Author's Note: This story is neither HBP nor DH compliant. Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile.

All you H/D readers out there have been pretty patient with me and my HG/SS (and all you HG/SS readers have now got a good fix, I hope), so here's the slash chapter a wee bit earlier than normal. Enjoy!

Anti-Litigation Charm: It all belongs to JKR; I play for non-profit amusement.


It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky

by Silver Birch

Chapter Eight: Discussions Reprise (Part One)

When Hermione had spoken and opened her eyes for the first time following her rescue, the relief Harry had felt was immeasurable. It was a relief so profound that, over the ensuing days, whenever he was irked by one of his myriad fans (who had popped out of the woodwork like prolific insects) or annoyed with a comment in the Prophet (which had gotten no more intelligent following Voldemort's defeat), all he had to do was remember that moment in the hospital wing, and the irritation he was currently feeling would fade away. Besides, it was that or ensure that he travelled with Professor Snape in the hallways to avoid the groupies; although the professor permitted it, the smirking got on Harry's nerves. Harry had considered making sure that everyone knew how heroic the Potions master had been solely in the hopes that the Slytherin would soon suffer from as many sycophantic followers as Harry; a look at the tall, forbidding man as Harry walked at his side suggested, however, that the Potions master would never have Harry's problem with hangers-on.

It had tickled Harry's sense of humour that, after all the years of harping on about how he and Ron should obey the rules at Hogwarts, Hermione had effectively disobeyed Madam Pomfrey as soon as she was marginally able. He wondered if she'd gotten away with it because Professor Snape had been on her side…. Somehow, he didn't think that the man would have consented to bring Harry potions in his room rather than in the infirmary.

Still, there was no point in resenting it, because not only was it a petty thought (and Harry wouldn't have relished the notion of Professor Snape dropping by Harry's dorm, anyway), it was much nicer for all of them to be able to visit Hermione in complete privacy. They still weren't supposed to be advertising Calla's paternity since it brought up far too many unanswerable questions. It was easy enough to convince everyone that Calla had grown especially attached to Hermione after their shared ordeal. Since Harry was Hermione's friend and hardly about to abandon her during her convalescence, it followed logically that he and Calla would frequently end up in the same place at the same time. And since he was the noble hero of the wizarding world, it also apparently followed that he would help out with the little girl even if she were a Slytherin…. Public opinion was enough to make him want to vomit, sometimes, but when it worked to his advantage, he wasn't going to argue.

He hadn't asked because he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, but despite the fact that he had yelled Calla's identity to a room full of Death Eaters, not a word of that fact had made its way into the papers. He suspected, therefore, that the Order had made careful use of a Memory Charm or twenty, in which case Harry was quite impressed with Ron for recalling the indiscretion and ensuring that it was remedied. The main threat against Harry and, by extension, Calla was gone, but that didn't mean it would do to be incautious. Even though, if push came to shove, Harry would willingly have Obliviated complete strangers to keep his daughter safe, the idea that a mass Charm had to be used because of him (even on Death Eaters) was a little unsettling. On the other hand, all he had to do was think about what Bellatrix would have done with the knowledge, and he was well on his way to being reconciled to the idea.

It was another reason to be grateful that Hermione had gone with Calla, horrible as that thought made Harry feel; everyone assumed that he had gone after his best friend and therefore that saving the child had been a collateral benefit only. He enjoyed reading aloud the articles that now vociferously linked him and Hermione as a couple; not only did they make the injured girl giggle like mad, they had the added bonus of making Professor Snape stomp out of the room snarling about Harry keeping abreast of his press cuttings. The Gryffindor thought that rather paid back the smirking over Harry's groupies (not to mention that dismal Potions class in fourth year).

As Hermione made her revelations to Dumbledore and a selection of Order members, Harry was amazed anew at all the work she had gone to in order to protect his loved ones. She had been quiet and thorough, and Harry was reminded, with a fondness brought on by several years' distance, of all the hats she had industriously knit and hidden for the house-elf population of Hogwarts. And she complained that he had a saving people complex. Throughout her recitation, whenever she had glossed over the details, Professor Snape had quietly interjected with all the gutsy comebacks he had heard her make to Voldemort. Harry blessed a mountain troll for bringing them together; Hermione made a brilliant best mate.

Harry had slept with Silencing Charms around his bed for several years, not wanting to wake his dorm mates when his sleep was disturbed by Voldemort. It had become such a habit to cast them that Harry hadn't even considered abandoning them after Voldemort's defeat, and this turned out to be all to the good. There was no longer a living Voldemort to torture him with the agony of others, but there appeared to be plenty that Harry's subconscious wanted to torture him with in Riddle's stead. Harry's nights were plagued with visions of Calla and Hermione's very dead bodies and his inability to save them. He knew intellectually that their being taken was not his fault; it had become quite clear that Calla had been kidnapped because she was an unknown and Hermione by accident. But the fact remained that Calla wouldn't have had to hide her parentage (and thus present such an irresistible mystery to Voldemort) if she hadn't been Harry's daughter, and Hermione wouldn't likely have been with Calla (and thus snatched along with her) if she hadn't been Harry's best friend and therefore perfectly happy to baby-sit his child. And he had even thanked his lucky stars more than once that Hermione had gone with Calla. That was like … like being thankful she had been tortured. He was a crap friend, that was all there was to it, and this was all his fault.

