Somewhere Only We Know

by Kris RL

Summer of 6th year? The wizarding world is at war with itself, and secrets, hidden pasts, biological fathers, staged deaths, broomstick rescues, band T-shirts, funerals, stifled laughter, new truths, and an old rivalry's new best friendship come into play

10. It'll Be Worth It

Disclaimer: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

Spoilers: I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

Note: I know people are reading, but no one is reviewing! It's a bit discouraging, but, luckily, I'm writing it because I like writing it, and I'm not writing it for reviews, though I wouldn't mind getting some! Anyhow, thank-you, DemonRogue! I appreciate it a lot!

Somewhere Only We Know

Chapter Ten

It'll Be Worth It

Harry fell asleep, that night, without any answers what-so-ever. Originally, he had thought there would be some secret code inscribed in one of the books or a page with some scribbled information on it. Harry had no such luck in finding anything out of the ordinary. After a good three hours, his rouse with the books had turned to frustration, and he allowed himself to fall asleep, although disgruntled and highly annoyed.

The bitter, frustrated, anxious mood carried into the next morning, as well.

Harry was aware that the likelihood of Draco's family eating together was null, now. Like the day before, sharing breakfasts, lunches and dinners, when things were so hectic and traumatic in the world, wasn't appropriate. When he pushed his body against the dining room doors to break into the room to get some breakfast, he expected to see nothing and no one. But, once the door swung open, with his weight as its guide, he felt momentarily stung.

The room was a buzz with the sound of cheerfulness that Harry had never been able to find acceptable at ten in the morning. The curtains were all pulled open, and in result, a nice splash of healthy light-fall shone in through all of the floor-length windows, making him slightly shield his eyes with his right hand. It took about a second for his eyes to adjust, and he lowered his hand, hesitantly, and just looked around, dropping his arms from his chest, in confused awe.

There were at least thirty kids, his age, there, standing over what had once been Draco's dining room table, and some of the kids were milling around. On the huge dining room table were piles of posters and all sorts of supplies—craft supplies, Harry quickly recognized them as. The people in the room were all chattering, laughing and seemingly enjoying what they were doing over Draco's dining table, which had become invisible, buried under all of the bright supplies, posters and colors. He shifted, awkwardly, but began walking away from the door, as to reduce the chance of someone looking over and seeing him.

Harry peeked over the shoulder of a young man, his age, with shaggy, light brown hair and strange jewelry sticking out from the multiple piercing holes he seemed to have. There was a huge pile of rubbery, bright-green wrist-bands piled like a mountain above a bright yellow poster, on which Harry faintly made out the words, "Keep alive..." The rest of the message was covered by the bracelets.

Draco looked up from the end of the dining room table, for the first time in about five minutes. He had been hard at work perfecting a poster. At the masses in all directions from him, he smiled. The organization that he was in, which promoted the safe-keep of young wizards in changing times, had a meeting at least twice a week. The members all opened up their own houses, switching off every week to those who offered. He had offered the prior week to host one of the meetings. He had only remembered when the president, a kid named Clive, had shown up at his door with two cups off coffee and had offered one out. It was almost as if he had realized Draco had forgotten and had only been up to answer the door because he had been thirsty and on his way down to the kitchens.

Thinking of Clive, Draco's eyes traveled. He spotted the president, and then grinned, about to shout something out over the table. But, he stopped in mid-open mouth, because his eyes had shifted toward Clive's left, where a startlingly drowsy Judas Cliffdale was lingering and toying with a green bracelet in his fingertips, with interest. He seemed more amused than confused, which Draco found entertaining, "Breakfast is in the kitchen."

Harry looked up from leaning over the table next to a kid who had grinned a "hello" at him. He stood straight, again. His attention landed on Draco, who he had, apparently, not seen while scanning the room. He must have been hunched over the table for Harry to have missed him. It was hard to miss Draco, by all means, especially that morning. Whereas most everyone in the room still looked half-asleep, with their eyes puffy and their faces without rejuvenation, Draco looked... well, flawless. His skin was glowing, and his hair was soft and pushed back off of his face. And, while, he, too, looked tired, it somewhat suited him. It softened his face, and the morning paleness that usually detracted from people's attractiveness only made Draco appear a tad-bit more radiant, "Oh, right."

Draco watched Harry slip out from between two of his friends and walk behind the rest to get to the door on Draco's side of the table. While Harry walked, Draco used a towel to wipe his hands clean the sticky remnants of the potion he had been working on. And, once Harry walked out from behind the table, with his hands locked behind his neck, and his elbows sticking out, in an apparent attempt to stretch, Draco was greeted with full, meaningful eye contact. He didn't say anything, but he did acknowledge the way his friends had been looking between he and Harry, as if wondering if the tabloid rumors were true.

Harry dropped his arms, as he pressed his back against the doors. He grinned, "Good morning, lover."

Draco smirked to himself, as he turned away, "Good morning, Cliffdale."

"Won't you join me for another breakfast?" Oh, the politeness. Harry rolled his eyes at the whole situation, ignoring the giggling of a few of the girls in the room. It was unbelievable, the way the room had fallen somewhat silent when people had seen he and Draco notice each other. He couldn't lie, however. He didn't mind playing off of the rumors. Perhaps the real Judas Cliffdale wouldn't have been pleased, but Harry hadn't a reason to worry about what Judas thought. He had free reign, now. He stopped. "You would think, after last night, you'd have quite the appetite."

Draco laughed, out loud, and then looked over his shoulder, his eyebrow raised, "Sure, love, but I've had enough to eat, I think. I'm sure you might agree, after last night and all."

"That's a boy," Harry retorted back, immediately, and disappeared into the kitchens.

As soon as Harry disappeared, Draco started to laugh very loudly, amused solely at Harry's reaction. He had pivoted out of the room like a burst of wind. He even dared to think he saw a small bit of shock on Harry's face. He didn't care if anyone thought he was a nut, because they had no idea what he was laughing at. Granted, Harry was in Judas Cliffdale's body, but in moments like the one they had just had, when Harry had been walking toward the kitchen doors and they had been staring at each other, it was like he was seeing Harry, again, fully. And, then, when Harry had so quickly retorted before jumping out of the room, he couldn't help but wonder just how much Harry was enjoying being someone else, hard though it seemed to be on him.

"Draco! The bracelets!"

Draco looked up from his towel, which he was toying with between his hands. For a quick second, he had no idea why he was being yelled at, but then he quickly dropped the towel and inched for the cauldron that boiling a nasty shade of red before him. Before he could even so much as touch the cauldron, or grab the stabilizer ingredient to throw into the bustling liquid, the contents flew out in all directions, and Draco could only watch, in horror, until all of the spewing was done, and the dining room was covered in dripping, crimson-colored, syrup-like liquid.

The room was finally silent.

Draco was the first one to move, and he only moved enough to glance down, hesitantly, into the cauldron. Whereas hundreds of bright green bracelets had been born from that very cauldron, that morning, the remaining contents sitting at the bottom of the large brewer were charred and bubbling in a nasty shade of puke-green. Shocked, and knowing he was in deep trouble, he slowly raised his eyes and looked around at all of his startled friends and co-workers, who were all covered in red, as were their projects.

Clive was the second to move, and he hurried toward the cauldron, "What just happened?"

Draco caught his breath, and then narrowed his eyes, "I don't fucking know! They weren't even near done!"

"You were the one who was supposed to be watching them, mister Big-Shot Potions Master!"

Draco's hand slid across the top of the cauldron and then lifted it up. He placed his hand, slowly, over Clive's face, covering his nose and mouth. And, when he pulled his hand away, Clive's once-clean face was dripping with the same wet syrup that Draco could feel dripping down onto his shoulders from his hair. He smirked, strongly, and lowered his hand, while Clive openly tried to refrain from hitting Draco, "I wasn't the one supposed to be watching them, Mister I-Use-Glitter-On-Everything-And-It-Just-So-Happens-That-I get glitter on Draco's floor, table, bathroom sink, and Draco's hair from across the damn room. Even if I was in charge of the bracelets, last time I checked, we started this batch fifteen minutes ago, and it takes thirty minutes for them to form."

"Maybe it was thirty minutes, but you were too busy oogling over fucking Judas Cliffdale to notice!"

Draco rolled his eyes and turned away, "Oh, that's really mature! Please, I was the only one not oogling." He honestly defending himself. Once everyone had noticed Harry, they had stopped noticing everything else in the room. Judas Cliffdale had that kind of appearance, and Harry Potter had that kind of animal magnetism to him, and everyone had always know that. He turned back around to his friends, who were all looking at the cauldron, as if trying to figure out what went wrong. However, Draco was feeling annoyed. "What kind of word is that, anyway, Clive? Oogling? I think the glitter has finally gone to your brain."

"Yeah, well, better glitter than your obsession with being you."

"Oh," Draco lowly replied, and he heard it echoed around the dining room by other people. "I wouldn't bring my ego into this."

"Too late for that, Draco. You bring your ego into everything."

Draco went to respond with something nasty, but he stopped himself short. He didn't know how to reply. He admittedly had an ego. Ego wasn't a bad thing to have. He was born into a certain lifestyle. He was born with certain duties. He was raised with certain duties. He had an arrogance about him, of course. He didn't deny it. But, his ego had never been used so blatantly in front of his organization friends. When he had joined them, his ego had basically been gone, therefore making Draco extremely confused as to what he had been doing that had come off so egotistical, so egotistical that Clive, one of his friends, was randomly attacking him over it, "If you suddenly have a problem with me, why don't you just say so? And, after you're done, feel free to get the fuck out of my house."

"I don't have a problem with you, Draco. Just get out of my face!"

Draco stepped backward with squinted eyes. He was extremely confused, "You do have a problem with me, and I have a problem with you having a problem with me and randomly cramming up the nice, friendly vibes with talk about my oh-so-evil and infamous ego." Clive said nothing, so Draco looked away from him, highly aggravated with the deterioration of the morning. "You all can decide what you want to do from here. Half of our posters are ruined, but the bracelets are okay. If you want to stay and work, stay. If you want to leave, leave. In the meantime, I'm going to—"

"Wow, what happened in here?"

Draco looked over in the direction of the kitchen doors. His face twisted, "Chew and swallow before you speak, would you?"

Harry stopped chewing, and both of his eyebrows shot up, surprised. What the hell? "I'm sorry?"

Draco scowled and hissed, "It's disgusting." He looked back at his friends. "I'll see you later."

Harry swallowed down his bite of toast, perplexed. He stepped aside as Draco approached him. He walked right in through the kitchen door Harry had been holding open with his back. In the wake of Draco's absence in the room, it was mostly quiet. A few people were looking at him, but most were looking at Clive with shock and upset. Clive, himself, was staring right at Harry with a nasty shade of disgust and disgrace flushing over his sharp features. What had happened? What was going on? And, why was Harry being mentally clobbered to death by this Clive kid, who was seemingly trying to shake him down with eye-contact?

Finally, Harry stood straight and squared his shoulders, coolly, "Was it something I said?"

But, Clive seemed even more angry. He glared, once more, at Harry, turned away, and exited the room.

And, then it hit Harry. Slowly, but surely, acknowledgment washed over him. Oh. He didn't know how he had figured the problem out so quickly, especially when he was usually oblivious to such issues of the heart, but he had. He assumed it was because he had no idea who Clive was, and Clive should have had no problem with him, because they had never met. It had to do with Draco. And, there was one thing about Draco that Harry could understand in terms of the look Clive had been giving him. He started to smile to himself, and he slowly walked back into the kitchen, letting the doors swing to a close behind him.

Draco was leaned over the kitchen island, with a piece of chocolate cake, seething. A fork was hanging from his mouth, and his right hand was furiously ripping off a bright green bracelet from around his wrist. He threw it across the room, where it landed on the ear of a house-elf Harry had seen in the kitchen on a previous morning. He carefully started to walk toward Draco, taking small footsteps. Draco appeared to be very on edge, his nose snarled in anger.

Draco set his eyes onto Harry, "What? What? What do you want? Can't I have ONE MOMENT of peace?"

"Er," was Harry's first startled response. But, then, he stood up tall. "What did I do to you?"

Draco looked down at his chocolate cake. His fork dropped from his mouth and landed with a clank.

