CHAPTER TEN

Freeze and Thaw

"The opposite of love is not hate, as many believe, but rather indifference." - Dorothy Corkville Briggs

"Harry," said Hermione haltingly, "what happened?"

Hermione had been simmering with concern and curiosity all through dinner after Harry mentioned his detention – Ron too, though he had pretended to be both deaf and completely absorbed by the treacle tart – but she had thankfully restrained herself from interrogating him in the midst of the busybody Gryffindor ears and those of all his zealous fans. However, she'd been prodding him ever since, unsatisfied by his vague answers.

Harry scowled at the Transfiguration essay he was unsuccessfully trying to complete before detention, which was in ... he checked: twelve minutes. He sighed, then began chewing on his lip. It wasn't going well. He had a headache from obsessing all day long, and even still his mind could only muster two or three minutes of uninterrupted focus on Transfiguration before boomeranging back to a certain blond frustration.

"Harry?" she repeated tentatively.

He looked up at her. "I told you," he said, avoiding glancing over at Ron, who was in turn avoiding glancing over at him, though clearly only pretending not to listen. It was harder to ignore each other now than it had once been, since although he and Ron were on the outs, Harry and Hermione were still speaking and Hermione and Ron were hardly ever apart. Still, they were doggedly trying. "We got in a fist fight, so Slughorn sent us to McGonagall, who let Slughorn decide to give us detention. We're lucky we weren't expelled."

Honestly, it felt odd to be referring to Malfoy and himself as a "we," like some kind of cohesive unit, even now. Especially now.

"But why?" Hermione asked.

"Why what?"

"Why did you get in a fight? I don't understand," she pressed, such an expression of concern on her face that Harry couldn't allow himself to be annoyed with her for pushing him to elaborate on a subject she had to realize he was uncomfortable with. "I thought you two would be beyond this sort of thing this year, considering everything that's happened," she continued, echoing McGonagall, "but now it seems like it's only gotten worse."

Harry sighed again to himself and abandoned the Transfiguration essay as a lost cause.

"Hermione ..." he said, "I don't know what else to say. We were bickering like usual—"

"They were having a near full-on shouting match," Ginny interjected, leaning over Harry's shoulder.

"—so Slughorn sent us into the hallway to calm down," he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "We kept arguing and Malfoy ..." kissed me, out of bloody thin air, for some goddamn, unfathomable reason, Harry's mind filled in. "He ... crossed a line," was what he said out loud. "So I hit him."

Hermione digested this for a moment, frowning slightly. "But what line did he cross? What did he say to make you hit him? You never hit anyone, Harry!"

Harry shifted in his seat and avoided Hermione's eyes.

"Harry ..." she said, "I just get this feeling that you're not—"

Harry stood abruptly. "Ah! Look at the time!" he exclaimed, interrupting her. "I've really got to go. I can't be late."

Hermione gave him a reproving look that said she knew exactly what Harry was doing, but let him go. Harry was almost to the portrait hole, when a hand clasped his shoulder.

"Harry," said Ginny, climbing out after him, "I'll walk with you."

Harry cast her a wary glance, but, knowing that she was unlikely to be dissuaded, didn't say anything. They walked in silence for a moment, Ginny contentedly biding her time and Harry on tenterhooks waiting for her to be out with it.

"So," she said at last, "tell me the uncensored version."

"Er, what?"

She shot him a come-on-Harry-don't-be-daft look. "The uncensored version of what happened with Malfoy earlier. I'm not buying that nonsense that you fed Hermione. I've been watching you two all term, and I was there today, so I know you're leaving out the juiciest bits."

"I didn't lie to her," Harry asserted, mostly in an attempt to deter Ginny long enough to postpone this interrogation, rather than to defend his principles.

"I know, but you didn't give her the full story either, obviously. So come on, out with it!" she demanded.

Harry was torn: he wanted desperately to rant and vent his obsessions to a sympathetic pair of ears, somebody who would hopefully be able to explain to him what had happened and why. Somebody who could rationalize for him a Malfoy who kisses him instead of shredding him with cold eyes and sharp sneers. Ginny was the best and only candidate to be that somebody. Yet what had happened felt extremely, excruciatingly private, like exposing it to anyone would be a complete betrayal of himself and even, oddly enough, Malfoy. It was like a secret they shared, confusion and angst-ridden as it was, and Harry somehow didn't feel liable to reveal it without Malfoy's consent. Or at least until he was more sure of why it had happened, what it might mean, and, just as importantly, what he wanted it to mean. Moreover, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to reveal it yet, Malfoy's permission or not. It was far too raw, too personal and fresh and still smarting.