Watching as Hermione grew more and more restless, clearly frustrated by the restrictions forced upon her by her injuries, Harry felt horrible. It was his fault that she was in this state, he thought miserably. The know-it-all cornered him Saturday evening (although how an essentially bed-ridden woman could corner him when he was fully mobile, he had no idea). Ron was in detention with McGonagall (because causing a ruckus on the first day back to classes, especially when you were a hero, set a bad example, apparently), and Draco and Calla were maintaining the status quo and spending some time in the Slytherin common room.

"Sit," she ordered in a no-nonsense voice, indicating a spot on the bed right next to her. Harry perched there, knowing better than to argue when she took that tone. "The Dursleys were very wrong." Harry blinked at this seemingly random statement, but Hermione continued before he needed to seek clarification: "Everything is not your fault."

"Hermione—" he protested.

She shook her head. "You blame yourself – generally for everything that goes wrong around you. I'm not saying you should never take responsibility for anything, but you have a habit of taking it too far."

He focussed on a small section of the rug on the floor, staring intently at the bright purple patch. It was much easier than looking Hermione in the eyes.

"If I hadn't—" he began with difficulty.

"If you hadn't what?" she interrupted with a trace of impatience. "Rescued me from a troll and become my friend? Loved Draco enough to have Calla? Cared about other people even a little bit?"

Put like that, it did sound sort of daft.

"But—" he tried again.

"This was all Voldemort's doing, Harry. You stopped him. And saved us. You have looked in the mirror, haven't you?"

He nodded. After they had been kicked out from the conscious Hermione's bedside, he had finally gone to take a much-needed shower. He had looked into the mirror afterwards for the first time since the battle and, brushing his hair out of his eyes, had beheld an astonishing sight. He had thought his scar would be with him until his dying day (which he had thought would be sooner rather than later), but the physical reminder of what Riddle had done to Harry had gone with the snake-faced bastard to the grave, the same as all the Dark Marks. Harry had caught Professor Snape regarding his left forearm with unusual frequency over the last week, as though he could see through the cloth to the unblemished skin beneath, but since the professor said nothing about Harry's habit of brushing at a mark that was no longer on his forehead, Harry was respectfully silent as well. Voldemort was gone.

"I don't regret anything that happened to me," Hermione's voice brought him back to the present, "not when it brought about so much good. I'd do it again."

Harry swallowed heavily. "I dream about it, about you and Calla dying. I didn't do enough to stop it."

"Oh, Harry," she said softly, sighing. "I dream about it, too, about being tortured to death as Voldemort forces the truth about Calla out of me."

He met her eyes, startled. "Really?"

"Of course," she said, her look verging on pitying, but not so definitely that it rankled. "I think you forget, sometimes, that you are not alone in the universe. You were singled out by Voldemort and therefore a lot of what you went through was unique; but at the same time, you were part of the war that we were all part of. We've both lived through some horrific events, and there are bound to be repercussions as we figure out how to cope in the aftermath. But it doesn't mean we're to blame."

Harry had previously experienced a moment like this, when Ginny had chastised him for not considering that she had been possessed by Voldemort for much of her first year at Hogwarts. He didn't mean to be conceited or think that he was special, but it seemed that so many of these things happened to him over and over again, and….

Hermione's hands cupping his face brought his attention abruptly back to her. She leaned forward and gently touched her lips to his before pulling back so that they were less than a hand's-breadth apart. His eyes were rivetted to hers; he'd never noticed how bright they were before, flecks of gold dancing in the brown. Her gaze was intense, as though she were staring straight into his soul.

"It's not your fault," she enunciated carefully and clearly. "You came and you rescued us, and I could never blame you for any of it. I forgive you whatever blame you have assigned yourself."

A tight coil of tension that he hadn't even realized was there eased inside of him. He'd convinced himself, right after the rescue, that with Voldemort dead all Harry's issues were buried as well, but it seemed that he was still working through more of them than he had anticipated.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Thank you," she returned. "I wouldn't be here now if it weren't for you."

He was about to point out that Professor Snape actually had more to do with that than he did when they were interrupted.

"Isn't this cosy."

Harry spun round to find that Draco was at the door, regarding them with narrowed eyes.

"Hello, Draco." Hermione, bless her, was cool as a cucumber, so Harry was able to repress the urge to jump off the bed and declare loudly that nothing whatsoever had happened. "I realized I'd never properly thanked Harry for rescuing me."

"And what sort of a 'thank you' were you planning?" The question was sneered, the insinuation obvious.

