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Chapter 4

I.

"You kicked me again! I bruise easily, you know."

Harry looked up from Hermione's notes. He knew this tone. It was the trademark Malfoy whine. He hadn't heard it for quite a while.

Malfoy didn't disappoint Harry – he glared at him in a very patronising way and pouted. The illusion of a spoiled twelve-year-old was almost perfect if one ignored the deep shadowy hollows under his cheekbones and geometrically cut hair. Harry grinned and Malfoy's lips gave a twitch before he lowered his eyes.

Harry quickly returned to his notes. These moments felt awkward. They savoured strongly of friendship – if friendship manifested itself in palpitations and a tendency to stare pointlessly at a person.

Well, hell.

"Ouch!"

Harry started and gave the other boy an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry."

"Can't you keep those legs still for five minutes?"

"That's because we're sitting on this blasted bed all the time! It's getting on my nerves."

Harry was prepared for more upbraiding and complaints, but Malfoy fell silent for a minute and then muttered: "We could go for a walk. In the corridor. We're allowed to go there."

"We can't. You're ill."

"I feel better."

It was too much of a temptation. Harry really needed to get out of this cupboard-like cell for a quarter of an hour, at the very least. Maybe then he would stop thinking of nonsense. And Malfoy was feeling better, mainly since he discovered the healing properties of chocolates from the large box Ron and Hermione had brought for Harry. Anyway, they wouldn't go far and if things got bad, Harry could always help Malfoy back somehow…

"Come on then. Get up."

As soon as they stepped out of the room, Harry got almost overwhelmed with excitement and joy. He squeezed Malfoy's hand and dragged him on. There was a heavy door leading, in all likelihood, to the main section of the hospital wing at one end of the corridor and an alcove with a sturdy cabinet at the other. Right next to it, the corridor took a sharp turn to the right. Harry went over there and saw a patch of sunlight radiating from behind another turn several feet farther.

"There must be a window there. Shall we have a look?"

Malfoy had no objections and it turned out Harry had been right – around the corner the corridor stretched on, illuminated with bright daylight pouring through two high windows fitted with wooden window-seats. Opposite them were four ordinary doors. The corridor was pretty narrow and as Harry looked out of the first window on the grassy slopes behind the school, Malfoy curiously opened the door across from it and peeked inside. Evidently, he saw something that piqued his interest, because he tugged at Harry's hand and pulled him into a pantry of sorts.

"A potions storeroom?" protested Harry. "Get stuffed, ferret."

"I'll just have a look."

Harry met the other boy's eyes and relented instantly. With a sigh, he squeezed himself further into the tiny room and watched Malfoy take one vial after another from the shelves and put them back again. He even shook Harry's hand off, so that he could pull the stopper from a bottle full of something sickly yellow. Harry automatically grabbed his elbow. The blond gave him a slightly startled look and then went back to his exploration.

Harry immediately wished he could take his hand away but that would only be a proof that he felt awkward too. A few minutes went by. Then he realised Malfoy's elbow was getting heavier, pressing sharply into his palm, as the blond unconsciously sought his support. Harry threw caution to the wind, set his perplexing feelings aside and stepped closer, slipping an arm around Malfoy's waist. Malfoy leaned on him with a sigh and put the box he was holding back on the shelf. "Well, we can go and stare from the window now. Whatever floats your boat," he said haughtily.

Harry smiled and dragged him to the window-seat suffused with the glow of the afternoon sun. He took off his sweater, one of those Mrs. Weasley had made for him over the years, and folded it up to make a cushion for Malfoy to sit on. They sat facing each other with knees raised and their feet touching. Malfoy turned his head to look outside. His hair seemed golden in the mellow light.

"Most of those potions were made by Professor Snape. He always made slight changes to the recipes, it's like a signature when you know what to look for," he said.

Harry winced at the name. The image of dead black eyes sprung up in his mind, followed by a suffocating wave of guilt, much more intense than all his other memories put together ever managed to excite. Many good people got killed in his war, but at least he had liked them.

"I might have brewed a few of those, too," continued Malfoy in a low voice, more as if he talked to himself. "Last year. When I couldn't sleep. Snape used to spend nights in his laboratory and let me work with him. We didn't talk. There was nothing to talk about."