"I ..." he began. He didn't know what to say.

Ginny took his elbow gently, reminding him with that small gesture of their almost wordless companionship. She looked at him expectantly with her brown eyes, warm like honey on browned toast, and he felt reassured in a quiet, abstract way.

"I can't really talk about it yet," he said.

She looked at him for one more moment, then nodded and turned away. It was a mark of their closeness that she understood him well enough to relent in her pushy quest for details. She didn't force her small reserves of patience into action to conquer – at least momentarily – her consuming curiosity for just anyone. Immeasurably grateful, Harry wound an arm around her waist and hugged her close, letting her resilient, innate Ginny-ness seep into him and cushion him for the three hours of detention ahead. At the same moment that he realized he was shaking with nerves, Ginny took his hand and squeezed it.

All too soon, they were outside of Slughorn's classroom. Harry would see Malfoy already inside, watching him through the open door with a pinched expression. He looked away when he saw Harry looking back at him. Harry's stomach lurched.

"You'll be fine," said Ginny at his queasy expression.

Did Harry imagine it, or did he see her lips quirk as her eyes darted into the classroom, then back to Harry?

"Go on," she said, and then gave him a gentle push toward the classroom. When Harry turned to look after her, she was already halfway down the corridor, long hair the color of rouged lips swishing coquettishly across her back.

Harry faced the classroom and, steeling himself, walked in.

"Ah," said Slughorn, looking up from his desk, "Mr. Potter. You've arrived just in time." As if to dramatize this point, Slughorn's clock struck 8:00 with an authoritative click. "I need to fetch something from my office before we begin. Please wait here with Mr. Malfoy," he directed, gesturing toward the empty seat next to the object of Harry's all-consuming obsession for the last eight hours.

Slughorn left, and they were alone.

Harry lowered himself gingerly into the seat, expecting Malfoy to spit out some snipe about how sweet it was that he was escorted to detention by his girlfriend. The poison for his retort was already pooling on Harry's tongue, but the comment didn't come. Malfoy was silent. In fact, the only noise to stir the silence between them at all was the clicking tick of the clock marking each stubborn minute.

After three such minutes, Harry risked a glance at Malfoy. He was sitting stiffly in his seat, staring straight ahead, pointedly acting as if Harry were not there. He was doing such a thorough job that, if it weren't for the clench of Malfoy's jaw betraying some inner tension, Harry was almost made to feel as if he were wearing his Invisibility Cloak.

He hadn't known what to expect of their detention – how Malfoy would treat him – but after the events of the morning, he certainly hadn't expected to be ignored. It bothered him more than any snide comment would have. Far more.

Slughorn came back then, raising his eyebrows as he entered the room, clearly surprised to find them waiting so quietly and, by all appearances, benevolently.

"All right," he said, setting a bucket down in front of them, "here you go – seeds harvested by Professor Sprout's second-years. Sort them. I'll be in my office. But," he angled his head sternly, "do not make the mistake of thinking I won't know if you're not working. Understand?"

Harry nodded, unsure whether he was up to the task of producing words and deciding not to risk it. Presumably, Malfoy did the same – though since he didn't look to see, Harry couldn't be sure – because Slughorn left the room.

Again, Harry waited for the requisite disdainful remark from Malfoy. "Sorting seeds? This is Squibs' work!" and again he found himself disturbed and oddly disappointed when it didn't come. But surely, Malfoy couldn't keep up this eerie, wholly detached silence now that they shared a task; he'd have to speak and acknowledge Harry.

Neither of them moved for a long moment, not wanting to be the first to do so and not wanting to be responsible for any collision of hands in the process.

Finally – finally – Malfoy spoke. "You pour out half, and I'll take the rest," he directed in a flat voice.

As far as acknowledgements went, the animation was not what Harry could have hoped for. Not even close to the standard he'd come to expect during their history of animosity. There wasn't even a sneered "Potter" to add any sort of personal touch, as if Harry didn't even matter enough to warrant addressing by name anymore.

