley Cannons, with a picture of their newest line of fireworks exploding into fiery copies of the players' best moments at the end of a match. Harry smiled wryly as he wondered how they managed that, and if they'd show as much support for Ginny when she played against them for the Holyhead Harpies in the next week. She had become quite the star, and had a fan following that made for an excellent pool of both men and women for her to date from. "Only the non-crazy ones, though," she had assured him.

Harry had broken up with her not long after the Battle of Hogwarts, when the post-war passion had worn off and they realized they were better off as friends. Not long after that, Ginny had joined the Harpies and soon found she rather liked girls as well. Just for fun, she had later dragged Harry off to a muggle gay bar with her, and he ended up having the best snogging of his life with an art student named Glen (without even needing to be drunk!), and ended up dating him for three months. It wasn't until Glen dumped him and Harry tried dating women again that he realized that he was completely gay.

He had a sneaking suspicion that this article had something to do with that. He'd had a good three years in the closet; he knew The Prophet would figure it out eventually, even if he kept that part of his life in the muggle world. He fought against a surge of anxiety as he turned to page four.

Luckily, and surprisingly, it wasn't about him. But he wasn't that far off, either. It was an article about the presence and silence of queer members in wizarding society.

Some Very Queer Misconceptions
Submitted by Adam Pennom*

A stroll through Carkitt Market will take you to the Hopping Pot, a pub known to most for its fine Wizard's Brew and fizzy orange juice. Among gay and lesbian wizards, however, it's known as one of the few LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, and trans) safe spots in all of wizarding society.

"It's quite a shame, really," said Judith Hemwaddle, the new owner of the pub. "You don't see many open spaces for people like us, you know what I'm saying? You don't really see it anywhere else— witches with witches and wizards with wizards, I mean."
Most of us don't see much queer representation in the open wizarding world. Even if you don't notice, however, they're there: you see them in magazines, on Quidditch teams, on the street, and maybe in your own home, and yet their existence and habits are things we rarely talk about. You might recognize the names of some of the more famous members of their ranks: Albus Dumbledore, former Headmaster of Hogwarts and Chief of the Wizengamot; Cormac McLaggen, heartthrob and frequent model for Witch Weekly; Luna Lovegood, CEO of Amortentia Fasion Design; Myron Wagtail, vocalist for the Weird Sisters; and Gwenog Jones, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies.

Yes, all of these famous witches and wizards are "out" as gay or lesbian. And, believe it or not, so are many other magical people. According to a recent St. Mungo's study, 1 out of every 10 witches and wizards are naturally attracted to people of the same sex. Put into context, that would mean that there is at least one lesbian or gay student in every year for each house at Hogwarts.

So, if it's so common, why don't we see it? Why don't we discuss it?

One theory, according to Hermione Granger (a Ministry employee and well known advocate for equal rights in the wizarding world), is pureblood prejudice. "It's a common belief that homosexuality is a result of 'poor breeding' or having muggle ancestry, because muggles are a lot more vocal about it," she explained. "That's ridiculous, of course. There are plenty of gay purebloods as well, they're just more likely to repress it, or be forced into an arranged marriage anyway."

Many other magical people feel the same way. Most "out" lesbian and gay wizards will seek out muggle partners because they are much easier to find, and it is easier to be involved in the lifestyle in more accepting muggle communities. Compared to Magical London's single LGBT spot (the Hopping Pot), Muggle London has several hundred "gay bars."

"It's important to remember that it's not an exclusively muggle phenomenon. Magical people are just as likely to be born that way as well," told Healer Aura Yaxley, heir to the pureblood Yaxey family. "It's also important to remind people that it's not a disease or a problem, and even if it were, it's not something that can be changed. You can repress it, of course, but that only causes damage to mental health."

Yaxley, who works at St. Mungo's as a mental healer, says she receives many patients who have tried to hide or change their sexuality, and says that it results in very damaging effects to both the mind and magic. She has been pressing the hospital to issue an awareness campaign about sexuality in young witches and wizards.

Healer Hamlyn, head of the hospital's mental health department, agrees that something needs to be done. "Trying to deny or hide something as big as your sexuality puts you at risk for harmful magical substance abuse and addiction, along with putting you at risk for depression, which puts a dampener on your magical abilities."

Back at the Hopping Pot, Judith Hemwaddle has her hopes up for the future of gay and lesbian wizards and witches. "If muggles are okay with it, how hard should it be for us?"
Hemwaddle has a point. As wizards, we tend to think we do things much better than muggles (and we usually do). Why is it, then, that muggle society has done a much better job accepting and talking about sexuality? Why do muggles have such fewer misconceptions about homosexuality? If wizards do it so much better, then we should be able do gay better, too.