Harry closed his eyes. People didn't like to speak about the year under the Carrows' rule. Neville and Ginny sometimes told tales about the more colourful adventures of their resistance movement but kept more or less silent when it came to the ordinary dark days between. It reminded Harry of his own aversion to speaking or even thinking of the Forest of Dean. It felt strange that the first one who had the guts to say something about the bleak seventh year here in Hogwarts was one of the defeated Death Eaters.

"Snape was my godfather, did you know that? He left me a dark damp house in a Muggle town, so ugly that the Ministry didn't even bother to contest the will."

Harry broke into Malfoy's soliloquy. "What are you going to do with it?" His heart was in his mouth. A godfather. A dark damp house. Sometimes it felt as if he and Malfoy were positive and negative of the same photograph.

"It's my home now. They took the Manor, I have nowhere else to go," said Malfoy listlessly.

Harry avoided The Daily Prophet as much as he possibly could. He'd heard about the confiscation of Malfoy family estates and property, nevertheless, because the Weasleys received a part of it in terms of reparation. He just hadn't realised what it meant for his former enemy. He probably should have pitied Malfoy, but when he looked at him, all he saw was the peculiar calm emptiness of his face. The aristocratic name and lineage meant nothing now. All that remained was this skinny boy in second-hand grey sweatshirt, about whom Harry knew nothing.

Yet, for some mysterious reason, he wanted to know him.

"My godfather left me a house too. Old, smelly and reeking with Dark Arts," he said in a sarcastic tone. "And I guess I also own the ruin of the house where Voldemort killed my parents." He nudged Malfoy's ankle with his foot. "We have great expectations, haven't we?"

Malfoy turned to him, studied him for a while and finally made a wry face. "Indeed. I'm positively thrilled."

II.

"Hey, ferret, wake up. Madam Pomfrey will be here any moment," whispered Harry.

Malfoy's lashes fluttered as he murmured something unintelligible. There were traces of black eyeliner left on his eyelids since yesterday and his unfocused gaze looked surprized and innocent. Mostly his eyes were light grey, sometimes dull, sometimes gleaming like quicksilver. They changed into mirrors, impenetrable and cold, whenever Hermione and Ron came. But in the first waking moments they were dark as sky before a storm. The same shade Sirius's eyes used to be.

"Come on, she'll bite your head off."

"It's Sunday," said Malfoy in a thick voice. "Why should I get up at seven in the morning on Sundays too?"

"Seven was the first time I tried. It's half past eight now."

"Fuck. I thought it was a dream."

Harry grinned. "You dream of me?"

Malfoy raised his brows. "Every night."

Harry blushed against his will. Sometimes it was too easy to get trapped by Malfoy's wit.

They stopped going to the bathroom together a couple of days ago as the bond loosened considerably and they hardly caused pain to one another when taking turns. Breakfast was still an ordeal, though. Harry became firmly convinced that watching Malfoy, pale, lips tightly drawn, make circles with a spoon in his bowl of over-sweetened porridge would easily quench the appetite of champions like Ron or Goyle.

When Madam Pomfrey arrived for the first check-up of the day, her expression was severe and reproachful as usual. She forced another batch of Nourishing Potions on the blond, who drank them dutifully, but as soon as the door closed behind her, grimaced, scrambled over to Harry's side and helped himself to two chocolates from the box lying on the bedside table. On the way back, he managed to squash Harry's legs and kick him sharply in the shin.

Just an ordinary day.

The strange thing was that Harry liked it. For the first time since the war ended he felt as if everything made at least a little bit of sense. Living here was very uncomplicated. The biggest challenge was a trip to the corridor, the gravest danger were Malfoy's deadly elbows – and Crookshanks, of course. When they lounged on the window-seat, talking about past year, Harry was somehow finally able to see it all as past – a story with a beginning and an end that can't be changed. And now he saw many things from the other side too. When it came to adventure, Malfoy prefered listening to talking, which was a bit of a surprise, but ocassionally something snapped in him and he started to describe moments Harry had only known from his nightmares and the glimpses through Voldemort's mind.

On the whole, Harry didn't really mind this spell too much.

Suddenly, Malfoy snapped him from his musings. "Let's go outside. Sun is shining."

"Outside? Like out on the grounds?"