The hurt was blunt and unexpected. Whatever had been between them, Harry had always thought there'd at least been a thread of respect, a cord of interest that wouldn't allow them to leave each other alone. Now, even that had evidently been severed. When Harry was a legend to the entire wizarding world, why did he care so much more that Draco valued him at nothing? Why did Malfoy's opinion outweigh millions of others, so that the regard of an entire nation became irrelevant? It shouldn't, but it did. Harry had never valued the public's opinion the way others in his position might have, and besides, Malfoy was here and immediate and that made all the difference.

This frigid tolerance – Harry now understood with violent clarity the expression 'cold shoulder' – didn't make any sense, not after what Malfoy had done just hours before. However, sense hardly mattered. When had it ever factored into their relationship? If this was how Malfoy was going to be, there wasn't a lot Harry would bloody well do about it. But it stung. It stung a lot, too much. And it stung even worse because Harry didn't understand why he was letting it sting like this – how he could let it sting like this – even after today. If anything, silent treatment from Malfoy ought to be a blessing. So why wasn't it? Why did it feel like the cruelest of slights?

Harry gritted his teeth and ordered himself not to cry over Draco Malfoy, at least not until he was out of the blond's sight. How pathetic that out of all the interchanges they'd exchanged over the years, the only one that reduced Harry to the point of tears was today's combination of spite, the first action between them to approach something nice, and now this determined impassiveness.

Harry focused on the ticking of the clock and tried to tie his thoughts to it, the mindless to and fro.

They worked in silence for an impossible three hours, at which point Slughorn returned to dismiss them. Harry ached from the stiffness and the throbbing numbness he'd forced his mind into to avoid thinking about anything other than the growing piles of seeds before him.

Afterward, Malfoy strode coolly out of the room without a word to either of them, and Harry couldn't recall him looking at him once.

… & …

Draco slammed his door behind him with a snarl and fell heavily backwards against it, letting his head thump into the wood unrestrained. It made a loud crack and hurt dully, but not as much as the last three hours – no, the whole sodding day – had. A desperate turmoil had been welling inside him all day – the altercation had done nothing to dispel it – and was now spilling over in a mad, dramatic rush in the privacy of his chamber.

He had been stoic all day: not now.

With this thought, he pushed away from the door and strode across his room to his desk with a hot purpose. He snatched up his glass ink well and spun, throwing it against the wall. It shattered, raining sharp glass shards onto the floor, followed by the dark streaks of ink bleeding down from the site of the wound.

It wasn't enough. He growled; he didn't even know he could growl, thought he was more human than that. It wasn't enough either. He balled his fists and yelled wordlessly until he ran out of air, then he swept his arms across the surface of his desk, sending what little clutter there was flying to the floor with a crash. He did the same thing to the surface of his dresser. Then he stood still, panting and feeling as battered as if he had been attacking himself rather than his belongings. Or maybe it was the aching of the bruises Potter's fists had installed on his skin.

With sudden trepidation, Draco remembered his vial. He kept it on his dresser. Had he tossed it off with the rest and destroyed it? No, there it was on his nightstand, where he'd set it last night, too tired to get up to put it back. Thank god.

Draco sagged into his armchair. Vaguely, he realized his face was damp. Bloody hell, how had he let this happen to himself? How could he have let himself become such a mess? Get so carried away?

How could he have let himself kiss Harry sodding Potter?

Of all the stupid things he could have done – slugged Potter first, pulled out his wand, used an Unforgivable ... this was the absolute worst. This was the unthinkable.

That was the problem, wasn't it? He hadn't thought about it, had hardly even realized what he meant to do until he was already doing it. And by then it was too late, even when he came to his senses and shoved Potter away.

The shock in Potter's eyes – that was bad. Potter calling him a bastard – that was worse. Potter attacking him – well, that was good, because all the rest paled in comparison to how fucked in the head Draco was for having done such a thing in the first place, and he'd needed an outlet for his ensuing revulsion and anger and crushing comprehension of just how fucked he was. Trust Potter to give it to him.

Draco rose, agitated again, and began pacing back and forth in front of the low-burning embers in the fireplace.

There was an issue. A big issue. A monumental, impossible, inescapable issue. Not that he hadn't tried. To escape, that is. He'd been skirting around this issue for months, squinting at it, trying to turn his back on it and make it disappear. If you can't see it, it can't see you, right? Wrong.