Harry gave Draco a few seconds to calm down, and he did seem to. He picked his fork up, seemingly very weak and helpless. He stabbed it into the cake and lifted a piece of his mouth, sighing with restrained anger. While Draco did this, Harry walked around the other side of the island, cautiously, until he was standing opposite of Draco, watching with light-filled eyes as Draco shoved chocolate cake into his mouth, leaving a small trail of chocolate frosting covering the side of his mouth. He didn't seem to notice that he was being so sloppy with his cake, and Harry hadn't the inkling to tell him. He enjoyed seeing Draco so out of his element, way too much, to ruin it, "Good cake?"

Draco didn't look up, "S'good."

Harry resisted the urge to jump on Draco's mood. He leaned over the island on his elbows, "Okay."

Draco frowned. He swallowed and looked up at Harry, his eyes half-closed, "You sound smug."

"Oh, good, you've noticed. I'm feeling smug," Harry informed him. "Ask me why."

Draco pointed his fork at Harry, very suddenly, "I don't think I like you like this."

"I'm still the dark, brooding, miserable man you love, don't worry." And, he smiled. Draco growled.

"Not so much a man as a boy with issues," Draco replied and looked back down at his cake.

Harry frowned, "All right, if you want to be an arsehole to me, go ahead and bloody be one." He stood straight, again, not pleased. He had been being friendly to Malfoy. It was because he didn't really have a reason to NOT feel some sort of civility to Malfoy, anymore. But, Malfoy was sharp when he was upset. His voice was cutting. His eyes were cold, and even his entire aura seemed to change, completely, from one minute to the next, which wasn't all that ordinary, because auras didn't usually change so severely according to mood changes. Harry, himself, had no one else to be around. He had no comic relief. He didn't have to be the same Harry Potter everyone always knew him to be. Now, he could be more sarcastic. He could be playful. He could be witty. He could be the someone else who had always been taking the back-seat. He had the chance, now, to create something brilliant.

He had the chance to create someone brilliant, "If you want things to be how they always were, fine."

Draco watched him walk around the island. He growled, "Okay, fine, just tell me, you bloody drama queen."

"Fuck off, Malfoy. Figure it out for yourself, because you're obvious so incredibly gifted with that, too."

Draco threw a piece of cake after Harry, but Harry only flipped him off, "Fuck off! Go on, then! Go!"

The only response Draco got was the closing and opening of the kitchen door. When Harry was gone, Draco stood up straight, paced his hands on the island's tile countertop and tensed his shoulders. He clenched his jaw, lifted one of his hands, and pushed the plate of chocolate cake toward the other end of the table. It went flying off of the counter and disappeared, but he never heard it shatter. And, the plate appeared a couple of seconds later, in the hands of one of the kitchen house elves. He sighed and looked away, grumbling, "Sorry."

Flora, the house-elf Draco had grown up knowing the best, stepped out from beside the kitchen island, her face scrunched up in something that resembled worry, "Master Malfoy, sir, are you okay?"

Draco shook his head from side to side, and then laughed, "I don't know, anymore. Everything is... not right."

"If I may ask, sir, what do you mean, sir?" She asked, as she stood on the tippy-toes and pushed the plate back onto the top of the counter.

Draco grabbed the other side of the plate and pulled it upward so it didn't fall. He didn't mind talking to Flora, and he never had. She had always been his favorite house-elf. He had never treated her with disrespect, mostly because he had grown up with her. They had been born during the same year, and his mother had made sure that Flora's mother was safe and warm while she had been pregnant with Flora. Whereas, most pregnant house-elves were kicked out of whatever house they were serving in, Flora's mother had been treated well with daily visits by Narcissa, and, so Draco had heard, Lucius had stopped by to see how she was once or twice, "It's complicated, and if I could tell you, I would. Everything has just been turned upside down—everything." He motioned her toward a bar-stool, and he sat down on the one next to it, miserably. "I've changed so much, and even dealing with that and all of the shit that has followed it... that has been hard. And, now this—now, everything is different."

"Yes, sir," Flora responded, too, eyeing the chocolate cake Draco was, again, poking with his fork.

Draco pushed the cake toward her and summoned her a fork, thoughtlessly, "Cornwell is back."

Flora put her hands up, bashfully, at the cake, "No, sir, I couldn't. But, I would think you'd be happy about your father, sir, being back. You've wanted him back, sir. You was just speaking about him before he turned up."

"Don't be silly, Flora. Help yourself. I can't eat any more than I already have this week, and my trouser buttons would undoubtedly agree," he lightly quipped, pushing the plate at her more forcefully, now with the new fork resting beside it. He rested his cheek on his palm and looked up at the ceiling. "I am glad he's here. But, because he hasn't been, and because of the circumstances as of late—I mean, my father—Lucius, I mean, going missing, and Judas coming to stay, and Potter dying... and, Cornwell swoops back in, and with a new son, and he just... he's just... he's amazing, is what he is, but I can never say anything right. I always feel bitter when I'm around him, and nothing genuine ever leaves my ridiculously foolish mouth."

"But, sir, he's your father. Whatever leaves your foolish mouth, he loves, sir."

Draco's eyes softly found Flora, and he couldn't help but smile. She was a true friend, "You have a point."

"And, surely, everything may seem surreal to you now, sir, but you haven't had much time to adjust."

"I know you're right, Flora," Draco supported her statement, because he was whole-hearted in believing that what she said would happen. He was hoping that, once things had settled down, and time had begun to set, he would become more adjusted to having the extreme changes in his life. He was supposed to be living with Harry Potter. Harry Potter was sleeping in Malfoy manor. Harry Potter was sleeping down the hall from him. These were things he wasn't sure would ever be normal to think about, especially not while things were so tense with Harry, too. He was on a mission. "I'm hungry."

Flora, with the fork in her mouth, froze, and she glanced at Draco with ashamed eyes.

Draco grinned at her, "Oh, would you stop it? The cake is yours! I'm hungry for a snack, not dessert." He slid off of his bar-stool and walked over to the panty. He placed his hands on the two sliding door knobs and pushed them apart. His eyes immediately traveled up to his favorite shelf, which was a couple of feet above his eye-level. Cookies, crackers, white-chocolate covered pretzels, cheese-puffs, and to his utmost snacking delight, there, next to the cheese-puffs, were his—"Flora?"

Flora muffled some sort of answer while she went on eating her chocolate cake.

Draco slowly turned around to her, "Flora, where have all of the cheese-crackers gone?"

Flora swallowed down her bite of cake and turned around to Draco.

Draco followed her eyes up onto the shelf. Draco's favorite snack was cheese-crackers. He'd grab a hand-full, here, and a magic-bag locked sandwich bag-full, there. They had always been fully stacked on cheese-crackers, ever since he was a child. In fact, he couldn't remember a time he had ever gone to the pantry and seen his favorite row of crackers empty. The row was even labeled as, "Draco's Cheese-Crackers". It was almost a shock to see the stash missing, and mostly because the week before, when he had been checking his stash, there had been at least three boxes in there, "I can't believe this! Is it Cornwell, Flora? He did feed them to me when I was little. It's all his fault! I bet he's poisoning Dickie with the same carbohydrate-obsession as he did me! I ought to—"

"No, sir," Flora replied, cutting Draco off, mid-rant. "Well, yes, but... no, sir. He had some, but not all."

Draco closed the pantry doors, very peeved with the way his morning was turning out, "Who, then, Flora?"

"I'm not sure it's my place to say, sir. I dare say he's quite squeamish about what they do to his figure."

"Don't tell me it's Cliffdale." She pressed her lips together, as if to obey him. "Unbelievable! That cheese-cracker stealing, cussing, gorgeous, misguided, poorly-answered arsehole has taken it ONE step too far!" He was just being dramatic, and Flora knew it. She was trying not to laugh, but he distinctly heard her try to choke down a giggle. He felt satisfied with making her laugh, as he headed for the door, pretending to be furious, though he couldn't help but be a little fussed that Harry had eaten all of his crackers. He stormed through the kitchen doors and into the living room, with a self-satisfied half smile.

The living room was still crowded with his friends, and Harry was amongst them.

Draco collided with him, unknowingly, and then pushed him, "You owe me three boxes of crackers."

Harry blinked, but then shrugged, "Don't push me." And, he lightly shoved Draco right back.

Draco stepped forward, again. He reached out, with his right hand, and shoved Harry's chest.

Harry stepped backward, twice. He stayed put and tried to keep calm, "You're being an arse."

"That's all I am," Draco retorted and walked around him. "That's all I'll ever be. I can't change, not I."

Harry frowned, very confused as to what had just happened, "What's that supposed to mean, anyway?"

"It means that I'm not as lucky as you are."

Harry followed him out of the room, closing the door behind him after he did so. He then toyed with his hair to keep from fidgeting, as he got closer to Draco's retreating figure, "Is that what you think, Malfoy! That I'm lucky?"

Draco turned around to him and dead-panned, unimpressed, "It's not what I think. It is what I know. You get to nose yourself into my life, and then call me an arse when I get annoyed with your presence! You are lucky. You're not the one who has to have his entire bloody world turned upside down just to accommodate to the one person who he NEVER wanted to accommodate to!" Harry was staring at him, blank-faced. His lips were slightly parted, glimmering with moisture, and he seemed completely surprised and taken of breath, as if he hadn't known exactly what Draco was feeling. "Don't play dumb, either, because you're not dumb, and we both know that! Stop acting like someone else, god damnit, and act like you! I can't take it, anymore! You and your stupid little one-liners—oh, so glad you noticed I'm smug this morning, Malfoy, lover."

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he followed right after Draco, "Trust me, you wouldn't want to be around me if I weren't putting on an act."

Draco abruptly spun around, cutting Harry off, "Trust me, Potter," he hissed, nose to nose with Harry. "I would."

"I'm not a very nice person, anymore, Malfoy."

Draco stared him down, "You're too nice, still, and it's sickening to know that you think you're not nice."

"You have no idea, Malfoy," Harry hissed, under his breath, getting closer. "You have no idea."

"Answer me one thing, and I'll leave you alone to be as phony as you want to be."

Harry didn't blink, "Ask your brilliant question, then."

Draco felt angry and somewhat hurt. When he realized that he felt hurt, he was angry. He was not supposed to be feeling hurt, EVER, over something that Harry Potter said to him, "You like me, don't you?"

Harry glared, "I like you enough."

Malfoy nodded, "You like me, enough, even with my horrible traits, don't you?" Harry rolled his eyes. The action sent Draco's mind into a spiral of fury and entrapment, overcome and enthralled by this attitude and cynicism from Harry's eyes. He was shaking his head from side to side, suddenly, seeming very unaffected and untouched. This was no surprise to Draco. But, as Harry went to move, Draco leaned forward on his right foot, reached out, and wrapped his right hand around Harry's elbow, to stop him. Harry looked right back at him. "You're not you unless you're being honest to who you are. Right now, you're just being a little boy in a mask, and I can't blame you. When was the last time you were able to be a little boy? But, when you realize that being in a different body can't change who you are, I'll be waiting."

Harry shook his elbow from Draco's grip, "Are you done, now?"

Draco snorted, annoyed, "Here's my question, then, if that's how you respond to me being honest with you."

Harry brushed his elbow off, absent-mindedly, once Draco let go. Inside, he felt way too vulnerable, "What, Malfoy?"

Draco stepped backward, "When are you going to erase my memory?"

Harry looked up from the floor, instantaneously, his forehead wrinkling up. He immediately murmured, "I'm not going to."

"I want you to," Draco insisted, honestly. "I'd rather just believe you'd died than having lost respect for you."

Harry just stared at him, openly, "Why did you have to go off and say something like that, Malfoy?"

Draco didn't answer him, just crossed his arms over his chest, "Because, it's the truth. It's not about you. It's about me. I have enough going on in my life, right now. Adding you—this, even—into the equation just makes things ten times more confusing. You won't even act like you—whoever that may be." He cleared his throat, awkwardly, and shoved his hands down onto his hips and down into his pockets. His fingers curled together and snuggled into the very bottom of his pockets. But, now, Harry was looking very intense and frustrated. "Figure out how you want to do it, and tell me when you do. We'll figure something out—anyway, I'm going upstairs. I have some things to do. I'll see you when I see you, Cliffdale. Don't have too much fun with my friends in there, you hear?"