Hermione only laughed. "One that both of us found a sight more useful – and, I daresay, more enjoyable – than the one you're thinking of. Although I now have a whole host of creepy mental images," she shuddered dramatically, "to contend with, thank you very much."

Draco's aggressive stance relaxed, the tight line of his lips softening, and he sauntered all the way into the room.

"I live to serve, Granger," he drawled.

"Tut tut," Hermione chastised. "You know Calla won't let you get away with that now."

"Hermione," he corrected with a great show of reluctance, as though it were a horrible hardship.

She shook her head bemusedly at his behaviour. "I take it Calla is asleep?"

He nodded. "I came to tell Harry that the opportunity to participate in story time will have to wait for another evening, unless he fancies waking her up in order to read her to sleep."

"I'm sure he'll have lots of future opportunities that don't require interrupting his daughter's sleep cycle," Hermione said with a smile.

They heard Ron before they saw him, for he was grumbling nonstop about unduly strict professors, no tolerance towards mitigating circumstances, and unjust detentions. He appeared in the bedroom door, no end to his rant in sight, and they paid him no mind as he sank into a conjured chair by the fire. And then a fragment of what he was saying caught their attention.

"—why we couldn't have Professor Snape as our head of house, I don't know—"

His diatribe abruptly ended as he realized that the three of them were staring at him as though he were a Polyjuiced impostor.

"What?" he demanded.

"You said you wished you had Professor Snape as your head of house," Draco pointed out helpfully and with relish.

"I didn't—" Ron's mouth apparently caught up with what he'd been saying, and he froze, looking vaguely horrified. "I … I only meant favouring his students. Honest!"

"I might have to mention this to Professor Snape the next time I see him," Harry proposed as seriously as he could, inwardly as amused as Draco was.

Draco's "Pity you just missed him" was overridden by Ron's loud exclamation.

"Oy, mate!" the redhead protested. "Malfoy never got detentions for being boisterous, that's all I was trying to say."

"I'm sure Professor McGonagall would be interested in Ron's preference," Hermione pointed out blandly.

"Hey, I never—" He finally caught sight of the smiles they couldn't hide. "Bloody hell, that was cruel, that was. Tell Professor Snape," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'll have nightmares for a week."

Harry's eyes unconsciously sought out Hermione's, and they silently shared a brief regret that they didn't have Ron's sanguine humour and excellent recovery time. Still, Harry shook the thought off, they were doing alright, weren't they? Hermione was looking better day by day, and Voldemort was gone for good this time.

"Are you finished your Transfiguration essay?" Hermione asked.

"No, I won't allow it," Ron said flatly. "Classes don't start up again until Monday, and you're not even going. You are not allowed to badger us about our homework. No way."

Ron, it transpired, was the only one who hadn't finished. Draco, of course, had completed it in his usual timely manner. Harry had found that slogging through school-related work prevented him from thinking too hard about anything else, not to mention the fact that he wasn't laying any bets on Hermione's injuries making her forget the "homework before Calla" rule she had established. There was no need to take unnecessary chances, anyway.

Hermione had begun to look rather tired and pale as she lay in her bed, so Harry dragged Ron away with the promise of working on his Charms paper while the redhead struggled through their head of house's assignment. The Gryffindor girl's voice caught them at the threshold.

"Incidentally, Draco," they all looked back, "if I were going to rock somebody's world, I'd close my bedroom door first." She smiled brightly. "Goodnight."

"What?" Ron demanded. "Whose world is she rocking?"

Certain that Hermione was laughing herself silly in her bedroom, Harry attempted to explain to a madly-curious Ron and an increasingly-amused Draco (without giving away any embarrassing details) what had transpired in the bedroom before Ron had arrived. Hermione is evil, no question about it, Harry reflected. Although, he had to admit, it was nice to see Ron and Draco forgetting to snipe at one another. Alright, maybe not completely evil. Sort of clever, actually, Harry grumbled to himself as he watched the two boys laughing. Bloody Gryffindor know-it-all.


As they started the new week, the number of officials who needed to speak to Hermione and Harry about what had happened finally tapered off. Dumbledore had been quite good, as always, about not letting unnecessary people get at either of them, but certain questions had to be answered. Now that classes had resumed, they didn't have as much free time as before, but, all things considered, Harry decided he would take school over officials any day, despite the fact that this experience with the Ministry had been downright pleasant compared to some of the encounters Harry had had with them over the years. It seemed that succeeding in killing Voldemort really did hold a certain cachet. At least until public opinion did an about-face, he was the Ministry's new poster boy – and the Minister's new best friend. Even Ron was only bemused.

"It's like they didn't expel you, or try you in front of the entire Wizengamot, or keep Umbridge on even though she carved words into your hand…."

"That's politics," Hermione and Draco said at the same time. They grinned at one another.

"Finished!" Calla declared from her seat at Hermione's desk, where the surface clutter had been made into several rather precariously high piles so that a portion of the desk was available for the little girl's use. "Want to see?"