Harry read the article slowly, amazed to see that kind of thing in the press. On a selfish level, he was glad there hadn't been a lick of information about him in the entire article. (Though he was surprised that Hermione was in it. He decided he'd floo call her about it later and ask her about it.) On a less selfish level, he was pleased about the attempt at spreading awareness, and the usage of medical studies as proof to debunk pureblood prejudice. It was several things that mattered to him, all in one. He applauded whoever had written it.

His eyes scanned the page and fell upon a short paragraph at the bottom.

Editor's note:
*A. Pennom is a pseudonym. He has submitted several articles critiquing wizarding society, anonymously to /emThe Prophet. emHe has yet to reveal his actual identity. Our editors would love to know more about this mysterious reporter, as all of his articles have been received very well. If Pennom is out there, we would like him to know that we would love him to be part of our team.

Strange, he thought. Why would he be hiding his identity when he obviously could have a great career as a writer?

Harry shrugged, relating to the need to be anonymous. His last few months (mostly devoid of public attention) had felt blissfully close to invisibility, as there hadn't been any word of him in the papers. He had kept quiet, spending time in the muggle world, and going everywhere under glamours and fake names. He had a feeling that was about to change, though. The article had inspired him in a way, and he thought he might use his Boy Who Lived influence to stir things up a bit.

He smiled to himself as he cast a tempus charm, and realized he had to make a delivery in an hour. Better get ready, he thought.

Draco Malfoy awoke with a groan.

He was lying on the uncomfortable cot in his flat, which was situated on the floor above his shop. He hadn't been living there long, which explained the lack of furniture. He decided he needed to fix that soon, now that he no longer lived in the Manor. He had moved out once Lucius was taken to Azkaban and he and his mother decided it just hurt too much to live there anymore. The memories of the war and of Voldemort contaminating their living space had hurt too much. No one would have believed them about that, though, if they hadn't saved Potter from the Dark Lord in the final battle.

He thought too much about the War. It changed everything. Now, Draco was just trying to get back on track and start his own life, free from Death Eaters and Dark magic and his father.

He had bought a shop in Carkitt Market, and now lived in the flat atop his new business. The money that he earned from that (he really tried to avoid the fortune because it felt tainted to him) he used to pay his bills and get him through training. He was going to become a Healer one day, to make up for all the pain that tainted the name Malfoy.

For now, though, he was satisfied running his record shop, even if too many people wanted to buy Celestina Warbeck albums and even if he had to wake up on that bloody uncomfortable cot. Soon enough, he was sure, he'd gather a more intelligent clientele and he would buy himself a proper clientele would take a while, but he decided he would go out and buy himself a bed and mattress before he opened the shop at 11. It would be big and comfortable—enough for two people. That wasn't being presumptuous, he assured himself; it was positive thinking and preparedness. Especially if that article he submitted was published and had the intended effect of encouraging gay acceptance—

Shit. The article. The article is being published today.

Draco had submitted at least a dozen articles as Adam Pennom, and yet every time he still felt incredibly upset and nervous every time one was published. And yet he still kept submitting. He didn't exactly know why. Perhaps it was because no one would listen to a Malfoy, and he wanted to be heard. And maybe he was afraid that people still wouldn't listen to him, Malfoy or no.

He had no idea what he had to worry about this time. All his articles had been received well before, and everyone he interviewed was under an Unbreakable Vow never to reveal his identity. But maybe it was because this article was different.

Maybe it was because no one talked about being a gay wizard. Maybe he crossed the line this time. Maybe this was where he pushed it over the edge.

He told himself to relax as he sat up and tried to get all the kinks out of his neck. He reminded himself that he didn't even write anything personal as he put on his jeans and his dress shirt. He assured himself that maybe the article wouldn't even be published as he combed his hair. He lied to himself and said he was okay when he picked up emThe Prophet/em at his doorstep. He forced himself to breathe as he frantically searched the paper for his article.

Page four.

"Not bad," Draco chuckled to himself as he skimmed over the article. It was the closest to the front page that any of his articles had made before. He wondered what was so special about this. Maybe it was because no one had talked about being a gay wizard before. He smiled to himself, rereading his own words and not even feeling slightly remiss anymore.

Then, his eyes caught on the last paragraph. The editors note.

He cursed to himself, as he reread the note.

They want me to be on their team?

It felt as bad as a death threat. They couldn't possibly want him to write for them. This was a threat, it had to be. They were going to find out who he was. That's what this meant. They were going to uncover his identity, and then it would be all over the papers.

His inner journalist could see the headline already: Former Death Eater Uses Anonymity To Brainwash Wizarding Public

He cringed and shoved the thought away, using the breathing techniques he learned in training to prevent the panic attack from worsening. He couldn't let his anxiety ruin this for him— he wouldn't.

After all, this could change everything.