It was Potter's fault, as usual. Everything traced back to Potter. Draco ought to be used to it by now, he supposed, but there it was. Potter was the issue, and Draco had always been dancing around him, feinting and retreating, not getting too close, never straying too far. And look where it had gotten him.

He should have turned his back on Potter – and thereby avoided this issue from the beginning – years ago on their first train ride to Hogwarts. After all, Malfoys are never turned down; Malfoys vie for no one's attention.

It was time to stop being so passive about this, Draco decided. To stop making excuses. To stop acting like it might take care of itself, just go away quietly. It was time to take action. "What exactly would you call your little hallway stunt, exactly, if not action? asked Draco's daft inner voice. Draco told it to shut up. It was time ... It was time to invite Pansy to visit his room.

… & …

The next day was Saturday, so there were no lessons. Draco spent the day in his room, ostensibly studying but not having much success. In the evening, Slughorn owled him to cancel detention for the night – just this once, he emphasized – because he felt ill.

All day, Draco had done his best to distract his thoughts of Potter with more suitable thoughts. He replayed his interactions with Pansy, her overtures of flirtation and his compliant reciprocations. He searched for warmth in the memory of every touch, the sense of comfort derived from sharing surfaces of skin with another human being. He justified the low tally of such instances he was able to recall by affirming that his heart had never been in it, not really. But that could change.

At dinner, he let Pansy sit too close to him instead of shifting pointedly away. He tried to appreciate the warmth of sharing his space with another person, her body side by side to his along all contours. He wondered why that appreciation came so instinctively in Potions class and so reluctantly now, and told himself it was because more people were watching here and he wasn't much of an exhibitionist. He withstood Pansy's incessant, irrepressible chatter without making any snarky comments. He focused all his attention onto her until she glowed, and willed himself not to glance over toward the Gryffindor table. Not even once. Okay, maybe once, but there was no staring tonight, brooding or ... otherwise. When Pansy's hand landed on his thigh under the table – god, she was easily encouraged – he managed to keep from jumping. She'd startled him, that was all.

"So," she said, as the main courses disappeared and were replaced by deserts, "what gives, Draco?"

"What do you mean?" Draco asked, helping himself to a lemon tart.

"I mean, you're in such a good mood. Something must have happened."

Draco scoffed wryly. "Really, Pansy, I'm not."

"Well you're not scowling, beating your silverware, ignoring us, or trying to glare Potter into an early grave," Pansy pointed out. "For you, that's pretty much the equivalent of dancing on tables and handing out flowers."

Draco wasn't about to get into the reality of his current mental and emotional state with Pansy, so he shrugged.

Not wanting to look into Pansy's face, flushed unattractively with the efforts of flirtation and the excitement that it was, tonight, ostensibly working, Draco turned his eyes across the table. The view there was hardly an improvement. Goyle had two slices of cake, two pastries, and a cookie balanced on his plate and was somehow endeavoring to eat them all at once.

Draco took a small bite of his tart. "God, I love lemon pie," he said around his mouthful, to change the subject. Not up to his usual par of subtlety, but then, he was under pressure.

"It's kind of like you, isn't it?" said Pansy, licking the finger she'd used to clean the lemon residue of her own tart from her plate. "Bittersweet, I mean."

God, that was actually halfway perceptive, Draco thought. That is, until she continued.

"I like it, too. It's delicious," she purred, lowering her eyelashes and staring blatantly at the bite of lemon tart that was passing between Draco's lips at that moment. His mouth being the object of her objectification.

Draco closed his mouth around the spoon and swallowed quickly, then returned the spoon to his plate and pushed it away.

"Not going to finish that?" Goyle asked, ogling the half-finished pie lustily.

"No," said Draco.

"I'm not going to finish mine, either," said Pansy, pushing her plate toward Goyle as well and smiling sideways at Draco as if they were conspirators.

Draco resisted pointing out that as the piece on her plate was her second, it was hardly the same sentiment. She would certainly take it as a jab at her unproblematic weight, and although Draco wouldn't normally care whether or not Pansy projected her petty insecurities onto perfectly banal statements, tonight having her in a tizzy with him would be counterproductive. So instead, he rewarded her with a slow reciprocating smile, even – agh, how he had fallen – batting his lashes low over his eyes. At least it had the intended effect. Pansy flushed deeply and looked quite pleased with herself.