Hermione had Transfigured a set of water paints and coloured pencils for the little girl, and it appeared that she had finished the masterpiece she had been working on so industriously. They all made appropriate sounds in the affirmative, and Calla bounded over with a square of parchment and proudly displayed it.

At first, all Harry could see were a lot of really bright colours. As he interpreted his daughter's childish and enthusiastic effort, he felt his heart constrict as he realized anew how much he had missed as a child.

"That's you, Daddy," she said, pointing to a big red blob with a little orange blob on top, covered in a black mass that Harry reflected was probably an accurate representation of his hair. "And there's you, Father." This blob was green topped with orange and covered in a large enough quantity of yellow to suggest that Draco grew his hair out. In between them was a smaller set of wobbly ovals wearing blue. "And this is me."

The three figures had spindly arms connecting one another, and their little faces had tiny dots for eyes and oversized red grins done with the pencils. They were standing on spiky green grass under a giant swirl of blue and white. A large grey mass on the left suggested that they were on Hogwarts grounds.

"It's beautiful, love," Harry managed to get out over the lump in his throat, and Draco nodded his concurrence.

She beamed up at them.

"I wanted to do one of Aunt 'Mione and—" The woman in question cleared her throat loudly. Calla hurried on: "But I thought I'd do the three of us to make a fam'ly portrait."

"Shall I dry it for you?" Draco offered.

Calla nodded, and an incantation later, she held a perfectly dry picture whose colours were no longer sliding down the page and dripping onto Hermione's quilt.

"C'I have a biscuit now?" their daughter asked hopefully.

"Go wash up first," Draco instructed.

The little girl instantly abandoned her painting on the end of the bed and scampered into the bathroom, where she climbed onto the stool the house-elves had brought for her so that she could reach the sink. Harry took the opportunity to banish the paint from Hermione's furniture, and the Gryffindor smiled her thanks.

Calla was back a moment later, all ready for an evening run to the kitchens. They were halfway to the door when Harry realized that Ron wasn't with them; he was still sitting on the bed.

"You go ahead," he said, waving them on casually. "I'll stay and keep Hermione company."

Harry should have known then that something was up. When had his best friend ever declined the opportunity for food? But Calla was full of her usual enthusiasm, so it was easy enough to brush Ron's anomalous behaviour aside. His absence did, however, make them decide not to eat in the kitchen but to take the food back so that Ron and Hermione could enjoy it, too.

This choice, it soon became apparent, meant that they were back much sooner than Ron had anticipated. The two Gryffindors in the bedroom evidently hadn't heard the trio return to the sitting room, because they continued their conversation, and Harry and his companions could clearly hear every word.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ron," Hermione was laughing, "of course Draco wasn't going to be a Death Eater."

"How can you possibly know that? Told you, did he, and you believed him?"

"We had a very civil working relationship," Hermione replied, now beginning to sound exasperated. "We weren't best friends. But use a little common sense. Draco knew about Calla, and he didn't say anything to Voldemort. He could have handed her over at any time and given Voldemort a sure-fire way of getting to Harry. He didn't. I'd wager it didn't even cross his mind. He also knew that Severus knew about Calla, and he didn't hand Severus over to the Dark Lord, either. Draco made his allegiances quite plain."

"Aunt 'Mione is very fond of you," Calla confided in a whisper to Draco.

"I'm growing quite fond of your aunt," Draco replied, sounding rather blindsided by this show of loyalty. Ron's voice rose in the other room.

"I'm just saying—" he cut himself off abruptly to demand sharply, "Since when is it 'Severus'?"

Hermione's voice grew colder still. "I believe the man whose robes were soaked in a large quantity of my blood as he worked desperately to save my life can be referred to by me by his given name."

Ron cleared his throat loudly and wisely dropped his tangent. "It's a little odd they hardly even questioned him, though, isn't it?"

"They didn't need to question him, Ron," Hermione said impatiently, "not when he was being vouched for by the Saviour of the Wizarding World."

"But what could Harry say about him, really?" Ron demanded.

"That he wasn't supporting Voldemort," Hermione said, her tone making it clear that she thought that this was obvious and that Ron was being more stupid than usual. "Dumbledore vouched for him, too, as did I. The Ministry certainly didn't have proof to the contrary; they would have been daft to go against us."

"But what did you say about him?" Ron wanted to know, clearly frustrated.

"That without him I wouldn't have been nearly as prepared to face Voldemort as I was. Dumbledore was kind enough to point out that we had weekly meetings together, and it all passed very well."

"But those meetings were about your Head Girl and Head Boy duties!" Ron snapped.

Hermione's answer was calm: "What passed at those meetings is known only to the two of us."

"Are you saying he did help you prepare?" the redhead asked sceptically.

Hermione's response would have made Professor Snape proud. "I'm saying you'll never know – and neither will the Ministry. They're content with what we've told them; you should be, too."

