Chapter 13

The Surprising Story of Sir Carisius Malfoy

There was something roiling inside Harry as he and Draco scaled the steep camber of the hill. It began the moment they prepared for the outing: collecting a basket, a blanket and pinching food from the kitchen. It was the whole romance of the idea.

As they walked it seemed a benign activity but Harry could not help the sinister giddy shivers and the odd smile on his face. It was the holidays, it was summer, his plan was working almost perfectly, Draco was nearly pliant enough and he was picnicking with him. What more could Harry ask for? And who said two boys could not have an innocent picnic?

"It gets way scarier at night," Draco said to him as they reached level ground and faced the woods at last.

"I can imagine," Harry replied.

They wandered through the trees until they found a large clearing surrounded by trees which let through the perfect amount of sunlight – not uncomfortably hot and blinding and not to shady. A long log fell diagonally across the forest floor. So perfect was the spot Harry suspected it was not the first time Draco had found it.

"Come with Blaise here often?"

Draco read Harry's tone correctly, if his sideway glance he paid Harry was anything to go by. But why was it inelegant for him to use the same space with Harry as he did Zabini?

"Sure," said Draco. He dropped the basket and unfolded a portion of the blanket on top of the log so they could recline against it as though it were a pillow. They sat.

"Nice spot," Harry noted. "Perfect spot."

Draco blinked very rapidly as he began picking out the food from the basket and placing them between him and Harry. He began buttering a fresh bun before spreading some blackberry jam (he had chosen it over caviar which he said was "utterly hideous"). He put one on a plate which he offered to Harry along with a tall glass of golden cider poured from a miniature wooden barrel which the elves had shrunk and filled for them. Harry took a sip of the cider, which he admitted tasted wildly better than butter beer.

After preparing his own snack Draco slipped down onto his back, reclined against the log and bit into his bun as he stared up into the bright blue sky.

"Looks like a great day for brooming," he remarked.

"Yeah," Harry replied, choosing to remain seated. While he wore the very same clothes he had yesterday, Malfoy had changed into a sheer bluish-grey t-shirt, black slacks and black dragon-hide slip-ons. He looked fitted head-to-toe to grab a mullet and a horse and take on a game of polo; hence was Harry's slight repulsion. Had Malfoy gelled his hair back it would have completed a very unappealing picture.

There was sudden movement at the corner of Harry's eye. When he turned over he spotted a large, brown hare sniffing and shuffling upon the ground, coming towards them slowly.

"Oh don't scare him," Draco said with excitement when he caught sight of it. He began making noises to attract the creature and waved a brioche he found in the picnic basket at it. The hare dared to venture another step nearer.

"It's a mountain hare," Draco told Harry, who stared at the creature as it stopped right before the blanket, refusing to come nearer. When Draco threw the brioche at it the hare blitzed out of the way, looked around inattentively, its nose wriggled before it crept towards the brioche, grabbed it and hopped away.

"Very cute," Draco said with a small laugh.

"Very brave," Harry said in a pleasantly surprised way.

"I remember Blaise and I trying to kill one." Draco reached for another brioche, buttered it and tore off a piece, popping it into his mouth.

Harry stared at the Slytherin. He was more incredulous at how casually Draco shared the anecdote. "I suppose it was part of some game."

"Too right you are, Harry."

"Who won at the end? I'm afraid to ask."

"The hare – we didn't manage to kill it with the Killing Curse."

"I imagine why," Harry drawled. "Thought you'd be cute aspiring Slytherins only to be disappointed – fortunately for the poor animal."

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "We didn't know you had to, like, search deep inside for that thing that makes the spell come about. I think had we played for a couple of more hours with our frustration growing we would've managed."

Harry squinted down at Draco. "What does that mean? Do you have to really want the thing dead?"

"Something like that. I don't understand it either. You need to want that thing dead like you know nothing else. The closest I can describe it is an intense desire to kill – just like torture with the Cruciatus Curse. The Unforgivables, they all work the same: you need an expressly intense emotion behind them. Only few children can conjure it, let alone two giggling eight-year-olds who think it's a game. I mean, adults have a hard time with it as well."