People loved his articles. They wanted to hear what he had to say. He could be heard. He could bring honor back to his name this way, couldn't he? By spreading good word and news, he could prove he wasn't all that bad. He didn't have to deal with horrid wounds and contagious diseases and mentally ill patients to be a redeemed member of society this way...

But then he remembered that people didn't like reporters. They were slimy, sneaky bugs like Rita Skeeter. Everyone that people loved—like Potter, he thought wryly—hated reporters. He wouldn't be renewing his name. He would just have more people hating him. No, it was best to stay in the shadows. It was best people didn't bother him. It was best he stayed out of the way.

Dismayed to be brought back to reality, he pulled a coat on over himself, cast a few glamours to hide his more obvious Malfoy features (even if only muggles saw him), and apparated into muggle London to buy himself a proper bed.

And maybe not open the shop today.

And maybe get drunk.

And even better, maybe get laid.

As he materialized into the alleyway near the muggle furniture store, he cast away the maybes, and reminded himself that he couldn't let Draco Malfoy's life be affected by Adam Pennom's life. He had responsibilities, and a more sophisticated clientele to develop, after all. He shrugged his coat up further, because it was cold out here in mid-January and the sunlight had somehow changed to fog, and because he still felt uncomfortable showing his face in public, even if only muggles saw him.

The cement was hard and cold and gray under his feet, and the streets crowded and dark and loud, and the furniture store he was headed to was painted red and blue and warm and inviting. It was small and privately owned, but he knew they would have what he wanted, because he had been there before and bought some lovely handmade oak shelves for his record shop.

Just because he had resigned to buying muggle things didn't mean he had given up quality. Besides, he found the personal touch of things crafted by hand versus magic was endearing. And he didn't have to face anyone that might accuse him of being a death eater.

The small black door jingled when he opened it, and was greeted by the smell of wood and apples when he entered the shop. There was a strange heavy feeling in the air, and he briefly wondered if there was another wizard nearby. His stomach dropped in panic, and his hands shook as he tried to close the door. He took a few more deep breaths, and reminded himself that he was under glamours, and it was unlikely he would encounter anyone he knew. Beyond that, he had no reason to be afraid anyway.

"Hello!" He called into the shop, not listening for a response as he dodged through the narrow pathways through the eclectic collection of hand-carved wood furniture. He kept on breathing, trying to calm himself. His anxiety was getting out of hand, he knew. He was just going to have to ignore it.

He smiled and lost his train of thought as his eyes fell on a beautiful bed frame, carved from a reddish wood and varnished to a soft shine. It still smelled of cut wood, and feet were carved like tree trunks. The head of the bed looked like a wall of branches reaching for the sky. It was something that he could have imagined at the manor, except it was so much brighter, so much more emhopeful.

A voice called out from behind him. "You like that one, huh?"

Draco nodded, not taking his eyes from the wood. "Yes. It's amazing. I admit I have a soft spot for well carved wood. Call it my weakness." He said quietly, touching the bed frame. He felt that same heavy feeling of magic again, and he felt that the person behind him was a wizard. He didn't care, though—the woodwork was too exquisite to be magic-made, he knew.

"Well, I'm flattered. I made it myself, you know. Just dropped it off here." The man said. Draco looked over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of brown, messy hair and bright green eyes. His stomach flipped—damned anxiety again—because the man looked like… like a familiar wizard, but at closer glance, the face was unfamiliar, and the hair a few shades too light. He thought the man was attractive, but he looked away and remembered he wasn't here to fulfill any maybe's about getting laid. You've work today. Focus.

"Fine job you did, too. What will it sell for?" Draco asked, as the other man shoved his head into his pockets and stood next to him. "Dunno. You'll have to ask the shop keeper. But just because you like it so much," the man said, leaning in a friendly manner, "I'll tell you I think its' worth 700 galleons. She'll try to sell it to you for more, though."

Draco stiffened, unsure if it was because of the breath on his neck or because this man had just said "galleons" in a muggle shop. "This isn't a wizarding store, though." Draco protested, looking the man in the eye. The man's expression changed slightly, and he took a step back and laughed. "I was fairly sure you're a wizard, though. You look familiar... and your wand is fairly noticeable, too."

Draco flushed, and fiddled with the magic wand in his charmed shirt pocket, fairly sure he hadn't meant the type of wand Draco was thinking of. It was just that maybe in the back of his mind again, he assured himself. He pushed the thought away, and glared at the man. "That was risky, though."

He laughed again, and elbowed Draco in the shoulder. "I like taking risks. The name's Harry, by the way. You?"

Draco's eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. This man wasn't Potter, surely… Or he would recognize the face. If Potter was using a glamour to change his face, he wouldn't introduce himself with his bloody first name, would he? No, he's a fucking Gryffindor. He loves taking risks. Of course he would. Draco thought. Then, he thought, Oh shit oh shit oh shit. What if he knows its me and he's playing a game? What if he tells everyone I'm shopping in a muggle shop?