"So, want to come back to the common room tonight?" she offered as usual, with only a slight extra layer of expectancy. She was a Slytherin, after all; she did have an ounce or two of realism in her.

"Actually," began Draco. He paused to clear his throat and glance at Goyle, who, now finished eating, appeared to be listening attentively. Draco lowered his voice. "I was wondering if you wanted to come back to my room tonight."

Pansy's eyes lit up. She, too, glanced at Goyle, so Draco added in an undertone, "Just you." The light in her eyes doubled and the curl of her lips was wicked and decidedly Slytherin.

Then her eyes narrowed. "You're not drunk, are you?" she accused. Draco was truly taken aback by this. Apparently visibly so, for Pansy elaborated self-defensively, "Sorry, it would just explain your ... friendliness."

"Honestly, Pansy." He tried to laugh, but it sounded too fake and strange so he stopped immediately. "I'm not drunk. Just tired of going back to my room alone."

"Oh," she purred, placated. "Well, there's no need for that..."

Draco rather thought there was, but as he knew their reasoning followed very different definitions of 'need,' he didn't argue. Instead, he stood up and Pansy followed suit.

Goyle watched them, confusion darkening his features. Draco didn't doubt he understood what their joint departure implied – he knew Goyle wasn't quite that thick – but rather suspected Goyle was recalling several conversations they'd had in which Draco had expressed exasperation with Pansy's not-to-be-deterred attentions.

"We're just going to ... ah ... check out a book from the library," Pansy offered as cover.

Draco rolled his eyes. "That was unnecessary," he told Pansy as they exited the hall. "He knows where we're going."

"Yeah, well," protested Pansy, "anyone could have been listening. You said you couldn't afford trouble this year; I was only watching out for you, Draco," she simpered.

That had been a convenient excuse rather than a legitimate concern. Draco didn't think there was really any rule against having female company in his room, especially as he was an eighth-year and living in already rampantly exceptional circumstances. He didn't mention this to Pansy, though. It certainly wouldn't hurt to have her being discreet.

"Malkin's," he requested of the aristocratic lady when they reached the stretch of wall where her portrait hung.

"Malkin's?" Pansy repeated as she followed him inside. "That's a weird password. Did you choose it?"

Draco hummed silently in the back of his throat in discomfort. "Yes ... after all, you know how I love handmade clothing, and her robes are simply the best," he lied. Actually, he did adore Madam Malkin's wares and handiwork; it just wasn't the reason behind his password choice.

"Are you sure it's not because you have a little crush?" she teased, wandering into the room ahead of Draco and beginning to inspect it.

"What?" Draco's voice came out off-pitch. "A crush? On who?"

Pansy paused her exploration to give him an odd look. "Madam Malkin," she said. "God, Draco, I was just kidding. Relax, will you? It's not as if I really think you fancy her..." She trailed off, squinting in a manner that was probably meant to be suggestive, or even seductive, but really just made her look like the sun was in her eyes.

Draco did relax, arranging himself to lean cavalierly against the closed door while Pansy continued her circuit of his room. She finished her loop and came to stand in front of him.

"Well, it's not very homey," she said in verdict, "or luxurious."

"Privacy's a luxury," Draco pointed out.

"If you say so. But you can't always be alone," Pansy chided. "Sometimes you have to let people in," her tone dipped suggestively, "unless you want to become a shriveled," she stepped closer, "horny," another step, "old hermit."

She was standing almost chest to chest with him now, angling her own chest up toward his face to best attract his attention. He glanced at the ballooning flesh and then at her face and couldn't decide which was the lesser of two evils. He settled on her face. Undesirable as it was, it didn't make him quite as uncomfortable.

"Well I don't think—" Draco began to protest, but he was cut off when Pansy abruptly threw her arms around his neck and proceeded to descend upon his mouth with her over-wide lips as if she'd like to swallow it off his face.

"Hmph," Draco gargled in surprise.

He'd vaguely realized that this occurrence – them snogging – would be a likely result of bringing Pansy back to his room (theoretically, that was the idea) but he hadn't really considered the reality of an aroused, advancing Pansy.