Harry looked away and chewed on his bun, lost in deep thought. The flash of green he vaguely recalled when he was only a year old... The flash of green vividly remembered in his vision the previous year, the target of which was an old man intruding upon an ancient manor... The flash of green flying upon him as Voldemort sought to destroy him in front of his Death Eaters... In those two latter instances the emotion indeed had been intense – conjured swiftly in enormous amounts, like a tsunami.

A cruel intention, a cruel, amused sort of desire, as though killing would bring about entertainment... He had not felt Wormtail's emotions as he killed Cedric but he had felt those of Voldemort, and they were intense, swift and raw. Easy to surge and pulsed white-hot. They were, in essence, efficient. That was the extent of the usefulness of emotions for Voldemort, Harry thought, a man who had no other use for them.

"I'm sure when you were sorted into Slytherin you all were ecstatic," he drawled.

"Quite," sighed Draco, who either missed or chose to miss Harry's sarcastic tone.

Harry threw his last bit of brioche into his mouth and washed it down before getting Draco's attention suddenly. Draco turned squarely to him, at which point he recoiled.

"Harry, what's wrong with your hands? And your forehead?"

"What?" Harry asked quickly, looking down at his hands, answering himself: they were entirely grey. He had noticed the sickening colour had progressed further down his fingers on both hands during his bath earlier, but it had not covered his hands right up to his wrists. His toes had began turning as well (all of which he had tried to wash off with extraordinary effort). Draco reared onto his haunches and touched a finger to Harry's forehead near his hairline.

"Harry, what's happening to you?" he half whispered.

"I don't know what it is but look-"

"Look here!" Draco screeched before rubbing his hands together in discomfort and pulled his nose at Harry's neck. Harry's greyed hand flew to his neck and felt nothing strange.

"It turned too?"

Draco nodded vigorously.

His neck was certainly the latest casualty to the invasion of the gangrenous grey. It seemed bent on covering the whole of his body. Harry felt sick. He did not know what was wrong with him. He felt dirty in front of an ever-pristine Draco, and he was terrified beyond his wits.

"It started happening a while ago," he pointed out feebly, rubbing at his hands and underneath his hairline as though trying to nurse a rash.

"Harry, you're not healthy – those look serious," Draco said solemnly.

"Fuggedabuddit," said Harry, who felt that what he was about to say was more important. "Look, Draco, Blaise is going to do something really terrible to you."

The frown on Draco's forehead remained but Harry was sure it was more of befuddlement than disgust.

"What are you talking about, Potter?" Draco said. However, his nostrils were still flared in discomfited and unapologetic revulsion.

"Things are okay between us, right?" Harry asked.

"Er, yeah, sure."

"So you'll believe me if I said Blaise was going to hurt you?"

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. His friends, maybe? In Slytherin? They'd be egging him on?"

"What would he do to me?"

Harry braced himself. "He kills you."

"Is this some kind of sick joke of yours?"

"No it isn't," Harry replied feebly.

"Then what is this?" There flared a small flash of anger in Draco's glowing silver orbs.

"It's the truth," Harry sighed in defeat. "Draco, I come from the future-"

"Merlin, help me..."

And it was not any less painfully cringe-worthy the more times Harry said it.

"-No it's true! I come from the future because I have this!" For the second time Harry brandished his Time-Turner from his pocket, dangling it on its fine, delicate chain in front of a pair of narrowed grey eyes.

"What the hell? I could have made that too."

"I stole this from the Ministry of Magic in the Department of Mysteries! Remember I said I snuck into the Time Room or whatever its name is? This is what I stole."

"Potter, what the fuck is this?" Draco leapt to his feet. "We were enjoying a nice picnic, you forced yourself into being my friend, and now you do this! Accusing my real friend of murdering me?"

Harry sighed dejectedly in front of a raging Draco. "Now is not the time either, I guess." He turned the hourglasses.

"Harry, you're not healthy – those look serious."

"Fuggedabuddit," Harry replied. "Your father hasn't been around a lot."

Draco, quite correctly, cocked his head sideways, as the way Harry demanded his attention suggested the change of topic was to be serious, not random. "You can imagine he's been busy."