Draco breathed again, and reminded himself to keep his poise. He met Harry's eye. "Adam." He said calmly. The man smiled curiously. It reminded him of someone, but then more words came out of Draco's mouth in an unexpected rush. "You look familiar, too. Like Harry Potter." That wasn't as calm. He hadn't meant to say it. He panicked again. He also realized he had said his pen name. Shit.

Harry's face turned red, and the now apparent glamours fell. "Got me. Don't tell, though. This is my secret job. Can't have the papers finding out." He stage-whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. Draco's eyes widened.

"You're insane, Potter. You must want to be found out; you were hardly trying with the glamours. Or the name. Or the magic. Or the obvious Gryffindor nerve." Draco spat. The words just kept on falling out. That tended to happen when he was with Potter, he knew. Though he wasn't nearly as harsh now as he had once been at school, he wondered if it gave him away.

Potter winked, and smiled—no, he smirked. Since when did Potter know how to smirk?

"Give me some credit. It's not like you tried much harder," he muttered, and leaned in a little too close again, to whisper into his ear: "Malfoy."

Shit. It did give me away. Draco felt his stomach twist in all sorts of unnatural ways and he was shaking—probably a mix of rage and anxiety, he knew. Since when did Potter have the right to act so Slytherin like that? This wasn't natural. This was encounter was becoming absolutely horrible.

"What tipped me off?" Draco demanded. Potter shrugged, the smirk and the conniving-Slytherin appearance melting away to the usual annoying Gryffindor brazenness. "You still look like you. Talk like you. And the bed frame is something in accordance to your tastes, is it not?"

Draco shook his head. This felt like a dream. Potter was acting strange. He didn't let his confusion reach his voice, gathering old schoolboy ice to line his words with. "Potter, you don't mean to say you were thinking of me when you made that bed?" At first he smirked, but then he almost cringed at how much like his old self he sounded. He was trying to change, after all. And Potter was the one person who could surely taint his image.

Potter looked like his old self, too, and his cheeks flushed red again. He wasn't the mystery man of a few minutes ago, joking about visible wands and leaning in too closely. He no longer had the upper hand, and was acting like the brash, flustered Potter he knew from Hogwarts. Draco didn't know how he felt about that.

"I think about a lot of things when I work my wood."

With that unexpected response, Draco let out a bark of laughter, and Potter blushed even more. "That isn't what I meant!" He exclaimed. Yes, Draco definitely had the upper hand. But that didn't mean he was going to abuse it, like he would once have. As satisfying as it was for Potter to admit (even accidentally) that he thought of Draco when he worked his wood, Draco had matured. He had grown past this ridiculous competition between them.

Show him you've changed.

Draco assured himself it was only for the sake of his image. If Potter didn't have so much influence, he wouldn't have worried about his opinion of him. "I know, Potter. I think I goaded you into that." Draco admitted. Potter opened his mouth to say something, but Draco interrupted him. "This isn't Hogwarts. We're obviously different people than we were. We're also trying to live out own secret lives now. So let's forget this unfortunate encounter, and move on, shall we?"

Potter nodded. "Brilliant." Neither of them said any more, and Draco turned around to leave. But then Potter grabbed his arm, and Draco felt his stomach twist in horror or something else. People didn't grab him.

"Draco." Potter mumbled.

Draco shrugged Potter's arm away. "Harry." He replied, meeting Potter's eyes with forced contempt.

"Aren't you going to buy my bed?" Potter—Harry—asked.

"Well, it is rather nice. I suppose I'll ask the shopkeeper for the price." Draco admitted, dropping his gaze, and walking past him to get to the counter. He noticed Harry followed him. He briefly wondered if the shopkeeper would notice the difference without the glamours, but he realized she was so old it probably wouldn't make a difference.

"Gloria, this friend of mine is interested in the bed I just sold you. Think you could sell it to him for a discount?" Potter—no, Harry, wasn't it?—flashed the old hag a winning smile, and she blushed. "Well, if it promises a faster sale, then of course! And because you're such a charmer, dearie."

So, that was how Draco bought the fine bed for a reasonable price without dipping into the tainted fortune. How he bought Harry Potter's bed.

And it got worse. Potter cast a notice-me-not spell on the shopkeeper (and of course he could get away with it, he was Harry-bloody-fucking-Potter) so he could shrink the bed (so much for handcrafted, non magic quality) and stick it into Draco's pocket.

Then, when they were out of the shop, Harry Potter turned to face Draco and offered his hand to shake.

I've wanted this since I was bloody eleven, haven't I?

Draco shook Potter's hand.

"Old rivalries put aside, then?" Potter had asked, and all Draco could do was nod, stuff his hand back into his pocket, and apparate back to his flat without saying another word.

It was the best and worst day of his life.