Malfoy sighed in exasperation. Harry glanced at him, taking in the eyes framed with glittering dark grey eye-shadow, for a change, and the upper lip smeared with chocolate. "Dream on," said the blond. "I meant out to the corridor."

"Oh. Sure."

They got up and went to the door, but Harry couldn't get the stain on Malfoy's lip out of his head and eventually couldn't restrain himself any longer. He stopped, licked a finger and wiped the smear from the blond's mouth. "Chocolate," he murmured and absent-mindedly licked the finger clean.

Malfoy froze and his eyes went dark as if he was going to faint. Then he ran his tongue over his lips. "Thanks," he said in a breathy voice.

Harry shivered. There was something about that mouth… He blinked and shook his head. "Come on."

They took their usual position on the window-seat but neither seemed too keen to talk. Harry had already finished his narrative about the Horcrux hunt the day before and he had enough of dragging up painful memories for now. Watching the other boy from below his eyelashes was much more interesting. For years, he'd seen Malfoy almost every day, yet apparently he missed out on something, because he had no idea when the little brat with slicked-back, almost yellow hair and nose in the air transformed into this long-legged, ashen-pale, weird creature. It was quite possible, though, that all the difference was due to the grisly make-up and strange taste in clothes. The sweatshirt Malfoy pulled out of his trunk this morning… In fact, this was the first time Harry saw him in something so… pink.

"Why do you wear this?" he asked. "It's Muggle clothes. And I don't want to burst your bubble but this sweatshirt is meant to be worn by girls."

Malfoy raised his brows. "So? I like it." Then he turned away as he said in a lower voice: "I have nothing except what little was left to me by Snape. When I got released from Azkaban, I found out that most of my personal possessions had been either destroyed or confiscated and I could hardly go shopping in Diagon Alley. I couldn't have afforded it anyway. You wouldn't know, I suppose, but you can get Muggle things extremely cheap, especially in summer sales." He shrugged and flashed Harry an unexpected smile. "They are nicer, too. Try to match any existing shade of lip-gloss with Snape's old wizarding robes."

Harry snorted and nudged him with a knee. Actually, he didn't care three straws about the way Malfoy dressed himself or painted his face. He never really took notice of other people's appearance, not even with girls. For sure, Cho had a nice smile and Ginny had beautiful hair…

He must have sighed aloud because Malfoy stopped staring wistfully at the sun-lit grass bank outside and looked at him. "What's wrong?"

Harry blushed. "Nothing. Just thinking."

"Of what?"

He wasn't in the mood to come up with excuses. "Ginny."

"Oh."

"I thought we would get back together after the war. And then, suddenly, we did, but somehow, there was nothing to talk about anymore. She was angry that I didn't let her go Horcrux-hunting with me and tried to send her away from the Final Battle, and she wanted to be with her family anyway. We hadn't seen each other for almost a month, except at funerals, and then the Weasleys invited me to stay with them for the rest of the holidays. It was horrible. Ginny stuck to me like a leech, all she ever wanted to do was kissing and… well, you know, things. She was really weird."

Malfoy gave him a penetrating look. "Potter," he said, "do you listen to yourself at all? A pretty girl wants to kiss you all the time and you think her weird? You should be beside yourself with joy! And it would fix your problem with talking too."

Harry felt an inexplicable jolt of anger. "I think kissing is overrated. You like it?"

The other boy looked away. "Hard to say."

"Did you like it with anyone?"

"I've never been kissed."

It took Harry a minute or two to get over the shock. He stared at the huge beautiful eyes and perfectly sculpted, though a bit thin upper lip. If there ever was anyone worth kissing…

Malfoy leaned his head down for a moment, hiding behind his hair. Then he glanced out of the window. "Pity we can't really go outside."

Harry banished the strangest idea that had ever entered his head and quickly said the first thing that came to mind. "Want some fresh air? That could be arranged." Grey eyes regarded him suspiciously. "You've always been mad at me, Hermione and Ron for traipsing around the castle at night, breaking the rules and not getting punished for it. You can give it a go now." Malfoy scrunched up his nose. Harry gave him a slow smile. "Scared, Malfoy?"

The blond straightened his shoulders in all his former aristocratic superiority. "You wish, Potter."

III.