Harry trailed Draco toward the staircase, slowly at first. There was a huge part of him that knew he was being a huge bother to Draco's life. Draco hadn't asked for any of what had happened to happen, especially not to him. But, Harry did need Draco, now, and he knew he was really going to need him in the future. He shifted, "I'm not going to do it, Draco. The option was gone a week ago."

Draco turned around, gritting his teeth, "I don't want to KNOW. I want to go back to knowing NOTHING!"

Harry went to respond, but the dining room doors opened, and he fell silent. He looked from the doors, where a couple of Draco's friends had milled out, laughing cheerfully over something. They were followed by a couple of others. Annoyed with these people, and all people in general, who weren't dealing with anything of importance to him, Harry turned and strode toward the bottom of the stairs, imitating Draco's usual swagger. When he looked at Draco, it was clear that Draco had noted it. He hopped up onto the first step as Draco did.

Draco hurried up them, but Harry managed to keep step.

"We'll talk about it later."

Draco looked at him, suddenly, "I've made up my mind. You have no choice. If you don't, I'll tell."

"You'll tell?" Harry asked, skeptically, squinting. He tried to sound doubtful, and he tried to be tough.

"Of course not, but I know you aren't going to make me keep up with something I don't want to be a part of."

"Don't be a prat, Malfoy!" Harry suddenly spewed, nearly cutely, and turned toward him. "Always about you!"

"Of course it's about me, dumb-arse!" Draco hissed back, at the top of the stairs. "You dragged me into it!"

"For a bloody good reason!" Harry insisted, following at his heels down the new corridor, trying to keep up.

"There is no bloody reason GOOD enough for this!" Draco tried to express this calmly, but he struggled.

"Okay, fine! I'll drop the damn act."

Draco ignored him, "You won't. You love it too much."

"If I start acting like Harry Potter, don't you think people are bound to notice?" Harry hissed, clutching his head between his two hands. Why couldn't Draco just give him more time to get himself together? To get his act together? No, no! OF COURSE not! He had to be all knowing and perfectly adjusted to the situation, already! He was itching to cry, now, feeling torn in pieces.

Draco spun around, but Harry was already prepared for it, "No, I don't. People are generally stupid, but we are uncommonly smart—brilliant even, if we could work together."

Harry pointed at him, "You'll stay, then? I mean, you won't make me erase your memory?"

Draco looked him over, with a snarl, "The more I think about this, the more I just want to be oblivious."

"Fine."

Draco stared at Harry's upset expression, in awe and shock. It was very sudden, "What are you—"

"No, sod off, Malfoy. Good-night."

"YOU ARE SUCH A BASTARD, I SWEAR TO GOD! Goodnight." The ability of Potter to infuriate, irritate, and confuse him was unfounded and nearly unacceptable. As soon as he had finished speaking, Harry had whirled around, and somehow, in his sweatshirt and jeans, still managed to come off just as powerfully as if he would have had a cloak on. He started walking down the hall, apparently just as annoyed with Draco as Draco was with him.

"I'm coming to your room when you're asleep and hexing you back into pre-Potter land."

"Good! While you're at it, strip off your close and hop into bed with me for one last sexual romp, would you?"

Harry gurgled, "Bet you'd like that so much, wouldn't you!"

"As a matter of fact, I probably would, and you would, too, mister happy hands!"

"They are not happy hands, they are friendly hands, Mister I-lie-about-liking BOYS!"

Draco stuttered for a quick second, "I already bloody explained that to you! Don't throw it in my face!" But, Harry hadn't turned around. He was still walking down the hallway, having dropped the swagger he had been working on. He was walking like Harry Potter had always walked—medium paced and fluid. "You're impossible, I swear! That's none of your business, anyway!"

"You are my business, Draco, remember? You LOVE with me!"

"NO! You resemble Harry Potter in no WAY, SHAPE, OR GOD-DAMN FORM!"

Harry stopped, mid-step, but he didn't reply.

Draco felt sick. The blood immediately drained from his face, and he felt light-headed.

Slowly, Harry pivoted and faced Draco, "You never knew Harry Potter. You could hardly ever love him."

Draco's face was blank, "Good thing. I heard he's emotionally distant—something about his parents."

Harry stepped forward.

Draco stepped backward, "He never would have cared, anyway."

"You're right, he wouldn't have."

"He probably would've made fun of me, too, right?"

Harry shrugged, trying to simmer-down the urge to lunge at Malfoy and... do something, "I wouldn't doubt."

"Oh, Malfoy's GAY."

"You're not gay, shut up."

"Oh, Malfoy dreams about me. Hear that, Mud-Blood, Malfoy's in love with me. HA!"

"You're right, Potter had no feelings at all. He was a machine." There, was that what Draco wanted to hear?

"Yeah, he was," Draco agreed, without apology. "In the end, he didn't even have a true friend, did he?"

Draco watched Harry open his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Emotion washed over his face, instead.

"Harry Potter, always too damn afraid to care about anyone who didn't care for him." Harry dropped his arms from his chest. There was no longer an unfamiliar expression slapped over his face. His expression, on Judas Cliffdale, screamed of Harry Potter. His cheeks were sucked in, his forehead was wrinkled, and his jaw was clenched. Draco paused. "No, not you. All-mighty you. Let me bow, shall I?" Draco bowed toward Harry, stiffly, with his right hand elegantly rising up into the air beside him as he did so. When he stood straight, Harry looked angry. "And, for the record, you're right. I never knew Potter, and now I feel like the most wasted person on the planet, because of the sole fact that I ever HAD wanted to know him. What's wrong with me to have wanted to know Harry Potter as who he was and not who he wanted to pretend he could be—oh, silly me."

Harry was staring at the floor where the heel of his socked foot was shuffling, "Are you done?"

Draco shrugged, "Are you done?"

"With what?"

Draco shrugged, once more, "With being Harry Potter?"

Harry looked around, paranoid, "Would you quit it?"

Draco turned around, "Let me know when you come up with something."

Harry watched Draco walk out of the corridor, in silence. When he was gone, Harry sighed, "Damnit."

Draco walked from one end of the house to the other on two floors, before finding himself standing outside of Dickie's bedroom door. The room Dickie was staying in had once been Draco's bedroom, when he was a boy. But, after he turned twelve, he moved out of that room and into one of the larger wings. Ever since, the wing that Cornwell and Dickie were currently staying in had become the deserted wing. Draco mused over how nice it was to walk down the corridor, again, when it was lit and bright, though all of the blinds were closed and the curtains were pulled to keep prying eyes out.

Draco went to knock on the door with his right hand, but before he could, the door opened, and Cornwell appeared. Draco kept his fisted hand up in the air, staring straight ahead. Cornwell said nothing. He had been avoiding Draco, and Draco had been trying to avoid him without admitting to himself that he was doing so. His lips pressed together, and he slowly dropped his hand, nervous. He shifted his eyes away from Cornwell's, quickly, "Is he asleep?"

Cornwell looked over his shoulder, "He's not feeling good this morning."

Cornwell opened the door, a small bit more, and motioned for Draco to join him. Draco stepped forward and shimmied into the doorway, too. He peeked around the side of the door and over toward the huge four poster bed, a bed that he knew Dickie would appear like a shrimp in. The room was dark, because the curtains were pulled to a close, but there were a couple of candles lit on both of the bed-side tables sitting beside the bed. The covers on the bed were hardly a mess, but there was a tiny lump right in the center, and a bright head sticking out on a dark red pillow. With a small smile, Draco looked back at Cornwell, not being able to help it.

Cornwell had already been searching his son's face, but he half-smiled, too, "He was asking for you."

Draco looked back over at the bed, taking a small step in, "Rightfully so."

When Cornwell was closing the door, Draco heard a muffled, "You did your best, Cornwell."

Draco rolled his eyes to himself, not being able to stifle the laugh that came out of his mouth. He knew that Cornwell had meant for him to hear his words. Just as the door closed, and the laugh was uttered, the covers shook, and a small boy looked over at him, through the dark. Without a moment to spare, Draco strolled over to the bed, placed his hands onto the covers and pulled himself up. He grinned as he sunk down next to his little brother, placing his head beside the smaller one.

Dickie's sleepy eyes were so innocent and loving, absorbing Draco's very existence, "Draco?"

Draco faced his little brother, to see that he was rubbing his eyes with both of his small, clenched hands. Dickie was pale, which was alarming, because, like Draco, he had very pale, iridescent skin. Even in the candle-light dimness of the room, it was clear that Dickie was not feeling very well, at all. Even his eyes had lost their sweet sparkle.

Draco immediately pushed himself up, his mouth furrowing into an immediate flush of worried emotion. His heart felt suddenly stricken with the extreme urge to make everything all better and to cure Dickie of every aching pain and dizziness he might have been feeling. But, Draco then realized that there was nothing he could do, and when he was finally sitting up, with his knees pulled in, facing his cover-buried little brother, he reached his right hand out, gently, and lowered it over the small, clammy forehead.

Dickie closed his eyes, and snuggled onto his left side, to face Draco.

Draco leaned over, slowly, and replaced his hand with his lips. He left a small kiss, and then rested his cheek down on the pillow beside Dickie's. There was nothing he could do. He wanted to do everything! He wanted to do SOMETHING! Yet, he couldn't do anything. He was helpless to make Dickie feel better. Draco had always been able to make people feel better when they were sick, either with a joke or some sort of sarcastic, essential Draco-ness that no one could deny. But, Dickie wasn't on the level that his long-time friends were. He was the one person that Draco felt most connected to on earth. They shared the same blood, but there was a bond that existed between them that Draco couldn't explain, deny or push away, and he didn't want to.

Draco had never felt more protective of anything in his life than he did at that moment, consumed in worry and sadness for the smaller, miserable, fever-ridden being. His eyelashes flickered as he examined the tiny, exquisite face opposite of his. Even though Draco had so easily seen an identical being of himself, in Dickie, he was beginning to really notice the minute differences. These differences were so small, but made a huge difference. Dickie's cheeks were rounder, in a different way than Draco's had been. Whereas Draco's face was very angular, and his cheekbones were very high and structured, Dickie's, he figured, were going to be more rounded, and his face was going to be softer. And, Draco started to laugh, softly, amused at this.

Draco had always wanted softer features. He never dared say it. But, when he looked in the mirror, or caught himself in a reflective surface, he couldn't help but notice how he always looked so strong and defensive, and when his nose was sucked in, and shadows washed over his face, he looked downright pissed off. He looked evil, sometimes, and in a way that suggested he had a chip on his shoulder. Perhaps a chip was there, subconsciously, but he didn't invite it to stay and have tea, though it seemed to, anyway. It was a very rude guest—and not so much a guest as an uninvited passerby.

The back of Draco's right index fingertip brushed over Dickie's warm, flushed cheek.

Dickie's dark eyelashes fluttered open, and he pulled his tiny hand out of the covers.

Draco watched the small hand, until he felt it against his cheek, too. Dickie was imitating him.

And, Dickie seemed dazzled by Draco's warm, content, close-mouthed smile, because he imitated that, too.

Draco watched the small boy drift back to sleep, and when he did, Draco wrapped his left arm over the smaller being and hugged him as tightly as he could, in attempt to not wake the sick little boy. He already was extremely fond of Dickie. He had nothing to hide from him. They had a whole life to share, now. Draco had never, necessarily, wanted siblings. He had wondered what it would have been like, but had always been too cynical to think anything good could have come out of other annoying kids in his life. Well, granted, that had been when he was in his self-centered stage, but... the thought had never since crossed his mind, because he had never thought having a sibling was in questionable reality. But, Dickie... Dickie was... superb. Draco had nothing but love, appreciation and adoration for him.

Sometime later, Draco, who had been sound asleep on his stomach, was awoken with a stir.

Dickie was sitting up, beside him, giggling.

Draco peeked at him, drowsily confused. He tried to feel annoyed, but he couldn't.

It was then, half awake, that Draco felt movement on the other side of the bed, the side where no one should have been. Completely unguarded and vulnerable, Draco freakishly turned onto his left side to see what was going on, because Dickie's eyes had enlarged into some state of shock. There was a presence there, so Draco jumped up onto his left elbow to get in front of Dickie. Well, he had started to, but something pinned him down, lightly.