Reclining onto the blanket, Harry snorted, "I can."

"You know, there're two kinds of portraits at the manor," Draco said conversationally. It was the first time he had struck such a tone with Harry since he arrived. Harry appreciated it, despite his epic failure to convince him which had forced him to turn back the hourglasses again. "There're—Potter, it's getting worse! I saw it move down!" Draco was pointing at Harry's forehead, down which presumably the grey tinge had crept.

The feeling of something crawling on his skin heightened, but Harry remained calm and faced Draco squarely and attentively. "Go on," he said with pride. He felt very dirty, dirtier in front of Draco's pale, pure complexion, but he had to pretend otherwise.

Draco tried to swallow away the disgust in his face for Harry's sake, succeeding somewhat. "There are two kinds of portraits, like I said. The ones in the Great Hall are... let's say, warmly detached from the family because they think we're tarnishing the name of Malfoy by affiliating ourselves with the Dark Lord. They don't mind the practice of the Dark Arts per se, just the possible political and social consequences of being in cahoots with the enemy of humanity, right?"

"Understandable," Harry said softly. He still felt stung by Draco's disgust. It was justified but it still hurt. He could not stand himself any longer.

"Okay, maybe I should just show you. Wanna cut this picnic short?"

Harry was grateful for the distraction. "Please," he said as he without prompt hauled himself to his feet. He was certainly for the premature end to the outing, having been put off by both himself and Draco's stupidity in not believing him. He was almost beginning to feel it was a hopeless case and Draco deserved his death for being so thick not to heed his words.

They packed up, rolled up the blanket, Harry grabbed his Cloak and they headed out of the woods and back to the manor. They wound up in the massive library, above the threshold of which hung a small carved signage reading "Library of Malfoy".

It was almost a third the size of the Hogwarts library. Rows upon rows of books stretched from one end of the room to the other like tightly packed matchsticks. And the slight variations in shades of brown and scarlet and green from afar gave the patchy appearance of a solid brick wall.

"The other kind is the kind that still talks to us. They're more forgiving and make for far better conversationalists."

Light came from the candles which lined the walls of the library, casting a soft, romantic glow upon the room.

"This would be the perfect spot for people to make out," Harry noted as they browsed book spines in the last few rows at the back.

"You're starting with your gay thing again, eh?" Draco deadpanned. "If I didn't know any better I'd say you wanted us to make out right now."

"What if I did?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"There's no shame in desiring the forbidden fruit of deeper affection between two unapologetically boyish boys."

Harry and Draco turned around and peered up at the portrait of a very old wizard with long, pure-white hair going down his back, an equally long beard flowing down his front and tied with a silver chain, and yellow, piercing eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses.

"I beg your pardon, Sir Carisius?" Draco gasped, whereupon the portrait frowned disapprovingly down at him.

"Did you say it's okay if Draco and I shagged until we fogged up the windows in here?" Harry asked, shocked. He thought Malfoy Manor would be the last place he would find a portrait which supported anything vaguely homosexual, considering what Draco had told him about the hate purebloods held for people like that, citing admittedly understandable reasons.

"Potter!" Draco shrieked, pale cheeks gone raging scarlet in embarrassment. "I can't believe you said that! I'm gonna have to scrub my ears out, you sick human being!"

The occupant of a portrait on the right of that of Sir Carisius, a much younger-looking man with similarly pushed-back darker hair, an anchor-style beard and very pointed ears, seemed close to having a stroke.

"I'm sure Carisius was not suggesting it was all right to part with one's inhibitions and do something so crude," he gasped shakily.

Sir Carisius' exercise of patience with the two boys seemed to pain him immensely. "And I was not. Thank you, Withycombe. I remember a time when your protests, dear Draco, would have been suspected as protesting too much. See, our days were those of what they used to call 'grooming' schools—or more subtly, 'stay-away' schools. That was of course before the Koolle Park Revolution and a fairly large portion of the noble class felt forced for their own survival to take their children to public schools such as Hogwarts, Durmstrang and Beauxbaton."