It was not a good idea. No, scratch that. It was unbelieveably stupid. They didn't reach the ground floor yet and Draco already felt as if he was trudging through mud. When another staircase appeared in front of them in the light of Potter's wand, Draco tugged on the other boy's hand. Then he stumbled and pinned him to the wall. "Give me a moment," he whispered.

Potter tried to wriggle out, at least Draco thought so, but apparently he just wanted to free his hand to prevent the Invisibility Cloak from slipping. Then he stood still. Pleasant warmth radiated from his body and his heart beat strong and quick. Draco closed his eyes as he leaned his forehead against Potter's eternally messed up hair. It was surprisingly soft and smelled faintly of cherries.

"You pinched my shampoo," murmured Draco.

"Sorry."

It was almost impossible to resist. Not to give in to the closeness which felt so real but was actually completely fictitious. As long as Draco could hate Potter, as long as he had no hope whatsoever, he was able to live with it – but this friendship ripped him apart. If for no other reason, this was why he never could have been on the same side as Harry Potter. But there were no sides now and what used to be only a forbidden dream seemed so very, very close…

Minutes went by.

"Let's go back," said Potter.

Draco shook his head. "No, I only needed a rest. We're not giving up."

They went down the last flight of stairs, quietly crossed the Entrance Hall and slipped out into the intoxicating night air. There was a sharp cold wind but stars shone in between the clouds and the silence had a decidedly different quality here than in the stuffy space of their room. Potter laughed in delight and squeezed Draco's hand. They started forward without any clear sense of destination.

They ended up under the Quidditch stands. Potter stuffed the Invisibility Cloak into his pocket and they sat down, leaning against each other without a word. Draco stared at the grass in front of him, discerning a dark spot here and there. Burns. Battle scars. Hogwarts was covered with them despite the efforts of all the teachers and countless volunteers who worked all summer to restore the castle to its former glory. The only place where they succeeded in full had been the Great Hall, but there was still plenty of work left elsewhere and many areas on the grounds had simply been left to heal naturally.

And then there were the marks which would never disappear.

Draco bit his lip, trying hard not to think of the black tattoo that would always remain etched on his skin. Of course, it promptly began to itch and burn, and although he knew it was just an illusion, a crippling fear swept through him.

"Look, isn't that a broom?"

Draco looked up with a start and soon saw the thing Potter was pointing at. There was something lying at the base of the stands. Predictably, Potter stood up and went to explore. Not even a war managed to beat the stupid curiosity out of him.

It was an ordinary school broom, but Potter took it in his hands with such reverence as if it were a custom-made model with a diamond-encrusted handle. Draco immediately knew what was coming.

Potter didn't disappoint him. "Come, fly with me. Just a few rounds. You don't have to do a thing, I'll hold you. Please?"

Draco swallowed with difficulty. Saying no should have been easy… But it wasn't, he couldn't do it. In a dream-like state, he nodded.

As soon as they rose from the ground, Draco knew he had just made a terrible mistake. The icy wind whistling around their ears seemed to carry the smell of ash and the sinister crackling of flames. It was so cold it burned. And Potter held Draco too close, too tight, there was nowhere to run. In the end he couldn't stand it anymore. He tried to break away from Potter's grip, flailing his arms blindly, and their broom went to a free fall for a few mad seconds. Then, mercifully, he blacked out.

He came to his senses lying on solid ground, cushioned by wet, fragrant grass, feeling strangely calm and weightless. Then the familiar smell of mint filled his nostrils and something liquid blocked his throat. He choked, coughed and then his cold muscles screamed in agony as the energy of the potion hit him with full force.

"I'm so sorry, Malfoy, so terribly sorry. I'm a prize idiot. It was absolutely, incredibly stupid of me to drag you flying, of all things. Forgive me," babbled Harry in a panicked voice, lifting Draco up and holding him so tight in his arms that he nearly broke his ribs. Draco huffed in protest but didn't have either the strength or the heart to resist him. As he pressed himself into the warm embrace he thought that he'd at least chosen the best possible place for dying. He lay his head on Harry's shoulder and waited for the heat of the other boy's body to seep into his skin. Inside, he was frozen.

"Fuck," said Harry. "It's starting to rain. Can you get up?"

"No," murmured Draco. His lips brushed the soft skin of Harry's neck, the touch flooding him with a crazy feeling of elation. The moment was soon gone, though, leaving behind nothing but enormous fatigue.