"ARG!"

Draco screamed, his heart pounding, staring up a dark red, wart-covered, off-centered nosed face.

But, as soon as he was on his back, with eyes as large as shrieking teacups, Dickie shrieked with giggles.

The body that had pinned him down was still, and the horrible head tilted, almost innocently.

Draco could hardly breathe.

"Little Draco Malfoy, still scared of his daddy's devil mask."

Draco squinted, but then began to recognize the face looking back into his. Feeling like an utter moron, having screamed so loudly, he couldn't help but be annoyed. He, then, growled, when realization hit him, "BLOODY—damn you!" And, he gave a strong push against the body, which pulled back and sat up on its knees. It was Cornwell, dressed in his flannel shirt and jeans. He pulled the mask off over his head, laughing hysterically.

Draco scurried back onto his elbows, trying to regain composure. He looked from Dickie to Cornwell, and then felt completely breath-taken. They were nearly identical, just with different coloring. Even in the tiniest form of the three relatives, Dickie could hold his own. He was giggling into his palms, as Cornwell leaned over to him. Dickie pushed the covers away from his legs, with Cornwell's help, and then jumped into the waiting arms, which then engulfed him. When Dickie snuggled into Cornwell's arms, he was still giggling, and Cornwell was still chuckling, both of them looking at Draco with amusement that Draco felt embarrassed over.

Draco fell back onto the pillows, resting his hand over his forehead. His heartbeat was stabilizing.

Cornwell's laughter kept on, "You'll be thirty, and that mask will still make you jump out of your skin!"

Draco slowly pushed himself up, with his hands, "You didn't... scare me, per-se."

And, Cornwell immediately smiled, "Draco..."

Draco looked away from him, quickly, trying not to laugh, feeling his cheeks beginning to warm, "I was—"

"You were pretending for Dickie's sake?" Cornwell asked, as if to jump ahead a couple of sentences.

Draco's cheeks were hurting. He pressed his left cheek to his left shoulder, looking away from them. Dickie was still giggling, clapping his hands together, now, sitting in Cornwell's lap, playing with Cornwell's huge hands. Their hands had always been very different, and Lucius had pointed it out to Draco long ago. Cornwell's hands had always been rough and tanned, wrinkled and worn. They were working hands. Draco's hands had always been pale, manicured and graceful. They were hands meant for potion-making and wand-work, not lumbering and manual work. Remembering this, Draco's spirits began to fall, even though they had hardly risen. His joy was washed away, completely, and he began to feel his heart quivering when he realized what he had just done to himself. He had a bad habit of sabotaging good things when it came to being a Malfoy over a Black.

"Draco?"

Draco blinked and looked away from his shoulder, "Huh, what?"

Cornwell was staring at him, and his eyes... were... so... fatherly. They were worried. They were warm.

"You seem a little disoriented, that's all," Cornwell replied, though a bit quietly.

Draco forced a smile, but felt too guilty to look at Cornwell while he did so. He looked at Dickie, instead, but Dickie was now looking at him, too, and didn't seem to be falling for the fake smile, because his nose scrunched, and the side of his tiny mouth twitched, as if he were deep in thought, which was remarkable, because he was only about nineteen months old. Because of this, Draco regrettably had to pull his eyes away from him, too, "I'm fine."

"Do you believe he's fine?"

Draco looked up to see that Cornwell was looking at Dickie, and Dickie was shaking his head.

Draco let out a small laugh, and he glanced at the red mask beside Cornwell, "Did you really have that thing packed in your bag in case you needed to leave in an emergency?" He asked, seriously, lifting his eyebrows. But, Cornwell shook his head and picked it up in his right hand, twisted it around, and seemed to be thinking Draco's question over. "What, then?"

"I left it here. It seems my door would never let the elves in to clean. They refused anyone to enter."

Draco laughed, "You're right, no one could ever get in there. It drove Lucius up the wall."

And, at these words, Cornwell laughed, too, "It was worth it, then," he joked, and when he looked up, Draco didn't seem to be offended, because he was laughing, too, though it was obvious that he was trying to muffle it into his left hand. Noting his son's parallel even-headed approach to the situation, he couldn't help but feel extremely grateful and proud.

Draco was a very intelligent, witty, successful, charming, good-looking young man. But, the part that had kept Cornwell up, tossing and turning, for nights of his life, was the part where Draco was without the warmth that Cornwell knew existed within him. Around the time of Cornwell's departure, things in the manor had been rough. Cornwell and Lucius had always been fighting, though not around Draco, over Draco. Draco had known, though they tried to keep him from hearing. Something had changed within him. Whereas, he had been a warm, understanding, curious, sensitive young man growing up, those parts of him had seemed to fade away, almost over night.

Nothing had ever hurt Cornwell, either, as much as seeing those changes in Draco take him over.

"Draco, I do admire Lucius—your father."

Draco felt gutted.

"I want you to know, after everything, that though Lucius and I had our differences, I've always known him to be a great man." When Draco said nothing, but rather began to stare at him, as if he were a blank slate, Cornwell continued to clarify himself, though trying to do so very carefully. "He raised you very well, and he gave you a great life—he gave you everything you wanted. I will always admire him for that. I will always be grateful that he... took you in as his own. He..." He paused, looked away from Draco, and even Dickie, and turned to look at an empty spot on the wall. "He really loved you, and I know no one could ever have been more proud of you than he was—or is, wherever he may be." After another pause, Cornwell forced himself to look back at Draco, though it elicited a very raw, fierce amount of pain. "I didn't always agree with him on... well, everything, but... when those things were pushed aside, we had our moments, and... well, he's your father, and I admire him for being the father that I know he has been to you. If he'd had been in the business of the Ministry, only, and not of mass-murdering, we might have gotten on pretty well, but... heh—that was supposed to be a joke. Bad timing, I know."

Draco continued to stare at him, and then finally gurgled with his throat, battling his feelings, "Don't do that."

Cornwell immediately looked embarrassed, "I didn't mean to offend you. I'm truly horrible with my comedy—"

"No," Draco interrupted, under his breath, frowning. "No, Cornwell, I mean... Cornwell, you are my father." When he said this, Cornwell looked right down at Dickie, as if what Draco said was wrong, and he didn't think he could hear anymore of it. It was almost was if he were fighting some sort of indigestion. But, Draco was too worked up to not say anything. He couldn't have Cornwell feeling like he WASN'T Draco's father. That was ridiculous. He had raised Draco, even more so than Lucius. But, suddenly, he didn't think he was fit to be noted as Draco's father BY Draco? It made no sense, and seeing Cornwell react ashamed made Draco feel extremely unnerved. The real emotion that was settled beneath this unnerved feeling was pain and hurt.

"I know when I chose Lucius, I hurt you. I know that what I did was... immature. I was trying to choose between two fathers, and... at the time, everything Lucius had to offer was everything that, at the time, sounded good to me. I didn't... I didn't realize that my life was already being chosen. I didn't mean to not chose you, and when you left..." His voice lowered, involuntarily, and cackled. He cleared his throat, but it came off weakly. Instead, he sighed and gave in, sadly. No one was there to experience this but his father and his little brother—two people who didn't CARE how he came off. He was supposed to be... humanly emotional around them. "You're not supposed to call Lucius my father in the way that you do—as if he is so much more important to my existence than you are. He is my father, but you are my father."

"By blood, Draco."

"Not by blood, Cornwell!" Draco sharply bit back at him. "Not just by blood. You raised me, too."

"I raised you, Draco, and then I left you. Fathers don't leave their sons when they are needed."

Draco went to respond, but then hesitated, "I love Lucius, and I love him with all of my heart." He saw that Dickie was falling asleep, buried deeply, now, into Cornwell's warm, protective, cotton-covered arms. But, Cornwell was listening to what Draco was saying, his undivided attention given to what Draco was saying, though his fingertips were gently stroking, up and down, over Dickie's upper arm. It was an affection that obviously soothed Dickie. Draco continued. "He knows I do, and if he weren't in the business he's in, with the company he has kept, I might like him as much as I love him." He saw a flicker of a smile on his father's mouth, and he knew he had a small flicker on his own. "But, Cornwell, Lucius... is not you. I love him, yes! But, he's very different. You are very different. He's... strict. You're laid back. He's sensitive when he needs to be. You're sensitive when you want to be—which is most of the time. He's... tango-lessons. You're... forget the lessons, go play some Quidditch. He's... spending rainy days in the library, explaining spells to me. You spend rainy days playing Quidditch until you're sopped in mud. He loves me, but has to love other things over me, and it kills him. You love me because I am me. He's... he's... he's... he cares more about You-Know-Who than he does me, Cornwell, and at the time, though he's always made sure I knew he loved me, he offered me a part of his world—the part I had always known existed but had never understood, and then he let me in, Cornwell, and he did it begrudgingly. He didn't want me to choose him, but because I did, it pushed him away even further, because he didn't want me to want to know what it was that kept him... so Lucius Malfoy."

"He never made you do anything, Draco. He never forced you."

"I know," Draco agreed, looking down at his opened, wrinkled, light-peach colored palms.

Cornwell was just watching Draco, now, "He is your father, Draco. He'd turn the world upside down for you."

Draco twisted, confused, "Wouldn't you?" He searched the brown eyes, immediately.

Cornwell chuckled, very deeply, under his breath, "In a second, Draco." He paused. "You chose him."

"By choosing him, I had never meant to not choose you, Cornwell! I didn't know you were going to leave!"

"No, Draco," Cornwell quietly murmured, his eyes very serious. "You chose him because you saw, in him, what no person saw in Lucius Malfoy. You were his son, and that was why you chose him, because you knew him like no one else had ever known him, and you knew it. I knew it. Your mother knew it. And, Lucius knew it. He knew he had you, and I don't mean that in a smugly-possessive way, because Lucius and I never wanted control over you. We both just wanted the best for you. He knew he had you, because he knew you knew he loved you, and he knew your eyes were opened wider for life. He knew you weren't going to settle with me. He always said it, even from the moment you were born—you're meant for power, Draco. Your magic is strong and pure. You may have my blood, but you were raised in the Malfoy manor, with the Malfoy education, with Lucius Malfoy. He's a brilliant man, though I always pretended he wasn't. His influence on you... is extraordinary. You are a Malfoy. He is the father that has molded you—and, if I may say so, again, you are extraordinary, Draco. You weren't a little boy, anymore, who needed the sensitive, laid-back father, anymore, when you made your choice. You were smart, and you made the smart decision."

"Have you been telling yourself these things for the last four years, Cornwell?"

Cornwell looked up from Dickie, appearing extremely startled, "What?"

Draco could feel his face's discontent, "Honestly, the nerve of you, Cornwell Black." Cornwell gave him a look as if to say, "What? What'd I do?" When he let this look surface, Draco felt inwardly furious. Cornwell had been feeding himself all of these explanations! What he said could have, very well, been true when Draco was fourteen. But, the truth was, all in all, that Draco hadn't meant to choose Lucius as a FATHER. He had meant to choose Lucius's guidance over Cornwell's, and only because he hadn't realized that Cornwell's guidance was guidance so perfect that he had never felt guided. It had been a strange period of time, then, when he was fourteen. Things had happened so quickly, and Lucius's work had enthralled him. But, when he had chosen Lucius's path, wanting to learn more about it, Cornwell had... just taken that as if it were Draco's choice to have him thrown away. The morning that Cornwell had shown up at breakfast, stony-faced and pale, with luggage packed in the hallway by the front door, had been the worst morning, EVER, of Draco's life.

Draco pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, "No matter how many times I tell you, you're never going to believe me, are you?" Cornwell was frowning at him, very strongly, so Draco elaborated, leaning forward with determination to get his point across. "Cornwell, I never meant to choose him over you. I never ASKED you to leave. I had just wanted to know more about Lucius's life—"

"Draco, I wasn't going to stand by and watch my son be enthralled with a Death Eater's LIFE. You damn well knew exactly what the option was. You knew that I didn't approve of what Lucius did. I told you no. You told me you could make your own decisions. I told you that you weren't going to like it, and you weren't cut out for his business, and you told me, if I remember correctly, "Sod off, then! He's still alive! He's not in Azkaban, is he? You-Know-Who will protect him. Everyone tells me I'm just like him, and he seems happy, so who are you to tell me if I'm not cut out for it! I can do anything I want to!""