Harry looked over at Draco. If Ron had been able to see the Slytherin's face at that moment, he would have had his answer; Hermione had clearly been lying through her teeth, and their meetings really had been academic in nature.

"Do you really think he was going to be a Death Eater?" Hermione asked into the silence.

"I think somebody should have checked, that's all," Ron said sullenly.

"Someone did." Hermione's tone said that Ron had missed a crucial concept. "Have you forgotten Calla?"

"What does she have to do with this?" Ron asked impatiently.

"You can be a real idiot, Ronald Weasley," Hermione said severely. "Harry loves Draco enough to have a child with him. I'd venture there's almost nothing he wouldn't do for him. And you think he doesn't know what's in Draco's heart? I pity the woman you fall in love with."

"There's no need to get personal," Ron protested, sounding offended.

"The hell there isn't," Hermione snapped. "Harry and Draco have the chance to be happy, but you're making base accusations."

"I was a little confused, that's all. I didn't say any of this to Harry, did I?" Ron defended himself. "I ran it by you."

Suddenly, Hermione gave a light chuckle, and they could feel the instant lowering of tension even from the other room. "And you are now rather regretting it?"

"Well," Ron's voice lightened immediately, "wishing I hadn't picked a grumpy day, yeah. They'll bring me some biscuits, right?"

"I'm not sure you deserve them," the laughter still threading her tone ruined the attempt at severity, "but yes, I think they'll bring you some."

This reminded Calla of their mission, because before Harry or Draco could say anything, she had burst into the bedroom, proffering the promised treat. Studiously not looking at one another, Harry and Draco followed.

Ron was so pleased by the presence of the wide variety of biscuits the house-elves had provided that he didn't think to question the perfectly-timed entrance. Hermione looked more suspicious, but both Harry and Draco kept their heads down and let Calla and Ron natter on about their favourite pudding and the relative skills of the Hogwarts house-elves and Ron's mum. Hermione must have noticed, Harry realized, or she wouldn't have let Calla distract Ron with knowledge from the future. Good to know Mrs Weasley was still cooking up a storm, though.

Hermione called a halt to their feast before Calla could consume too much sugar, and even Ron, though he was eying a particularly tempting-looking chocolate chip biscuit, knew better than to argue with her. Noticing how late it was, they rose to leave.

"Aren't you going to take your painting?" Calla asked hesitantly.

Harry looked up, startled. "My painting?"

She nodded, looking rather crestfallen. "I made it for you and Father."

Harry hurried to retrieve it. "I didn't realize it was for us, munchkin. I'll put it up in the dorm tonight."

She was immediately happy again, and although Harry realized he should have cleared his taking the picture with Draco, he didn't think now was the time to bring it up. They bid Hermione goodnight, and Harry hugged and kissed his daughter. In the hallway, they separated, Draco and Calla heading down to the dungeons, and Harry and Ron making their way to Gryffindor Tower.

Over the next several days, Harry's emotions fluctuated a great deal. At first, he was simply relieved that Draco hadn't brought up Hermione's revelations, because Harry was quite busy being horribly embarrassed on his own. He wondered how his best friend saw so much and also wished that he was really as certain of Draco's heart right now as she thought he was. Harry knew how he felt, and he knew how he wanted Draco to feel, but he didn't have a lot more than that to go on. It should have been a good sign, Voldemort being defeated, but Harry's initial hope was being rather brutally dashed by Draco's current behaviour.

For as the week progressed, it finally became apparent to Harry that Draco, rather than considerately not discussing the sensitive information revealed by Hermione, was actually doing his best to have as little interaction with Harry as possible.

Harry reckoned this had to be what being divorced with joint custody of a child must feel like; Draco was civil to him in Calla's presence and interacted quite ably with Hermione and Ron, but the warmth that Harry had thought he'd been starting to see was missing, and he couldn't for the life of him catch the blond boy alone.

No doubt Hermione could have cleared up his confusion, but it was obvious even to Harry that she was suffering from her own issues. Overnight, it seemed, she had lost a great deal of energy and colour and … life. She also kept insisting that everything was fine, and when she actually told him and Ron to bugger off, they beat a hasty retreat. Madam Pomfrey was told off as well and had looked quite concerned, so the two Gryffindor boys agreed that the mediwitch would be sure to take care of the problem. After all, she was a professional and surely better-equipped to deal with relapsing or depressed or just plain pissed off patients, or whatever Hermione was. The eternally eleven-year-old part of Harry wouldn't have minded seeing Professor Snape told off, but the Head of Slytherin, with remarkable perspicacity, Harry thought, wasn't to be found anywhere near Hermione these days. Since turning to Ron for advice about his problems with Draco was out of the question, Harry was on his own.

Finally, with no better ideas, Harry resorted to the tried and true: wandering the halls well after curfew. Since Draco was doing both his and Hermione's rounds, it was only a matter of time until they ran into one another.

Sure enough, nearing midnight Thursday night, Harry's peripatetics crossed Draco's.