"We'll get drenched."

Draco lifted up his head and looked around in daze. The stars weren't shining anymore and the darkness seemed impenetrable. He felt water running in rivulets from his hair behind the collar of his sweatshirt. "I'm cold," he said weakly.

"Me too. Let's go inside, there's nothing else to be done."

It was a ghastly journey. Deep silence reigned in the corridors and their steps made a dull, endless echo. When they were half up the second flight of stairs, Draco's knees gave up and he collapsed. Potter just sat beside him, took his hands and rubbed them as if he hoped they would stop being so cold. It was much later when they finally arrived to the hospital wing, hidden under the Cloak, and stumbled to their cell. Draco thought it must be long after dawn but the room was dark. Potter's alarm-clock showed that it was only two in the morning.

They fell heavily on the bed. After a while, Potter sat up, took off his soaked sweatshirt and a hesitant second later his T-shirt too.

"Get up. I'll help you," he said.

Draco dragged himself to a kneeling position but his fingers were stiff and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make them grasp the hem of his sweatshirt. Potter gently pushed his hands away then and started to undress him.

Draco had to shut his eyes firmly. He prayed that Harry would stop at the undershirt but apparently, gods weren't listening just then. When knuckles brushed his naked skin, Draco clenched his teeth so hard that it hurt. He felt Harry toweling his hair and shoulders, with his own T-shirt in all likelihood, then pushing him back into the pillows and lying beside him as he pulled a blanket over them.

"I'll move to my side when you're warm enough," Harry said in a whisper.

"Don't go. Stay here with me," murmured Draco, rolled over on his side and snuggled as close to the other boy as he could. "Good night."

IV.

It wasn't a particularly nice morning. The little window showed a small piece of steel grey sky and the room drowned in pools of half-light and shadow. Draco was awake but he had no reason to move. He found himself exactly where he most wanted to be. In bed with Harry Potter.

The warmth of Harry's skin kept him on the edge of drowsiness. He breathed in the scent of his hair, cherries overridden with dirt and rain. Draco didn't want it to end. There used to be times when he imagined moments like this in the twilight zone before sleep, waking the morning after full of hatred and humiliation, the emotions getting stronger every time it happened. But he didn't care anymore. He had no future, no family whose name he could shame. He could stay with Harry under the blanket and hope that the other boy would not push him away when he came awake. He could do anything. Well, anything Harry allowed him to do.

The arm loosely circling Draco's waist twitched. "Hi," mumbled a sleepy voice against the blond's shoulder.

"Hi."

Fingers crept slowly up over the bumps of Draco's spine. He shut his eyes. Harry breathed out slowly as his hand reached Draco's nape and caressed the downy blond fluff there. "You've got grass in your hair," he said.

Draco squirmed. "Dirt, too. It itches like mad."

"Mmm. Don't get up yet."

"I couldn't if I wanted. My legs feel completely numb."

That wasn't exactly true. His legs ached terribly but he had a very good idea of their whereabouts, one of his knees being wedged between Harry's thighs. At any rate, he was determined to keep it there as long as possible.

They simply lay without moving for a while. Then Harry's hand went to explore some more. "You'd make a wonderful tool for teaching anatomy, as far as bones are concerned," he grumbled. "I keep forgetting you're in such a bad state. I shouldn't have taken you out, much less have you fly with me. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. It was my fault too," said Draco magnanimously.

Without warning, Harry rolled on his back, taking Draco with him. The blond tried to repay in kind but he didn't have sufficient strength, so he settled for jabbing Harry's ribs with his elbow and then squashed him with his full weight. Harry laughed and ruffled his hair. A cloud of dust rose in the air, making them both cough.

"It seems we'll have to get up after all," gasped Draco as he sat up and scrambled off Harry's lap before the crazy moment from last week could have repeated itself. Then he gave a strangled yelp.

It seemed as if a pack of sopping wet dogs ran over the bed and all around the room. Sweatshirts and T-shirts lay on the floor in pools of rainwater, the underside of the blanket was dirty and the sheets were covered with dried mud. Harry's hair resembled a bird's nest more than ever and his jeans were covered with grass stains. Draco's sweatpants were not fit to mop a floor with.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" moaned Harry.