Draco's mouth stayed open, but nothing came out. Oh. He hadn't expected that kind of response.

"Maybe you didn't mean to choose Lucius over me, Draco. Maybe I chose to not stand by and watch you want to be something I despised. Like I said, I left you. When you tell me that I'm a father the way Lucius isn't, it feels wrong to me. I shouldn't have left you, Draco, plain and simple. But, I did. If you'd have chosen NOT to follow in Lucius's steps, though disappointed he may have been, he never would have walked away, defiantly, as I did."

"Bullocks," Draco scratched. "You weren't in the business of murdering people. He had no reason to walk."

"Sure, he did."

Draco was buzzing, now, with annoyance. Cornwell was grinning over this, knowingly, "He really didn't."

"Draco," Cornwell laughed, "if you'd have walked away from him, to me, after he had raised you..."

"What? What would he have done? Disowned me?" Cornwell shook his head. "What, then?"

"He would have been disappointed."

"So, it's not okay for him to be let down, but it's okay for me to let YOU down?"

"Precisely," Cornwell agreed, thoroughly confusing Draco. "I was your papa. He was your father."

Draco tilted his head, "And, why would you ever have cared if I disappointed him?"

Cornwell looked down at Dickie, and then slowly back to Draco, "Draco, he loved you as if you were his own son." At this, Draco began to understand, and he looked down. He hadn't thought things through the way Cornwell had done so, which obviously highlighted the maturity difference between them. Draco was a mature young man, he knew, but in terms of adult thinking, he was still learning and grasping, just like everyone else was doing, and had done for centuries. "He took you into his arms, when you were born, and declared you as his. Do you know what kind of man it takes to accept a son he hasn't fathered—especially a man in Lucius's standing? It's unheard of, Draco! Could you imagine what kind of man it would take to look at our situation and think nothing horrible of it? He didn't yell, Draco. He didn't flip out. He accepted you as you, and he demanded you be his son, because he loved you from the moment he ever rested his eyes on you. He took you from your mother, a day or two after you were born, and he walked you all around the manor. He took you around town and showed you off. You were Lucius Malfoy's boy. So, yes, I do care about your father—Lucius, I mean. I never approved of what he did for a living, and I really despised him for it, but, like I said, when I put that aside at the end of the day, he was a great father. I would never have wanted you to turn your back on him, and you didn't."

"Because, I'm your bastard, mistake of a son."

Cornwell's jaw dropped, "Draco!"

Draco just climbed toward the edge of the bed, "It's true, Cornwell. All you talk about is how great Lucius was to take me under his wing, to accept me, as if him having NOT accepted me would have thrown everything into shambles!" He exclaimed, too loudly. When he was off of the bed, he turned around, smoothing his shirt around his sides because it had scrunched up on the move off of the bed. He saw that he had woken Dickie, who was looking at him with upset, startled eyes. "If he wouldn't have accepted me, would you have taken me, Cornwell? Why was it so important that Lucius accept me? If he hadn't, would the world have ended?" But, Cornwell was still too distracted with staring at him, with an expression of utter and total heartbreak, to respond. "And, because you're so indebted to him having accepted me, you expect me to feel the same way! You expect me to see him the way you see him. Well, I don't! YOU are my father. YOU are the one I've been missing. YOU are the reason I'm even in this messed up, twisted lie of a world right now, and I need you to stop expecting me to put Lucius in front of you! I could care less about turning my back on Lucius, and he knows it! He wouldn't care if I did, because he DOES love me, regardless of what debts you have to him for taking me in, in the first place!"

Draco was yelling by the time he had fired everything out of his mouth, nearly in one whole breath, throwing his hands up in all directions as if to make his point come across more official and monumental, because it should have been that way! "Did it EVER occur to you that I knew I had turned my back on YOU? And, because of if, you completely LEFT me? How was that supposed to make me feel, Cornwell? Grateful? Did you want a metal for leaving me with Lucius? What the fuck makes him so much more bloody great than you! He's a death eater, for Merlin's gay lover's bloody-fucking sake!"

Dickie was staring, from the center of the bed, wide-eyed, as Cornwell joined a standing Draco.

"Draco, don't—"

"No!" Draco interrupted his stunned father. He reached out, with his hand, with a long, pointed index finger, and he shoved it, as hard as he could, against the center of Cornwell's chest. He knew it must have hurt, because he was once poked by Crabbe, lightly, on the chest, and it had hurt. But, this was hard, and Cornwell's face flinched in some sort of reaction to the crime. Draco lifted his finger and pointed it into his father's face, steam spouting out of him from every which way. He could nearly feel the fire burning out of his sneering nose and mouth. "You're right, Cornwell. You are the one who left me. You may not be proud of what I came from, but I am still YOUR son, and you trying to pass me off as Lucius's, because he fucking took me in and gave me his god-damn last name means one thing to me. It means that you're the one with the problem, not me. You are my father, do you hear me? I could care less about letting Lucius down, one because he loves me regardless if I let him down, and two, because he's not my fucking father! I mean—can't you—don't you—why can't you—would you—God, don't you understand that I don't want to let YOU down! All you keep reminding me of is how I turned my back on you, when I never even meant to! If I can't redeem myself, and you refuse to be as much of a father as Lucius is, even though you ARE my father, how can I have any father at all? You hate my existence, suddenly, and Lucius is—I don't even fucking know where he is, but I know he's somewhere, and how I know that is another surreal situation that I, too, have absolutely no control over!"

Dickie had jumped off of the bed and was standing between Draco and Cornwell, with huge eyes.

It was a shouting match, now.

"What are you talking about? I hate your existence? How stupid of you!" Cornwell shouted, haggling.

"It's true! I've learned to live with who I am, and you're still reeling over someone "accepting" me!"

Cornwell was stuttering on words, clearly trying to think of some way to respond. But, he paused. Draco was waiting, expectantly, infuriated. Suddenly, though, a calm voice left Cornwell, "Draco, I'm not ashamed of what you came from. I never have been. It is a big deal that Lucius took you in, even if you don't understand. You can look back on it, now, and say it wouldn't have been a big deal if he hadn't, and you say this while standing in the Malfoy manor, having spent seventeen years here, pampered and prided and having been the joy of the entire family, of your entire society. I dare say this to you, Draco: It's not about what you came from. I got over that a LONG time ago. I got over that before you were born. You are my son, and I love you, period. And, I don't want to tell you this, really—"

"Spit it out, already," Draco bit at him, clutching his sides. Oh, this had to be good.

"It was important that Lucius Malfoy be your father, rather than Cornwell Black."

Draco looked him over, very carefully, "I wouldn't have cared, Cornwell."

Cornwell shifted, "As I've just said, Draco, it's easy to say that when you've been raised a Malfoy."

It all circled back to the legend of Cornwell Black, a legend Cornwell had thrown away.

Draco just snorted with an exhausted laugh and began to turn away, "Thank-you for the credit."

"Draco, you have all of the credit I have to give," Cornwell replied, without a snitch of Draco's attitude in his tone. "You can believe what you want to believe about me. You can believe I'm ashamed of you, though you know I am absolutely not. I never have been. I raised you for fourteen years, and you know my reputation, Draco. You couldn't possibly understand what it would have been like to be known as Cornwell Black's son, and neither could I. But, I know what it's like to be Cornwell Black in our world, Draco, and it drove me—ME, of all people—to get away from magic, again, after I worked so hard to be part of it. The last thing I was going to do was bring you down! Nothing was your fault, so why should you have suffered? You were my son, and you had the chance to be raised a Malfoy, and I had the chance to still be with you and raise you, and no one knew!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't Dickie's last name Black?"

"Yes. Draco. Seventeen years later, yes, his last name is Black."

Draco snorted, again, in disbelief, "What a hypocrite you are! What's so different, now?"

Cornwell didn't seem to want to jump on the question, "Draco, do you love Lucius?"

"Yes," Draco answered, without a second to spare.

Cornwell concluded, quietly. "You love Lucius. He is your father. You're a Malfoy. It's in the past."

"Do you know what's also in the past?" Draco asked, seriously.

Cornwell frowned, "What, Draco?"

Draco glanced at Dickie, forcing a light, care-free smile, "Everything."

Dickie tugged at the bottom of Draco's long-sleeved shirt.

Draco squatted down and gently tugged at the bottom of Dickie's shirt, too, "I love you."

Dickie lifted his arms up, his eyes so sweet, and he cutely murmured, in gibberish.

Cornwell still had his arms crossed over his chest, "Do you feel better now that you've told me off?"

"Only if you feel worse, Cornwell," Draco lightly quipped, but not in a mean way, as Dickie hugged him.

Cornwell leaned down and pressed a hurried kiss on the top of Dickie's head, "I'll leave you boys to your brotherly bonding."

Dickie looked up, tilting his head all of the way back.

Draco grinned, watching Dickie's charmingly perfect aura begin to soothe all negative vibes that had been placed into the room. But, then, out of the blue, he felt a small pressure on the top of his head. It was only when Cornwell had quickly turned away had he realized that he had just been pecked on the top of his head. He lost his balance and fell onto his butt, somehow, while realizing this. The top of his head was buzzing, and his brain was asking his heart if it had just felt what it thought it had felt. Indeed, something had happened.

When he landed on his butt, Dickie giggled and fell forward, freely, onto Draco, being as sweet and baby-boy-ish as humanly possible. He squeezed onto Draco's chest and pressed their noses together. It was like he was immediately distracting Draco, purposely, so he didn't overanalyze or over-process the situation. It was what it was—Cornwell had given both of them a kiss on the top of the head—and, it was strange, because Draco was seventeen, and the last time Cornwell had done that, he was fourteen and very attached to his father, whereas he had just been yelling at him and feeling never-more distant.

Draco felt suddenly alive. He tightly squeezed the smaller being, in awe over the whole situation, "Shrimp!"

Dickie smirked and cutely bit at the tip of Draco's abnormally straight, medium-sized nose, "Awhoop!"

"Ouch!" Draco gaped, and immediately cupped his nose in his palm.

Dickie covered his own nose with his tiny hand, as if they were playing a game.

Draco lowered his hand, suspiciously searching the tinier, teasing eyes, "You're not as innocent as you look."

Dickie shrugged, which confirmed to Draco that Dickie was as innocent as he looked, "Draco?"

Draco kissed the tip of the tiny nose, removing the tiny hand from it, "Shrimp?"

Dickie's small nose twisted, and he said something, in gibberish-like baby-talk, and then rested more contentedly in Draco's arms. It was like he had just said something, gotten it off of his chest, and decided things were all okay. His cheek rested down on Draco's shoulder, and they sat there for a few seconds, hugging. But, Dickie's little cheek pulled up.

Draco followed Dickie's eyes over toward the bedroom door, where Cornwell had been watching, perplexed.

Cornwell quickly cleared his throat, looked away, finished opening the door, and quickly disappeared.

Draco looked back down at Dickie, and then felt trapped, "Don't look at me like that."

Dickie's lips twisted, and he murmured something, very pointedly, staring at Draco, eye to eye.

Draco sighed, defeated by a little boy who couldn't even speak, yet, "I know, I know! But, I needed to get it off of my chest. You understand, don't you?" Dickie blinked. "You would, if you were in my shoes. Luckily, you're not." He sighed and lifted Dickie up, under his arms, struggling to lift him up into the air with his still-tired, weak arms. "You're lucky, you know," he quietly murmured, and lowered his little brother back down to the floor, where he stood in his socked feet and placed his tiny, brilliant hands on Draco's shoulders, as if to support him. "I hope you never have to miss out on any time with him—daddy, I mean." He paused. "I hope you don't mind, shrimp, sharing him with me, now. I know we haven't known each other very long, you and I, but I just want to you know that I love you very, very, very, very much, shrimp, and I'll always be here for you. I promise. And, I know you probably will never remember this, but, if something happens to me, and you somehow recall this when you're older, just know that I want you to have everything I had, and everything I didn't have—and, over these last three years, I have sure miss our papa. I never want you to miss anyone like I missed him. Oh, and I don't want to you miss me, because, well... I'm Draco—no, that sounded arrogant. It really did. Truth is, I don't want you to ever not miss me, even when I've moved away and you're just starting Hogwarts—assuming, of course, it's still around. And, you're really not listening."

