Secrets and Surprises. Chapter Eleven: Stupidity

Disclaimer: I own NOTHING! JK Rowling is a Goddess and I am nothing but a lowlife.

Warnings: Teenage angst to the max. Slash, eventually (Gee whiz!). I am a whore for hurt and comfort. Potentially triggering content. Not perfect match with the books.

Also: Whoa, two in one night. I must be getting somewhere, here. To my reviewers, much love! I'm sorry for letting you all down with such a long wait.

Draco stifled a groan into his pillow, finally alone for the first time that night. An excruciating feeling twisted about in his belly, more than once making him wonder if he was going to throw up. It was stupid. This whole thing was stupid, and frustrating to no end. Why did he open his mouth? He was sure that Harry hadn't heard, he had checked, after all, but there was always that possibility, wasn't there? Don't be stupid, he mused to himself, you'd feel bad regardless of whether he heard you or not. And where the hell did Harry get off making him feel this way? He didn't feel guilt. Malfoys didn't feel, well, much of anything, really, and so why should a stupid conversation with a stupid Gryffindor make him feel so fucking stupid? And why did he even have to defend himself with Crabbe and Goyle, anyway? Malfoys also did not defend themselves. He shouldn't have to convince them, or himself, that he hated Harry. Draco felt whatever he wanted to feel and others followed him.

So why? Why all this unnecessary angst?

Well, for one, he knew what would happen if he and The Wonder Boy did suddenly become friends. It would get back to his father, and his father would be…displeased. And Malfoy, with a self-conscious touch to his side that was once bruised so badly he hadn't moved for days, knew exactly why he didn't make his father angry.

With a restless toss to his side, Malfoy entered a fitful slumber, falling asleep with a scowl and a muttered phrase: "Goddamned Gryffindors."

What Malfoy didn't know, was that a certain Goddamned Gryffindor was mirroring his own actions, tossing over in crimson bed sheets.

Harry rolled over with a groan, mind wracked with painful emotions that he hadn't felt in days. Shame, guilt, betrayal. Betrayal on so many levels. Malfoy had betrayed him, no surprise in that, right? But he had also betrayed himself, and he had bit back bitter tears as he sat on the toilet seat, wrapping new wound with a strip of gauze.

"Maybe he's finally gotten himself a girl."

Why would Dra—Malfoy even say that? Why would he need to? Why would he go out of his way, once more to ridicule Harry when something as simple as a nod would have sufficed? Malfoy must really hate him. That was it. Harry had been right—they had just come together in a freak incident and now things were back the way they were. But even if he expected it, it wasn't what he'd hoped for at all.

Hope and expectations hardly ever met for him, it seemed.

With that thought, he finally gave way to the emotional exhaustion plaguing him, dreading the next day with a renewed fervor.

Draco knew that Harry had heard his remarks of the previous day as soon as he saw him the next day in the Great Hall. Gone was the aura of restfulness from the dark boy, instead was complete despondence. So Draco had fucked up then. Big deal. It was no big deal.

Oh, God, it was a big deal.

Harry had slumped down into his seat, shoulders hunched, little to say to his hopeful friends. It was like the Boy Who Had Hope had stepped back in time two weeks, and the sudden change seemed to affect everyone around him. The Gryffindor's Golden Boy wasn't smiling, and so, neither was anyone else at the table. Malfoy was beginning to understand some of the things Harry had told him that night—Harry really couldn't have feelings around anyone because in all actuality, he was their only hope.

Just like Draco was Harry's only hope.

Yes, it was a big deal indeed. And Draco couldn't escape the foreign feeling of needing to make it right. Bugger all.

Harry had awaken, had briefly enjoyed that space between awake and asleep, that point where you could almost control your dreams, and was enjoying a particular dream filled with golden fields and golden hair, blue skies and blue eyes. He felt wakefulness tugging at his conscience, knew in his gut that he very much didn't want to go there, and clung to his dream for a second longer before awaking to a familiar feeling of misery.

Oh yes, there was. A dull throbbing near the crook of his arm reminded him all to well of it. Sighing heavily and dragging himself out of bed, he crammed his glasses onto his face, feeling like he hadn't slept at all.

Breakfast was a nightmare, as he had predicted. He shot down Ron and Hermione's welcoming smiles with some sort of a grunt, and effectively ended any sort of conversation that was happening at the Gryffindor table. The mood shifted dramatically, from welcoming, to confused, then into sadness, anger, and finally settled on a depressing silence—one that Harry was sure he had caused.

Damn you people, can't you have your own feelings for a change?

Staring at his plate of plain toast, he was so lost in himself that he almost jumped in to the air at a light, but insistent tapping at his leg. The object in question made a slight fluttering sound, and Harry knew it was a note. (It wasn't all to unfamiliar for friends from different houses to send notes this way—enchant them to run skittering across the floor to the proper recipient) And he had a bad feeling that he knew who it was from.

He faked dropping one of his slices of toast onto the ground and huffed as he bent over, grasping the toast in one hand and shakily unfolding the note with the other.

There, in slanted handwriting, it read:

10:00, Room of Requirement.