Draco suddenly re-discovered a bit of his lord-of-the-manor attitude. He snapped his fingers and two house-elves promptly Apparated into the room. He started to bark orders. Harry spoiled it with many a needless "please" or "thanks", but the room was soon restored nevertheless. The only unpresentable things left were themselves.

"We have to go and take a shower," said Harry, glancing at the alarm-clock. "Quickly. Pomfrey will be here in twenty minutes."

The walk to the bathroom turned out to be too much for Draco, however. His head started spinning and his legs really felt numb this time. He collapsed on the toilet lid, trying not to watch Harry taking his jeans off just a few inches from him. The nausea was rapidly getting worse, though, and when it crossed the line of his endurance, Draco panicked. He reached out till his hands met bare skin and spread his fingers over it. The faintness ebbed away, but the feeling of helplessness and blind fear remained. He wanted to say something, but only managed a pitiful sob.

Then Harry was kneeling in front of him, naked, and rubbed his shoulders. "You're sick, aren't you? Come, we'll shower together. We're both boys, for Merlin's sake, there is nothing in it."

A sharp pain pierced right through Draco's heart, and it definitely wasn't an effect of the bond. There was nothing in it. Of course.

Next ten minutes felt like a distant memory. Draco didn't know nor care what happened. He was more or less sure that he hadn't washed his hair himself but otherwise he shielded his mind completely, so that he wouldn't feel the touches at all. They didn't mean anything, anyway. It had all been just wishful thinking, a desperate attempt to find something to hold on to. It would be better to disappear after all. To vanish into thin air. Become invisible.

As the pattering of water stopped, he slowly connected with reality again, but he still felt like someone under the Imperius Curse. He dried himself off, put on clean clothes and curled into the nest of fresh bedsheets and pillows, ignoring Harry, the breakfast and also Madam Pomfrey when she came. He didn't refuse the Nourishing Potion, though, because he knew that his body would soon reject magical nutrition for good – he only needed to stop eating again. Harry would be free then, and he as well, in a way.

"Do you want some chocolate?" said a shy voice and a warm hand patted Draco's shoulder.

Draco shook his head.

"Look, ferret, I'm sorry you're worse. Don't be angry with me."

Draco lifted his eyes, but when he saw the confused, worried look of the other boy, he had to blink away tears. He took a deep breath. He mustn't make fuss. He came to terms with the way things were years ago, and soon it would be all finished. "I told you to stop apologizing. I'm just tired," he murmured.

"Sure you are. And your hair is a mess. Can I comb it for you again?" Harry didn't even wait for an answer, reached for the comb lying on the bedside table and started to unravel the tangled strands. Draco felt himself relaxing against his will. What more did he want? "You promised to teach me the right way of combing my hair last time," added Harry after a minute or two. "And how to wear make-up, too. Pity you should be so exhausted right now."

That was too much of a challenge. Draco sat up straight. "Give me the bag."

In a minute, he had his fingers running through the unruly, gorgeously thick black hair. He realized at once that there was nothing in the world that could tame it, not even magic, but he enjoyed the opportunity too much, so he flattened the mass down, arranged it into spikes with plentiful amounts of wax and fixed the whole masterpiece with hairspray. Harry sneezed. His hair immediately sprung up and bristled wildly in all directions. Draco laughed aloud. "Fine, I give up. Take off your glasses."

"Wait, you really want to paint my face?"

"Of course I do."

Harry sighed in a distinctly down-trodden tone, took off his glasses, put them on the other bed, closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Draco's hands started shaking. He could just lean down a little, those lips were positively begging him to… He turned away and sorted through his make-up kit. When he was more or less sure that he could restrain himself, he took out a tube of liquid eyeliner, which he seldom used himself, and gently held Harry's chin.

"Don't move."

With two fluid strokes of the tiny brush he applied the black lines, extending them slightly past the outer corners, and blowed on them softly. He put the lid back on the tube, returned it to the bag and said in a shaky voice: "You can open your eyes now." And then he was drowning. The green irises glimmered and burned, so huge, bottomless…

"Draco," whispered Harry and kissed him.

It was just a brief touch of lips, it couldn't have taken more than two seconds, but Draco felt as if the earth started rotating in the opposite direction.