Dickie snuggled back against Draco's chest and popped his thumb into his mouth, half asleep.

Draco chortled, softly, and lifted him up off of the ground. He walked Dickie back over to the bed, climbed up onto his knees, carefully, and then managed to place Dickie down, again, in the center of the bed. He pulled the covers up, gently, over the small, lumpy figure. He would go get Dickie some juice and then return back to the room. He didn't want to be around anyone else, that day. Harry was confusing the hell out of him. Cornwell stressed him out. His friends all had issues, and, well, the rest of the wizard world was enflamed in war, gossip and devastation. Yeah, snuggling in with his little brother and sleeping for most of the day didn't seem like the worst idea possible.

When Draco awoke, Dickie was gone. He looked over at the clock to see that it was seven.

Draco snuggled back onto his side, ready to fall back asleep.

But, his eyes flew open and he bolted up. It was seven? SEVEN! Harry's funeral had started at six! He tore out of his covers, furiously, in a hurry, and ran, as fast as he could, ungracefully, tripping on his own agility, until he reached the door. He tore it open and scrambled into the hallway. He ran, as fast as he could, down every wing until he reached the entry hall balcony. He leaned over it, looking for anyone, on his way to his bedroom. To his luck, he saw his mother walking out of the dining room, "Mom!"

Narcissa jumped, "Draco! What are you—"

Draco cut her off, hurrying along the edge of the balcony, as to not waste any time, at all, on his journey to his bedroom, "Judas! Judas, is he here?" She began to shake her head, and that was all he needed to know. "FUCK him!" He shouted, angrily, and scurried off down the corridor, fuming. Fuck Harry Potter to go without him! It figured! Draco had sworn that he would be with Harry, even if Harry hadn't cared or wanted him to be there, beside him. No! No! He had gone WITHOUT Draco! No one had even thought to wake him up? His mother, Cornwell, and practically all of the house-elves knew that Draco had been having issues with Harry's death and had wanted to attend Harry's funeral, but had they thought to wake him?

No!

Draco threw all of his weight onto his bedroom door as he opened it with his right hand. He immediately pulled his shirt up over his head and threw it, somewhere, on the way to his closest. He squirmed with his trouser buttons and zipper. He pushed them down to his ankles and nearly tripped while doing so. He kicked them off, and as soon as he was within five feet of his closet door, it swung open, "I can't believe no one woke me!"

"Calm down, now! I have your suit all ready, Draco."

A suit was thrust into Draco's hands. He tore it off of the hanger, though the garments remained strung in mid-air, due to the spell that was on them. He pulled his pants from the air and they immediately rippled. He pulled them on, decided against the button up shirt, grabbed the shirt he had just torn off, threw it back on, grabbed his suit jacket, slipped his feet into the patiently waiting shoes by the closet door, and then hurried out of his room, sliding his right arm into the right arm-sleeve of the jacket

Draco apparated, there, from the hall, mid-step.

When he landed, seconds later, in the park he and Harry had apparated to, the day before, together, he continued his step, hurrying down the hill whilst fighting with his left arm-sleeve, batting it to behave with the wind, while he tried to slip his hand in. And, at last, he did. He began to run toward the church, somehow managing to do up his buttons as he got closer.

Draco didn't stop running until he reached the doors of the church, having pushed through people, who shrieked when they realized it was Draco Malfoy who had knocked into them. He had heard that those who were not close to Harry Potter, or knew Harry Potter, or were not of any importance to Harry Potter's specific, personal life, were the last who would be considered to fill up the pews at his funeral. But, he was Draco Malfoy, and he was obviously a someone. He was the Minister's son, if not anything else.

He calmly opened one of the huge, grand church doors. He had noticed, the day before, as well, that the doors were exquisite and unusual for such a small, ordinary church. But, the doors, he supposed, were the proverbial windows into the soul. In front of him, in the small lobby, stood very still people, all looking in through glass windows toward the main service room. There was only music playing, now, and Draco didn't know what that meant or how far-along the service was. He just hoped that it wasn't over.

Draco made his way through the first couple of people crowded around, but shortly after people had begun to scoff at the crowd-parting presence, the crowd began to part for him instead of against him. They all noted who he was, which happened to be very convenient for the situation. Once he got through the crowd of silent friends, who, obviously, had come too little too late to be able to catch one of the seats, he stood below a pair of open, glass double doors. In front of him was a still, motionless, mostly silent crowd. People were lined all along the walls, and most of those along the walls were Harry's school friends, mostly all from Gryffindor, but a few from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were there, and, even, as Draco immediately noted, a couple of Slytherins Harry had befriended over the last year or so.

All of the way to the right, toward the front of the room, he could see the end of a small line walking past Harry's casket. The people in front of the line were giving their words to Ron, who was the only person standing next to the wooden and golden, engraved, exquisite casket. The work was incredible and intricate, and Draco was speechless because of it. But, noting that the end of the viewing line was about to end, he hurried in. When he began to walk down the right side of the church, he could feel eyes following him. Each step he took, the intensity increased.

Draco, sweating from having been running, and extremely unnerved from having been late and half-asleep, began to realize, as he saw the last two people standing in front of Ron, that he was being stared at by nearly everyone. He felt his pulse quicken, and he turned his head to the left, to look out, bravely, over the sea of people. And, when he did, he nearly tripped.

Hundreds of pairs of eyes were staring at him.

Draco arrived at the casket, which gave him reason to look away from everyone else. His right hand smoothed over his stomach, where he had his only three buttons buttoned. And, as he looked away from everyone else, he blankly passed over Ron's face, over the flowers, and then—Draco's knees buckled, his shoulders shook, and his right hand, previously having been smoothing his jacket to calm his nerves, tightly clutched over his chest as he turned his back toward the sea of people. His jaw dropped opened, and it stayed locked in place. He could feel his entire body shaking, as he gaped down, shocked and monumentally unprepared for the entire reason he was there.

Draco's left hand clutched over the side of the casket, to steady himself, and he dropped his head and closed his eyes. His right hand left his chest, and he lifted his wrist up to his mouth as it closed together. He placed it over his lips, his body freezing cold. His wrist quickly flipped over and moved aside until his frigid palm clasped over his lips, and his fingertips dug under his jaw. His eyelashes fluttered open, but he could barely see, "Jesus Christ, Potter."

Not only did Draco know he was being watched just because he was who he was, both in society and relation to Harry Potter—his supposed enemy, but he was the last person in line for the viewing, which meant they were all watching him, anyway, and waiting. He didn't know what to do. He had known that the moment had been coming, when he would have to look down and see Harry laying, lifeless, in a casket, but he hadn't realized how emotional it would be, because Harry was still alive, just in a different body. But, no, no. He had not been preparing for this. He had not seen this coming. He had not realized that he would be staring down at the boy he had been battling with for seven years. His face was different. It was—God, it was lifeless.

Draco's index finger hooked over the top of his nose, and he fully clutched the bottom of his face.

Draco, though extremely restless and unwilling to be rushed aside, looked over his left shoulder, slowly, still clutching his face in complete and utter distress. It was distress that he had never experienced. He didn't remember how to fully function. He looked to see if anyone was looking at him, out of hope that no one was. But, everyone was. His eyes flew across the crowd, in a rush, darting from brunette to brunette, until, on the end of the third row, in the center column, he saw a body, hunched over, with its face in its hands, though the eyes were looking straight at him. He opened up his palm some more, immediately, when he spotted Harry, and lowered it about five inches from where it had been clutching his jaw, opened up and clueless, as if to ask Harry what the fuck he was going through, and how he was even able to be in the room. Draco could hardly take it.

In return, Judas Cliffdale appeared to scratch his face off in an attempt to hide an ocean-teared face, his fingertips sliding down, hard, over his face, and rubbing fiercely, with indentation marks following the wake. It was echoed, only once, by a sob that he choked down, but was hardly able to cover. His head then sunk into his arms, and his fingertips clutched at the back of his hair. Judas Cliffdale looked like he was having a break-down, though hardly anyone could have seen him unless they were sitting directly around him, because he was somewhat leaned out into the isle, his head down, which was why Draco could see him.

Draco turned back around to Harry's body, shaking. His right hand joined his left hand, on the side of the casket. His tongue felt swollen. His throat felt swollen, and he wasn't sure he could breathe very steadily, or if his body was going to allow him to. He blew out of his lips, slowly, and began to lean down over the casket, shifting toward his right so his left side was a little more visible to the crowd. He leaned down over Harry and tilted his head until he was looking at Harry, straight on. He leaned down, staring, shaking. He heard Ron draw in a sharp growl, and a couple of muffles in the crowd, but he didn't care. He swallowed a huge lump in his throat, searching the face through newly-cleared eyes.

Draco had never been so close to Harry's face.

His eyes flickered up to the infamous scar, and he felt his fingertips tingle, "You know, Potter, you're the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen in my god-damn life." He stared down at the face, nose to nose with it. "As twisted as it sounds, if no one was watching, I'd kiss you, just to kiss you." His eyelashes flickered a few times, and he choked another huge knot of emotion in his throat. It hurt like a knife to his heart. "I will kiss you, one day," He choked a laugh, but then stopped, abruptly. "Not that I'd kiss you in a romantic way, though I would kiss you on the lips. I'd just kiss you to kiss you. You're the face of you, and... you know how it is—oh, what the fuck, Potter." He leaned up to Harry's forehead, over his scar, and he pressed his mouth down, as lightly as he could, and his right hand's fingertips gently, anxiously, rested over the cold cheek, squeezing his eyes together very tightly. When he pulled his lips away the small, minute fraction of a measurement, he paused. "You're dead, and you still manage make me gay."

Draco dropped a hurried kiss right down against Harry's forehead, again, before he threw himself away from the casket, having to, literally, tear himself away. He knew he would never having knowingly just walked away if a part of him hadn't made him do so. He didn't even look at Ron for the first couple of awkward seconds. All of the chatter in the church had died down. And, when Draco's eyes finally fought to leave the floor and meet Ron's expression, he was being mentally set on fire. But, somehow, God had decided to curse Draco, because a horribly wonderful smile started to take over his lips—and, he tried to resist it.

Ron took a step forward.

Draco blinked, at his own expression, but then lowered his eyes and took a step backward. He had kissed Harry Potter's scar. His arms wrapped over his chest as he pivoted, dazed at what was going on within him. He walked away from Harry, toward Harry—or, er, Judas. There was an empty seat beside him, obviously meant to be there in case Draco had decided to show up. As he walked, stunned eyes found and followed his, but he blew them off. And, when he stood next to the pew on which Harry sat, beside Judas Cliffdale's father, who had come to pay homage to Harry Potter, Draco couldn't help but smile even wider.

Harry looked up at him, silently.

Draco's smile immediately fell. Harry looked like hell. Literally, his eyes and face were bright red from the massive stresses they had been taking on, including still-flowing tears and bright-red trails of fingertips tearing down his face. Draco quickly slid down into the space. Though as he did so, staring at Harry with apprehensive, strained eyes, he realized that Harry, who was now covering his cheeks with his hands, was smirking the most twisted, stunning, Harry-Potter-like smirk, the smirk that he was sure no one else had ever seen. It was strong, and sexy, and completely inappropriate—which made it that much hotter. Draco shyly looked away from him, feeling his cheeks burn. His cheeks NEVER burned! They had always refused to! But, the blood in his face was extremely hot.

Draco's eyes went to shift back to Harry's casket, but people were still staring at him, gape-mouthed. Some of them even appeared offended. What! What! He rolled his eyes, openly, at the lot of people he knew that they knew he was noticing them. But, amongst the eyes in the crowd, he saw one very twinkling, amused pair. He squinted right back. It was Dumbledore. He was looking down over his half-moon spectacles from the front row, in the column of pews to the right of the center area they were seated in. He swallowed yet another lump in his throat. No way was Albus Dumbledore restraining laughter over him having kissing Harry Potter—no one, he figured, had seen that he had kissed Harry's forehead. They had just seen his face disappear toward Harry's. He shivered, looking away from a currently-chuckling Dumbledore.