"What are you doing out of bed, Potter?"

Oh, bugger. It was even worse than Harry had thought if he rated his surname.

"Looking for you."

"You've found me."

He couldn't have sounded more uninviting.

"I need to talk to you," Harry tried. Draco still looked stony, so the Gryffindor added, "Please."

Without uttering a word, Draco turned away from Harry and continued down the hall. Hoping for the best, Harry followed. Inside the Room of Requirement, he found one comfortable-looking, dark green armchair and one small wooden chair that would have been right at home in Professor Snape's office, designed specifically to make the student who sat in it uncomfortable. There was diffuse, gloomy lighting that trailed off into large shadows, suggesting that the room was dauntingly vast and utterly unsuited for a private conversation. Oh, yes, this is definitely an auspicious beginning, Harry thought gloomily. The Gryffindor sat, trying not to squirm on the hard wood, and Draco sank into the armchair, looking comfortable and elegant. They stared at one another. It was the hospital wing all over again, except that this time Harry felt even more out of his depth, and Draco didn't simply look aloof, he looked downright untouchable.

"I don't know why I'm here," Harry confessed.

This did not have the effect he had intended, for it brought Draco out of his chair with a sneer on his face. He headed for the door.

"Wait!" Harry called. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm here because you're upset, I … I just don't know why that is."

Draco turned back, repeating Harry's words flatly: "You don't know why I'm upset."

Harry shook his head. Draco's lips tightened.

"Congratulations, Potter. I didn't think you could annoy me more, but you've managed it."

"I know you've been upset since we overheard Ron and Hermione talking about us," Harry said defensively.

Draco made a disbelieving sound. "Shows what you know."

Harry was out of his chair now, facing off from Draco. "Then tell me!" he said desperately.

The Slytherin ripped a ring Harry hadn't noticed before off the pinkie finger of his right hand and held it up.

"Do you know what this is?"

Nonplussed, Harry shook his head.

"Hermione gave it to me. It's one of her modified Portkeys."

"O-kay," Harry said, dragging the two syllables out, not understanding at all.

"She trusted me," Draco said bitterly.

Frowning, Harry answered quietly, "I trusted you."

"You trusted me?" Draco repeated. He let out a sharp bark of incredulous laughter, volume rising as he said, "You trusted me?! Trusted me enough to accuse me of sending my own daughter to the Dark Lord, you mean?"

"I didn't—" Harry attempted to protest.

He'd finally cottoned on. He had thought when Draco had said nothing after Harry returned with Calla and Hermione that the Slytherin had forgiven him for that night. Now it was clear that Draco had simply been biding his time, waiting, at the very least, until they knew Hermione was well. And now … well, now the shit was hitting the fan.

"You trusted me enough to accuse me of lying about the envelope I found," Draco accused, grey eyes narrowed to flinty slits as he stared Harry down.

"I only—" Harry tried again.

But Draco had got a full head of steam, and he was away, yelling now. "You trusted me enough never to want Calla anywhere near the dungeons, trusted me enough not to mind Hermione being given undeserved detentions so that she could look after Calla instead of me."

"I—"

"No doubt you were happier when Severus was looking after Calla, because at least he was a member of your precious Order!" Draco spat.

Now, really, that was the outside of enough; he was in love with Draco and Professor Snape drove him bonkers, how could Draco possibly think–?

"Dr—"

But the Slytherin roared right over him. "Oh, yes, Potter, I'll buy it – you trusted me so fucking much that you left me in Dumbledore's office while you and Weasley went to rescue our daughter!"

Goaded beyond endurance, Harry cried out, "I couldn't lose you both!"

This stopped Draco cold. "What?"

Pink tinged Harry's cheeks as his hastily-spoken words demanded clarification that he hadn't been ready to give. But now that Draco had stopped yelling, Harry could hardly refuse to continue.

With difficulty, he confessed, "There was what seemed a very good possibility that I was going to lose Calla…. I couldn't lose you, too. I had to protect you. So you couldn't come with us."

Draco's look was very intense, his eyes dark and stormy, making Harry want to squirm.

"That's the sweetest and most asinine thing anyone has ever done for me, Harry Potter," Draco pronounced in a low voice. "But it isn't your choice to make. It's the bad witch who locks Rapunzel up in the tower, remember?" At Harry's puzzlement, Draco rolled his eyes and explained, "Calla has some very specific bedtime story requirements."

Harry smiled briefly before saying very seriously: "I said some awful things to you. I was angry, and you were the easiest person to lash out at. I'm very sorry."

"You accused me of handing our daughter over to Voldemort."

It was the first time Harry had ever heard Draco say the name, and it was overshadowed by the hurt that the Slytherin hadn't hidden in those quietly-repeated words. Harry stepped closer.