"S-sorry," stammered Harry when he pulled away, eyes wide with shock. "I…"

"Oh, shut up, Potter," said Draco dazedly and kissed him in return. He probably did it all wrong, but Harry didn't seem to mind. In fact, Draco thought it quite brilliant. All the bad-mouthing, fighting and pranks… nothing could compare to this. It was like diving on a broomstick in full speed, like flying over the flames of Fiendfyre… He felt dizzy, he couldn't breathe, but he didn't want to stop. Ever.

He had to, though. They both ran out of air at the same moment, gasped and pulled away. Only then did Draco notice that Harry was straddling his thighs and hugging him tight around the neck, watching him with slightly unfocused eyes as if he'd just seen him for the first time.

"I guess I've been kissing the wrong people," he said.

Draco searched for something to say, a biting comment, a witty reply, anything, but nothing came to him. Suddenly he knew. If either of them said anything at all, they would both wake up from this moment and everything would disappear. He put a finger on Harry's lips and looked into his eyes. After a while, Harry seemed to understand and nodded without another word.

Draco leaned in for another silent kiss.


It was very quiet in the library. Most of the students were outside, enjoying the unexpected return of sunny weather. Hermione browsed through a thick, ancient tome. After years of working on similar study projects, the archaic English posed no real problem for her and she was able to skip from one chapter heading to another swiftly. She knew it was useless, however. No one with honourable intentions would want to release themselves from an honourable debt. Apparently, a solution without the use of Dark Arts did not exist.

She heard the steps, but looked up only when the chair opposite her scraped against the floor.

"Hi, Ginny," she said, smiling. She hadn't forgiven Ron's sister entirely yet, but she didn't have the heart to look at her reproachfully all the time. Ginny had been withdrawn and melancholy since the incident and that seemed to be punishment by itself.

Ginny sat down, running a hand through her long hair nervously. "Hi. Anything new?"

"I'm afraid not."

The red-head fidgeted and sighed. Then she reached into her pocket and took out a crumpled piece of parchment. "I got a letter from Harry, a house-elf brought it after lunch. He's breaking up with me."

Hermione eyed the parchment with curiosity. It was filled with writing from top to bottom. "From Harry? So long?"

"Yeah, I was surprised too. I… Would you mind reading it, please?"

"Well," Hermione hesitated. "If you want."

It seemed awkward and she started reading the letter without any great enthusiasm – and then her eyes widened in astonishment. She quickly read the whole thing through and went back to the beginning, not to skim over it again, though. She just stared at the words, thinking hard. The letter had definitely been written by Harry, there was no doubt of that. She recognized his style and phrasing from the dozens of essays she had proof-read for him over the years. Yet she understood exactly why Ginny wanted to show it to her. There was something… well, strange about it.

"Harry is right," she said absent-mindedly, not able to take her attention from the letter completely. "You never really got back together after the war ended. You should have had broken up right then."

"Don't I know it," muttered Ginny. "If he had written this to me or told me before that thing happened, it wouldn't have happened at all. But you know how he was and I was fed up with it and…" She shrugged. "In fact, it's a relief to finally know for sure."

They were silent for a while. Hermione still kept looking at the parchment.

"Is it really so serious?" asked Ginny suddenly. "Why haven't you found a way to break that bond yet? It was just a silly spell for silly girls."

"Love spells and potions are not illegal for nothing," Hermione said sharply. "They are unstable, have unpredictable side-effects and their impact varies from person to person. That's exactly why no one should fool around with them." She paused and then added in a lower voice: "There is a ritual which can dissolve most magical bonds, including life-debts. It's very dark, though. Lots of blood and such. But if there's no other way, we'll have to do with it. People from the outside are starting to notice that Harry is gone. We just have to wait till Malfoy gets better because he probably wouldn't survive the ritual in the state he's in now."

Ginny went extremely pale. "Oh Merlin, that's horrible," she whispered. "I didn't know… They must hate me. And it must be a nightmare for them, being together all the time."

Hermione straightened her shoulders. "Actually, it's not," she said slowly. "Strangely enough, they are more or less okay with it. I even think they are quite friendly by now."

She glanced at the parchment again. Yes, that was it. It was not a letter one would write when stuck in a bare cell with his worst enemy who is slowly dying of starvation. It glowed with energy and something like excitement.

There was something going on with Harry.