When Draco's eyes shifted back to his left, to Harry, he felt horrible.

Harry was a mess, still leaned over his knees. But, now his head was covered by his arms.

Draco lifted his left hand up and lightly dropped it down over Harry's upper back, over the dark-gray suit he was wearing. No one was wearing robes, aside from Dumbledore, that Draco could see. It was a wizard town, so Draco didn't know why everyone had chosen to wear muggle formal-wear. Then, again, Harry had been buried in a suit. Remembering this, Draco looked away from the casket, again, with blurry eyes, and he rubbed his hand up Harry's spine, soothingly. He wanted Harry to know he was there. He leaned over his knees, too, and leaned into the side of Harry's face. He said nothing. His hand rubbed up and down, slowly, again, before he retracted his spine, again. His hand moved up to Harry's right shoulder, which was his shoulder closest to Draco.

Draco's hand lightly cupped over the broadness of the shoulder, and he looked back to the casket.

Chatter, eventually, quietly began to work through the huge, beautiful main cathedral room. Harry had since returned to sitting upright, and he stared at the casket, as did Draco. Neither said anything, what so ever, both too overcome with very different thoughts on the situation.

Eventually, Draco blinked away his concentration and focus on the casket before them, and he turned his attention to Harry, turning his head. Harry was pale, which was very worrying, because Judas's skin had been tan and golden only hours before. Draco was sure that Harry had decreased several ranges of pigment, in the last couple of hours, until he nearly matched Draco's complexion. His cheeks were gaunt. His eyes were listless. His lips were painfully dry to even look at, his mouth was open, his hair was a mess, and he looked completely deadened. And, he had every right to be that way. Part of him... was dead, and only feet away.

Draco leaned forward a bit, with his hands folded between his knees. He glanced back, slightly, at Harry, "Come here."

Harry's eyes shifted, blankly, from the casket.

Draco nodded at him, once, and motioned him forward with his index fingertip, "Come here."

Harry leaned forward, until he was shoulder to shoulder with Draco. He could hardly breathe, much less talk.

Draco looked him over, openly, "There's water out there, if you want some."

"No."

Draco flinched. Harry sounded like a groveling rock. He wanted to ask if Harry was okay, but he knew that was an extremely, EXTEMELY stupid question. Of course Harry wasn't okay! No one was okay, least of all Harry Potter! He was sitting at his own funeral. The word okay wasn't even acceptable to use, at all, that day. He didn't know what to say, at all, but he wanted to say something. He had so many things he wanted to say. He wanted to tell Harry that whenever he wanted to go, they would go. He wanted to ask how Harry was feeling. He wanted to know if there was anything that Harry needed—like a cookie, or coffee, or anything. But, he didn't. He just ended up staring straight into the red and brown eyes staring back at his, helpless.

They continued to stare at each other for a good couple of minutes, until Harry blinked.

Draco watched him lower his head and fold his hands. He reached, with his left hand, right to Harry's insanely-tight embrace between his own hands. Nervously, he started to attempt to do something—pat the hands, or give them a squeeze, or just a tap, but he didn't. He couldn't. He was afraid Harry would spontaneously combust. He just wanted to give Potter some sort of comfort—affection, even. He couldn't imagine sitting in on his own funeral, when he was alive and healthy—well, the important part of him was, anyway. His fingertips hesitated, and they began to retreat.

Harry unfolded his hands. His right elbow bent back between them, as Draco's hand landed on his own knee, awkwardly. Harry grasped Draco's hand in his own, and was not at all surprised to feel that Draco's hand was just as cold as his was. His fingers, gently, clasped around Draco's long, elegant fingers, and he lifted them up. He moved Draco's hand, with his own, back to his waiting left hand. He pressed the back of Draco's hand into his left hand's palm and slipped the fingers of his right hand between the spaces of Draco's. He squeezed Draco's hand between his own, and then looked at him, without so much as the slightest bit of smugness.

Draco was staring at him, his bottom jaw slightly unhinged. What!

"That was what you were going for, wasn't it?"

Draco continued to stare at him, "Er—well, no, not quite so... well, I was going to pat your hand."

"Oh," Harry quietly returned, and then looked away, beginning to separate their hands. "I see."

Draco's teeth gritted together, immediately, and a couple of seconds later, his hand was free.

Harry looked at him through blurry eyes, "Hand-holding is allowed."

In other words, Harry was sitting through his own funeral, and he needed a hand—any hand.

Draco waited a couple of minutes before even attempting to say anything. Harry had long-since gone back to tightly squeezing his own hands together, his fingers intertwined so tightly. He had his lips resting over his hands, and Draco wondered, silently, if he was praying. He heard the clearing of a loud voice, so he looked up at the podium in the front of the room. It was Weasley. He looked back at Harry, seriously, but Harry never looked up. It was as if he knew what was coming, and who was about to hand him his emotions of a platter.

Draco did what any friend would do. He reached over to Harry's right wrist with his left hand. He wrapped it around the bony wrist and pulled it toward him, so Harry's hands dropped from resting over his lips. He sat up, straight, too, without looking at Draco. Draco's hand went right in for the kill, and demanded entrance between Harry's palms. But, Harry refused. Draco's eyes narrowed, and he elbowed the boy beside him, lightly.

Harry glanced at him, silently.

Draco leaned into his face, "If you don't give me your hand, I will pants you when you stand up."

Harry stared back at him.

It was another minute before Harry gave in, and Draco felt an awkward, hesitant flick at his wrist.

They didn't look at each other as Draco wrapped his hand around Harry's, and they rested between their bodies on the plush cushion that they were seated on. It wasn't a tight hold. It was light, and comfortable, and not awkward, because it hadn't meant to be awkward from the very beginning. But, over the course of the service, whilst Harry was in devastatingly obvious pain, with his eyes usually closed so tightly that it seemed as if they would eventually stay sealed together, Draco's hand became more and more supportive, until he gave in to the uncomfortable awkwardness of holding the other hand and slipped his fingers between the spaces in Harry's, and then he locked them together. From then on, when he squeezed Harry's hand, he REALLY squeezed Harry's hand.

"What's she doing here?"

Draco blinked. He looked at Harry, "What?"

Harry was staring across Draco, with cold, dark, lethal eyes. It was Hermione.

Draco followed his eyes, and they landed on Granger. He looked back at Harry, "I don't know."

"I don't want her here," Harry hissed, furiously, under his breath.

Draco looked around, "No one else seems to notice her."

"I'd spot that smell, anywhere. Betrayal."

Draco snorted with quiet laughter, "I'll ask her to leave, if you really want her to leave."

"Sure, Malfoy, go on up to her and tell her to get out of your sight." Harry rolled his eyes.

Draco smirked at him, but then looked away. He spotted Ron, "Someone's already on it."

Harry leaned in toward him a couple of inches, whispering, "Who?"

Draco pointed.

Harry's eyes followed Draco's fingertip until he was affronted with the front row, where Ron was furiously seething, also having, apparently, noticed Hermione's presence. She should not have been there. Few people knew about her betrayal, very few. Ron knew. Harry knew. Dumbledore knew. Neville Longbottom knew, and Voldemort certainly knew. Harry's blood was boiling so hot that he knew there was a chance he would fly out of his seat, pull out his wand and throw every curse known to wizard-kind at her, just to see her seizure and suffer. But, he saw that the Weasley twins had been informed by Ron that Hermione was unwelcome, and they were walking toward her, in the corner of the room.

Draco's eyes fell upon Harry, again, "What ever happened with her?"

Harry shook his head from side to side, just barely, "I'll tell you later," he whispered.

"Later is booked. We'll be having sex right about then. I suggest you tell me, now."

Harry rolled his eyes up, hard, and then down. He stared at Draco, but he knew his eyes were bright, because he was in awe, "Malfoy," he whispered, leaning in even closer, not being able to resist the urge to respond. And, Draco knew it, too. He was looking for a reaction, though he pulled it off so coolly and effortlessly, looking around, carefully, not paying attention the speech that Ginny Weasley was giving—a very boring speech, one of which Harry kept smirking at and making little tiffs of confusion and disbelief at. The reason they were even speaking at all, now, was because their interest in the speech had worn off, which was saying a lot, because even Harry was tuning it out, which Draco found extremely telling, "I think you need to do yourself a favor, tomorrow, and get checked for STDs."

Draco bit, whispering back, with a forced frown, "STDs?" Was Potter calling him a whore? Unacceptable!

"Yeah, Malfoy—Sexually Transmitted Delusions!"

Draco snorted with loud laughter.

Ginny stopped speaking.

Draco looked around, with everyone else, as if trying to find out who the rude noise-maker was, though everyone around them knew that it was him. When people around the room began to settle down, he turned to face straight forward, again, and he looked at Harry, who succeeded in coughing his third or forth laugh into his shoulder. He grinned, too, and looked back at the front of the church, staying silent.

Seconds later, Ginny cleared her throat and began to speak, again.

Draco looked at Harry, and Harry looked back at him. They both went to say something, but ended up laughing, instead. Too loudly, at first, and this was proved by the way heads began to turn, again. This time, Draco even saw Harry turn his around, too, with a look of forced annoyance on his face. Draco tried to force it, too, but halfway into turning his head, he couldn't repress his laughter. He tried, but it still came out in hoarse, embarrassed, glowing noise. He tried to turn it into a cough, as well, but he wasn't that smooth with his coughing skills. He ended up sounding like some sort of laughing horse.

Harry covered his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning down so no one could see him laughing from around the room, though everyone in his pew, the pew in front of him, beside him, and to both of his sides, could easily see him. God, Malfoy was so horrible. The sound was hysterical, and at his own sound, Draco laughed even harder, and he tried to turn it into a coughing episode, but the horribly hysterical dying horse sound was muffled, again, into Draco's arm, as he leaned down, too, having given up on pretending to look for the culprit of the noise. Though, Draco lifted his body back up, and Harry gaped, in awe, a second later.

Draco turned his laugh into a sob, and it was incoherently perfect.

Harry buried his face into his hands and forced his laughter into sobs, as well.

Draco saw eyes around him begin to soften. Seconds later, when everything had returned to normal, he joined Harry in siting, perfectly still, staring straight ahead at the front of the room, though it was obvious that if they looked at each other, they would lose it, completely, which was absolutely not going to happen. He started taking in silent deep breaths, to get himself to calm down. His attention left Ginny Weasley and wondered up onto the ceiling, curiously, where a beautiful painting was on display. He tilted his head, gazing up at all of the colors with interest. He looked away from it, and at Harry, lightly.

Harry had taken that moment to look between Draco and the ceiling, as if to explore what was so interesting.

Draco blinked, Harry blinked, and then they smirked at each other, which had not, at all, been planned.

Harry pressed his lips together and quickly turned his head away

Draco turned his mouth all of the way to his right shoulder, and he pressed his mouth down, hard, so he wouldn't laugh. Over his shoulder, while he tried to repress his laughter, he noticed that a group of girls from Hogwarts were staring at him. Embarrassed, he didn't know quite what to do. But, he swallowed down his excessive amount of desperate laughter and bit into his shoulder, giving them his bedroom eyes. Their eyes widened. He lifted his mouth from his shoulder, winked, and then quickly faced forward, again.

But, beside him, tiny snorts of laughter were leaving Harry's nose and mouth.

Draco glanced at him, quickly. Harry was covering his mouth, his once-red eyes, though still incredibly puffy, were now fading away into a soft pink. He looked like he was ready to explode with laughter. One of his eyebrows was curved upward, and the other was in a deep furrow, as if telling Draco that he really shouldn't have done what he just had. It was then that Draco realized Harry had seen what he had done in the direction of the girls. Because Harry was laughing, Draco started laughing, shoving his hand over his mouth.

Harry wished there was some way that he could silence himself. Suddenly, he pulled his hand away from his mouth and turned his head, for the first time, fully toward Draco, with serious eyes. He felt bad for himself. They must have had temporary memory loss with the current upset of the event. That, or the both of them were just extremely thick-headed, all of the sudden. He unlocked his hand from Draco's and reached into his pocket.

Draco looked down.

Harry pulled out his wand.

They stared at it for a long moment, before they looked back at each other, with pity.

"Silencio," Harry whispered, just as he began on the cusp of hysterical laughter.