"I'm so sorry," the Gryffindor said with every ounce of sincerity he possessed. "I wasn't thinking rationally, but I never really thought you'd done it. Draco, if I'd truly believed I had the person who knew where Calla was right in front of me, I'd have taken him at wandpoint and poured Veritaserum down his throat. We've had years of being angry at one another and blaming one another for whatever goes wrong at school; I fell back on that, but I know you'd never hurt Calla, I swear I do."

Draco spoke so quietly that Harry assumed he had misheard.

"What?" he asked, stepping closer still, so that he and Draco were only a half metre apart.

Draco's look was fierce as he muttered for the second time, "I said I'd never hurt you, either, daft Gryffindor idiot."

A broad grin spread across Harry's face; he had never been so happy to be insulted in his life.

"She was right, you know," he admitted, continuing at Draco's look of inquiry: "Hermione. Anything you want. You have only to ask, and I'll do it for you."

"Hmm…." Draco smiled. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

Such a promise should probably have made Harry nervous, coming as it did from such a consummate Slytherin, but it didn't. Instead, Harry was feeling elated, excited, and almost dizzy with happiness and anticipation.

The Slytherin's eyes were bright. "I think I've finished my rounds for the night."

"Have you?" Harry asked, somehow managing to remain outwardly calm.

Draco nodded. "Dobby is keeping an eye Calla."

Harry nodded, but then what Draco said actually registered. "What? Dobby?"

Lips quirking up, perhaps at Harry's ready agreement before he processed what he had heard, Draco said, "Yes, Dobby. House-elf, you know? You freed him from my family?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Prat. I know who Dobby is. I hadn't realized the two of you were still … on speaking terms."

Draco's smirk deepened. "Oh, he never disliked me like he disliked my father, but we weren't exactly what you'd call close, no. But he took one look at Calla and knew exactly who she was: a Malfoy child and the daughter of the wizard he venerates most in all the world. There's nothing he wouldn't do for her, and he's very happy to keep an eye on her at night when she's sleeping and I need to be out of my rooms."

"I'll have to remember to give him more socks," Harry said, still rather stunned by this revelation. "They're his favourite article of clothing, you know, since—"

"Since you tricked my father into giving him one and his freedom along with it, yes." Draco's tone was wry. "Shall we dredge up more unsavoury history?"

Harry's head tilted as he considered the Slytherin before he offered, cautiously, "I'm not sure much of our history is exactly wholesome, Draco. I don't think we can avoid all of it all the time."

"It wasn't a blanket statement for all eternity," Draco explained with an eye roll. "I was thinking more of the present moment. Is that really what you want to be doing right now?"

Harry blinked and realized that the room had changed utterly. They were now in a comfortable room that looked to be about the size of one of the Gryffindor dorms. It was reminiscent, in fact, of the configuration in which they had drunk hot chocolate after their snowball fight, except that instead of comfy chairs there was a large, luxurious-looking four-poster. It had the fluffiest-looking quilt Harry had ever seen, a large quantity of pillows, and dark green drapes that the Gryffindor thought might be made of silk. There were strategically-placed candles supplementing the soft light from the fire, a bedside cabinet covered with small, interesting-looking bottles, and there was no way Harry's imagination had come up with anything this elegant.

"I—" He seemed to be having trouble with his voice. "Whatever you want is good with me."

Draco smiled, a genuine smile that lit up his eyes, and Harry was reminded of the moment when he had realized that he had fallen for Draco. It had been the first week of October in sixth year (nearly a month after their fight) and their first Hogsmeade weekend. For reasons he could no longer recollect, he had been separated from Ron and Hermione, so he had been alone when he came across the two Slytherins in Scrivenshaft's. They hadn't seen him, as they were examining a display of quills, whereas he had been in amongst the tightly-packed rows of parchment. It had been the first time Harry had heard Draco laugh genuinely, and Harry would be forever grateful to Pansy Parkinson for whatever she had said that had allowed Harry to witness Draco nearly convulsing with mirth. There had been no trace of the usual haughtiness and coldness that characterised Draco's demeanour when he dealt with Harry. He had looked relaxed, cheeks tinged slightly pink, eyes open and unguarded, and Harry had been utterly lost.

Hands on his face recalled Harry to the present; Draco was cupping his face, much as Hermione had done when Draco caught them together. Harry had barely time to wonder if this was a deliberate claiming gesture on Draco's part when the searing heat from the contact burned thoughts of Hermione right out of his head. The Slytherin's eyes were molten silver.

"What I want is you."

This was a smashing idea as far as Harry was concerned, and Draco evidently saw his consent, for he leaned closer and brought their lips together.

When he had kissed Cho, Harry had been left with the impression (still famous amongst his friends) of "wetness". She had been soft and yielding and, well, unhappy. Conflicted. Draco, by contrast, was composed of entirely pleasing planes and angles. There was no way "wetness" could survive in the incinerating heat that was generated between them on contact, coiling inside Harry and feeling as though it would spark out of his skin, it was so all-consuming. Everything from Draco's mouth to his grip (for his hands had moved to grasp the dark strands of hair at the back of Harry's head) was firm, his movements assured; the Slytherin had made it quite clear that being with Harry was precisely what he wanted. It seemed as though being with Harry made him happy, in fact, rather than the opposite. And there was no doubt in Harry's mind that this was the best thing that had ever happened to him; he and his Patronus would be set for life. If he'd known it was this brilliant, he'd've tried propositioning the Slytherin in a dark hallway ages ago. This kiss was perfect.