It was a distasteful reality. Pansy was too eager – slipping her tongue between Draco's parted lips before he could gather himself enough to think to close them. She was pressing her body closer to his while simultaneously pulling him closer to her. Their bodies were poorly aligned for such proximity, so it was all hipbones and discomfort. Her hands clutched at his cheeks, pulling his skin taut in an exuberant, ungentle manner that pinched. Draco tried to relax into her ministrations, had ideas about kissing her back, even, but the mingling of their mouths was making awful slurping sounds that made him think they were doing nothing more sensual than exchanging drool. He almost gagged.

What's wrong with me? he wondered, with an accompanying clench of oncoming tears seizing his throat.

He took Pansy by the waist and pushed her away. He tried to push somewhat gently – her being a girl and therefore warranting somewhat more care than when shoving away someone more sturdy like, say, Potter – but he was more concerned with just getting her away, so he was more brusque than he meant to be.

"Draco, what is it?" Pansy's eyes were swirling and unfocused, like tops spinning in her head. Draco couldn't look at them, so he turned his face away. "Do you want to move somewhere more comfortable?" she suggested.

"No!" he barked. "I want you to go now," he said more quietly.

"Go?" she echoed. He still wasn't looking at her, but he could picture her face: indignant, dramatic, flushed.

"Please," he pleaded, in a rare display of supplication. "Just, please, go." He hung his head and braced a hand across his eyes.

"Fine," Pansy huffed. "But don't think you can treat me like this and expect –"

"Go!" he begged, unable to listen to Pansy rant about self-respect she'd abandon the moment he renewed his interest. Not that that would ever be happening again.

For a moment, he thought she would refuse, because she didn't move, but then she slipped roughly past him and out the door without another word.

Draco staggered to the bed and sat down on the edge, touching tentative fingertips to his swollen mouth. His eyes felt too large for their sockets with the pressure of unshed tears, and his head cramped.

He decided there was no point in holding back tears now, when he'd lost all his dignity, so he lay back on the bed and let them come streaming down his cheeks.

His plan had thoroughly backfired. Instead of proving that his issue with Potter was a fit of mania, a fluke, he had proved the opposite.

He had told himself for years that the reason he held himself off from Pansy – from dating in general – was because he was above the dithering behavior of crushes. But the real reason, he knew, deep down in a part of himself he kept locked at all costs, was that he was hoping that if he refrained from fancying anyone, there would be no worry of fancying ... the wrong ones. He didn't dally with anyone because he knew the moment he did he wouldn't be able to lie to himself anymore. It had been a matter of denying and delaying the inevitable.

He had broken that rule tonight, out of desperation to be proven wrong. Now he wished he hadn't taken the risk. He also wished he didn't always have to be so right all the time. Why couldn't he be mistaken, just every so often? When it was important?

Draco reached for a pillow and hugged it to him. Here he was, alone with the sick truth: girls were a sexual repulsion to him. He could try to pass it off as a Pansy problem, but the truth was that there was more to it than her disgraceful kissing ability. No, something between them had been wrong on the most basic, chemical level. He could taste it in her saliva and his own revulsion.

Draco buried his wet face in the generous softness of his pillow and let it absorb the moaning whimpers of his sobs, embarrassed by such weakness even when he was well and truly alone. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried like this. Maybe never. It almost felt good. He'd always been in complete control of his own self, if nothing else, but it was almost reassuring to know that in the loss of that self-control he had sunk to his most vulnerable openness. There was comfort in knowing he could let the truth in now and it couldn't do any more damage than he'd already done to himself.

There was no use fighting it anymore; he was too weak to ward it off anyway. So he let it in, let it slip inside him and curl up and start making itself at home. He was acutely aware of its distinct and disconcerting foreignness, and suspected he would be for a while, but it was curiously relaxing, this hollow acceptance. This letting his true self take control. He'd been at it for so long that he'd stopped being aware of how much energy it took to keep himself repressed to the point of constant composure, how stiff it made him.

There would be hell to grapple with when he woke up, he knew, but for now Draco snuggled under the covers, squeezed the pillow to his body, and allowed himself to wish it were another person holding him close, fitting supplely along every contour of his body. A messy-haired, lithe-bodied, magnetic-eyed person.

The ponce he'd been keeping securely bound and gagged in his mind, for the most part, freed itself under his lax supervision. It removed the gag from its mouth and whispered: "You have a crush on Harry Potter," and instead of telling it to shut up, instead of locking it back up in the recesses of his consciousness, Draco replied – very softly and only within his mind – "I know."