For a good five minutes, they laughed, hysterically, sitting perfectly straight, in perfect silence.

Sometime later, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small bit of commotion by a door off to the right side of the grand room. On a whim, he happened to look over, as well. He saw that it was Hermione, who was trying to get past one of the defiant Weasley brothers. And, she did. At this, and not wanting Harry to see her unless she had boils on her and was being toted around with a gigantic B, on her head, for bitch—er, betrayer, he pulled his hand out of his pocket. He lightly pointed it at her, when she was in mid-walk, "Stupefy."

The figure fell to the floor, with a gigantic thump that silenced the already eerie room.

Harry saw Draco pocketing his wand, very calmly. More than a few people began to turn their heads to see who had been the genius to stun someone in front of the whole funeral brigade. But, if Draco wouldn't have done it, things would have been far worse off. His eyes flickered down to Draco's right hand, after his wand had disappeared, effortlessly. He made himself nudge Draco, but only very, very, very lightly, as if to say thank-you, "Brilliant."

Draco fully turned his attention to Harry, "I'm thinking about axing her off."

Harry looked away from Draco, knowing that it was an empty threat, even if he was contemplating it. But, Draco had already pocketed his wand, and he seemed content in being an on-looker, just as everyone else had been. At the front of the room, someone had lifted Hermione into the air, magically, and she was being swiftly exited out of the side door. Around the door were three security wizards. Harry felt unimpressed with their services. How had Hermione gotten past them? Then, again, no one expected Hermione Granger to not be welcomed at Harry Potter's anything. They had probably let her right through, though Harry was almost positive that Ron must have insisted that she not attend, under any circumstances, and if she dared, she should have been unable to enter the church. He was scathing, mentally, over the nerve of Hermione Granger.

Draco lifted his right leg up, and he crossed it over his left knee, shifting to find a more comfortable position. His calve obnoxiously rested over part of Harry's knee when he was finally settled. His hands smoothed down his black trouser pants, ridding of the wrinkles he had been too distracted to notice. He then looked down at his suit-jacket and began to smooth that out, as well. And, his eyes settled upon a mustard yellow-colored shirt with bright red writing splashed over it, and he swallowed. He had forgotten what shirt he was wearing. He felt a little embarrassed, because he wasn't wearing a button-up under his jacket, like everyone else was. His eyes flickered toward Harry's chest, to see what kind of shirt he was wearing, but, instead, he realized Harry was watching him, with a grin, his eyebrows furrowed in clear amusement, "What?"

Harry looked away from him, shaking his head with surprised eyes. It was these sort of moments that he couldn't help but look at Draco and see the effeminate qualities that most men had but repressed. He was sitting there, smoothing down his outfit and crossing his one leg over the other to get comfortable—at a funeral. His calve was still pressed against Harry's leg, so he looked back at his friend—yes, yes, Draco was, indeed, his friend, if such a word could exceed the usual definition of a friend—and, he reached out with his hand.

Draco watched Harry drop his entire palm over Draco's own knee. Oh! He sheepishly smiled to himself.

Harry gave Draco's knee a small push, but when he let go, there was no change in position. Only a second or so after he let go, Draco uncrossed his leg, hurriedly, and, in an attempt to gain some sort of control over the situation, as if it had not happened, he drew his spine up completely straight and shimmied more contentedly against the very end of the pew, not daring to look back at Harry. Instead of looking the least bit comfortable, he appeared to be as rigid and discontent as if he were nailed to the side of the pew, himself.

Harry just stared at him, as if he were mad. He leaned in, cautiously, grinning, "What is wrong with you?"

Draco met Harry's eyes, innocently, "What? Oh, oh—nothing."

Harry had caught Draco when he was lost in his own world, and it had been very telling. A show, really! Draco had obviously not wanted Harry to see him while he had been doting over his suit, completely uninterested in what was going on around them. He couldn't blame Draco for not wanting to offend him, but he felt strangely happy, strangely uplifted, because Draco had been so disinterested with the funeral, for that moment in time. There were four people, in that room, who knew who he was—himself, the man sitting to his left, Draco, and Dumbledore. But, Draco, who had obviously been shaken when he had seen Harry's body, now seemed... complacent, as if he hadn't a worry. And, it began to occur to Harry, as he leaned forward, on his knees, listening as Dumbledore began to close the service, that he was perfectly alive and well. He wasn't in his body, but... he was still alive, which was why he had the ability to laugh, and the ability to have been seeing the most silly situations as funny, and sharing those situations with Draco Malfoy—who, too, knew that Harry was sitting right beside him.

Draco gave his full attention to Albus Dumbledore, possibly for the first time ever.

When the service ended, Harry and Draco stayed seated, while everyone else began to leave the church. And, when everyone had finally cleared, the only people left were the Weasleys, Dumbledore, Gregarold Cliffdale, Draco, Harry Potter, and... Harry Potter—one of whom wasn't really present for the situation.

Harry followed Draco up, at last, until he was standing. He felt a tap on his shoulder, so he looked over it.

Gregarold was pointing toward the doors, "I'll be outside."

Harry nodded at him, as he and Draco stepped out from the pew and into the isle. He knew where Draco was going, and he knew he was doing it for Harry's sake. Harry followed him down the couple of rows, where some of the Weasleys were standing and some were sitting. Though, Misses Weasley couldn't seem to decide whether to sit or stand, because she kept alternating, an obvious mess. Harry twitched, behind Draco, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to continue to breathe without crying.

But, when they stopped, awkwardly, Harry saw that Ron was looking them over, though not with malice.

"Draco," greeted a calm, though very quiet, voice from behind.

Draco turned his head to the left, and, between he and Harry, Albus Dumbledore had appeared. And, one hand placed over Draco's right shoulder, and he saw the other hand place over Harry's left shoulder. Draco only nodded at him. He had no disrespect for Albus Dumbledore, not that night. When he had spoken, he had spoken so strongly and, without flaw, of the spirit that was—or had been, always—Harry Potter. He had pegged Harry to a T, and Draco had realized that, yes, Harry had been Dumbledore's favorite pet, but it went much further than that. Growing up, Draco had never realized that the relationship between Dumbledore and Harry was similar to that of a grandchild and grandfather—who, practically, had raised him.

"Judas," Dumbledore then quietly expressed, looking from Draco to Harry.

Harry couldn't speak. He was staring at Ron, but he forced a glance at Dumbledore, and then a head nod.

All of the Weasley's, with the exception of Ron, were glaring daggers at Draco.

Because neither Harry, nor Draco, could seem to speak, both now staring at each other, Dumbledore gave them a light squeeze, together, so their shoulders nudged, nearly painfully. It was Draco who went to open his mouth, with a-nearly indignant huff, but it was Harry who met his eyes, first, and mentally forebode him to make the moment any more suspicious than it might have already seemed if anyone had even the slightest doubt about Draco Malfoy and Judas Cliffdale approaching the Weasleys, "It was nice of you to attend with young mister Malfoy, Judas. I think it is safe to say he appreciates your support."

Harry nodded, immediately, as if what Dumbledore spoke was the complete and honest truth.

Draco's left eyebrow nearly hooked up, skeptically, but he repressed it, and trusted Harry to trust Dumbledore, himself. Wherever Dumbledore was going with this was for more eloquent of an expression than Draco could ever dream up—and, that wasn't saying much, because upon arriving in the midst of the Weasley's cold, hard stares, his mind had gone blank. He, too, nodded with what Dumbledore had said.

"I suppose everyone is still coping with the knowledge of you having had the relationship that you last had with Harry," Dumbledore spoke, in an authority-ridden, yet still sensitive-enough, tone of voice. "I also dare say your relationship with Harry was more complex and deep than many of us could have ever possibly imagined, yes?" Draco glanced at him, nodding very solemnly, because what Dumbledore spoke was the whole truth.

Everyone at Hogwarts had known he and Harry had spent hours of the year going off and hexing each other or beating each other with spells and curses, and, sometimes, fists. The surprise that seemed to follow in the wake was strange, to Draco. What had people expected, that he and Harry wouldn't have talked, or yelled, or learned to know more about each other? It was ill-thought to assume he and Harry couldn't have developed a relationship that no one else could have understood—they were, probably, two of the most pressured, misguided boys their age in their entire world, and both had the same ties and connections to the same people, just in very different ways.

"It took courage for you to come here, Mister Malfoy. I don't doubt that Harry would have thought so, too."

Dumbledore looked between them, and then back to the Weasleys, "Molly, Arthur, what can we do?"

"Oh, nothing, Albus," Arthur Weasley grumbled, rubbing his face with both hands. "Nothing, but thank-you."

"Very well. If you don't mind, I'd like to steal Mister Malfoy and Mister Cliffdale from you. I'm very sad to say, I have my own condolences to express to both of them, as I'm sure you have, Molly, and you, Arthur." Meaning, Judas Cliffdale's mother and brother had been murdered, yet no one had uttered a word to him, though they should have, because he had, supposedly, shown up at Harry's funeral, when his own life was so hectic. And, Draco Malfoy, whose father had gone missing, and whose life was, essentially, in quite the bit of danger.

And, when Arthur and Molly realized what Dumbledore had said, they looked at each other, flushed.

After a few exchanged words, with Harry and Draco still having said nothing, and Dumbledore having said everything without having appeared to dominate the conversation, miraculously, the two walked on either side of Albus Dumbledore, up one of the center isles, toward the doors at the very back of the beautiful cathedral. Whilst Dumbledore said nothing to them, at first, Draco peeked across him to Harry, and Harry peeked back.

When they reached the lobby, it was packed.

Dumbledore, at last, looked between them, with very amused eyes, "Don't trip on your way home."

Harry was the only one of them to squint and respond, "Sir," he quickly murmured, reaching out, with his right hand, to find Draco's arm. He found it, and Draco stood beside him as the crowd packed them in and separated the two from Albus, who they both glanced back at, unbeknownst to the other, both with appreciation. They wanted to leave as fast as possible, and it seemed that Dumbledore had obviously known they were feeling this way, and mostly because Harry was on the verge of a break-down. He had stared into Ron's troubled, listless eyes, and it had hurt. The Weasleys had been his family. They WERE his family, and they were devastated. He was gurgling, and, somehow, instead of leading Draco through the tight crowd, he was being led, his wrist being tightly gripped by another hand.

It was Draco who led them to the exit doors, and Harry who nearly jumped out, tugging Draco along.

They didn't stop moving, and Harry didn't know, exactly, where he was going. But, there were too many people around, and they were taking up his breathing room. He stepped into the flower-bed that lined the walkway to the church. He looked around, noticing that no one had apparated on the church grounds. It seemed that everyone, now, found a more private place to apparate, in case, somehow, prying muggle eyes would see them, which was saying a lot about the state of their world—everyone was paranoid and worried, and having shown up, during the war, at a church, had been fair playing field, and everyone who had attended had, knowingly, put their lives at a huge risk. Attending Harry Potter's funeral had almost been like a fifty-fifty chance of seeing the next day.

Harry reached out and tugged at the back of Draco's suit.

In the dark of the night, Draco turned around, and saw Harry hurrying away, around the side of the church.

A few seconds later, they were standing on the side of the church, shrouded beneath huge, overgrown trees.

Harry turned around from walking. He glanced at Draco.

Draco shifted, but he didn't attempt to say anything. He slid his hands into his pockets, but then pulled them out.

The space between their bodies disappeared, and Harry banged his head down on Draco's shoulder.

Draco shook his head for a small second, smirked, and then clasped the back of the dark head. He smiled to himself, amused that Harry had just done it. He needed someone—anyone. Draco was the only one there for him. He was the only person able to look at Harry, and be there for Harry for who he actually was and what he was going through. A choked sob echoed and vibrated against his shoulder seconds later, as Harry tightly clutched Draco's back, in his obviously struggling hands. And, Draco just rested his cheek against the side of Harry's head, his right hand clutching the other side, tightly. His left arm wrapped around Harry's shoulders, supportively, while Harry's hands tightly clenched together over his shoulder-blades. Draco was an open shoulder, and he always would be.

He always wanted to be. He dropped his mouth right against Harry's ear and squeezed him in a supportively important embrace, "S'all right. It'll be worth it." He hoped.