Draco tried to ease out of the kiss, but every time he made to pull away, the lust-fogged Harry simply continued to follow him, his hands having long ago moved to clutch at the material covering Draco's chest. The Slytherin finally had to physically restrain Harry, arms clasping the Gryffindor's biceps, although he looked far too pleased to be annoyed.

"That good, eh?" he asked, voice pleasantly husky.

"Spectacular," Harry agreed, voice reflecting his dazed state. He continued with more honesty than sense: "Way better than with Cho."

The fire in Draco's eyes didn't look entirely pleasant now, and he released Harry completely, leaving Harry feeling bereft at the absence of the touch he now desperately craved. Harry's voice of reason, which always sounded like Hermione, was informing him that he'd made a serious misstep, and he remembered, far too late, how Cho had always reacted when Hermione's name came up.

"I hadn't realized we'd made it a contest. It may take all night if I compare all the way back to, what was it, fourth year?"

"Fifth," Harry said miserably, for he recognized that tone and hadn't particularly wanted to be on the receiving end ever again. "You needn't bother. I'm sure all your kisses have been brilliant."

"You're damn right," Draco said angrily, "although they obviously don't compare to those bestowed by the Saviour of the Wizarding World."

"Haven't I just said yours was way better than the one with Cho?" Harry demanded, frustrated and desperate.

"If you had to cast your mind all the way back to her to come up with an inferior kiss—" Draco snarled.

Harry's happiness had turned to ashes and seemed to be clogging his airways. "I only wanted you to realize how wonderful it was." He knew his face was aflame with embarrassment now. "I don't exactly have a lot of kisses to compare it to."

"You could have picked someone less insulting than Chang," the Slytherin spat. "A boy, at least."

Knowing his expression had probably already given him away, Harry nevertheless made a belated bid for freedom; this night had already turned into a complete fiasco (the story of his life, really), and Harry didn't think he could bear to hear Draco laugh at him.

When the steely grip forced him to turn back, it wasn't to face laughter.

"Only Chang?" the Slytherin asked quietly.

Harry shrugged, gaze locked round about the Head Boy insignia on Draco's robe.

"She was in fifth year and at the beginning of sixth…."

Draco completed his sentence for him. "At the beginning of sixth you started holding out for the suspicious, cold-hearted bastard?"

He gave a tiny nod. Draco's finger under his chin brought Harry's eyes back up to the other boy's face.

"You…" the blond sounded as though he were trying to process a difficult concept, "you've never kissed another boy."

"It's only ever been you," Harry admitted in a whisper.

Draco's brow was furrowed, and his words self-condemnatory: "And I completely and utterly ruined it."

Harry was feeling quite charitable towards a not-incensed, not-laughing Draco, so he offered, "At least you didn't cry."

The Slytherin stared, uncomprehendingly, and then exclaimed, outraged, "Chang cried?"

Thinking that Draco was going to suspect his skill, as Ron had done, he hastened to clarify: "She was already crying, sort of, and Hermione said it was—"

"She must have appalling taste," Draco said, interrupting him. "It really was spectacular, you know. And I do have other experience."

Harry felt an odd mixture of elated with this praise and painfully inadequate and … horribly jealous probably about described it.

"Harry, I'm glad you said, even if this will go down in history as a Malfoy's most botched seduction. This way I know—"

"To be gentle with me?" Harry asked sourly, feeling like a girl.

"What a gift you're giving me," Draco corrected gently. "How special you are."

That certainly sounded much nicer, Harry recognized with relief. It made him feel as though he were coming into the relationship with more than a whole lot of inexperience.

"This isn't only your first time, Harry," Draco continued, "this is our first time together. We're all new to me, too."

And if that was a line, it was a bloody good one, because Harry now felt quite special. He would simply have to see that this was Draco's last first time. He would, he realized, much rather be Draco's last than his first.

"You know," he said, smiling, "it's good you've got experience – from what I've read, this could have been quite awkward if neither of us knew what we were doing."

Draco laughed, but reached over to cup Harry's cheek. "You always do that. Bounce back from blows that would kill other people. I don't deserve you."

"Either way, you have me," Harry answered easily. "Isn't it about time you did something with me?"

Gentle fingers pulled Harry inexorably closer.

"Oh, Harry, I'm going to do a great deal with you, I promise."

For the second time, they kissed, and all thoughts of the world beyond the room they inhabited disappeared completely as Harry was lost to the wonder of loving and being loved by Draco Malfoy.


Next up: Chapter eight continues (with the morning after).