"Sir Carisius, I feel betrayed by you – I've never heard of this before," Draco accused, raising Harry's eyebrows. Harry had a sudden flashback of poem recitals at his Muggle schools.

The portrait on the left of Sir Carisius raised an eyebrow but apparently thought himself above correcting anybody and was content in remaining in unimpressed, condescending silence. This was more like the Malfoys, Harry observed shrewdly.

"Oh, my dear beloved Draconis-"

"It's Draco, for the seventh-hundredth time," the Slytherin hissed.

"You know your old uncle passed his prime half a millennium ago; suffice it to say I'm excused."

Harry realized something quite disturbing: the relationship between Draco and this Sir Carisius Malfoy almost seemed to be like his and Dumbledore's before. But for some reason his instincts screamed against the idea of his and Draco's sameness. Had he not stopped judging Draco for being a Malfoy and a Slytherin? For being that trouble-making git who made it his school life's mission to get him and his friends in trouble?

"But allow me," Sir Carisius continued, licking his lips. "I remember at my old grooming school – which I'm fairly certain no longer exists – how sexual escapades were the currency, and everyone knew that everyone had someone they frothed with."

"Frothed with?" Draco said with a mixture of bafflement and revulsion.

Harry was just as confused as Draco. He had a sudden vision of a bevy of boys smashing together their glasses brimming with frothing butter beer. But that had nothing to do with sex.

Sir Carisius raised a white, wispy eyebrow. "My boy, are you sure you have lived?" he asked in a rather patronizing way. "Yes, frothing. It was what we called the carnal activities between boys whereby they caressed and moved upon one another until they reached climax. More common was frothing of course, for in thigh sex there needed to be a passive partner between whose thighs the other boy would rub himself. That seemed to bestow upon the passive partner female qualities, which was not the point of the exercise. It was only fair both parties get what they wished to from the engagement at the same time, in the same way, free of damage to one's masculinity."

Draco and Harry stood in front of the Malfoy portrait, mouths hanging open, eyes glazed over as astonishing visions washed over them of the routinization and institutionalization of homosexual activities which existed in times which no longer were. So, Harry thought with a certain amount of glorious satisfaction, the Wizarding world had no right to find homosexual persons suspect. The nobility had no right to be indignant at their existence and potential to endanger the survival of pureblood. They had been doing before. They might have even invented it!

"We grew out of it naturally," Sir Carisius sighed as he looked into the distance. Still, Harry thought defiantly. "We had to – we had families to seek."

Draco seemed not to believe he was having this conversation with a deceased family member. "I didn't know…"

"You wouldn't," Sir Carisius grumbled. "No one would speak of it at their homes. It was only confined to our dormitories. I wonder if those same things happen in the dormitories of public schools today..."

"If they do I don't know about them. And they certainly don't happen at Hogwarts," Draco declared defensively.

Harry quickly turned to him. "You mean in your dormitory, which only has five Slytherins? You don't know what happens in the others, let alone in the ones of the other years, or the other houses."

"Are you suggesting these sort of depraved things happen in the dungeons?" Draco charged, swelling up.

"I'm saying people are people and these things happen everywhere there are people," Harry replied coolly. "Homosexuals are people."

"Why do you keep thinking you have to defend these animals-?"

"Do excuse yourself, Young Draco," Sir Carisius warned with a nervous cough.

"-I never heard you were a raging gay at Hogwarts. Oh but of course you're the saviour of the people. Being a raging pillow-biter is but a minor detail we can all overlook if you're going to save our lives."

"What is the Koolle Park Revolution, Sir Carisius?" Harry asked, dismissing the other boy, quietly seething.

"I was going to ask that first!" snapped Draco.

"Go ahead and ask then." Harry relished the sneering facial expression on Draco as he turned and asked the portrait same question. He was sure Draco was feeling stupid for it.

"Ah, the Revolution of the New Order. Well in short, it is the reason you attend Hogwarts School, Draco, being a son from a noble and ancient family." Harry rather thought the portrait was ladling these affectionate names at the height of Draco's anger on purpose; he saw with the corner of his eye Draco's nostrils flare. "The plebeians felt the nobility were enjoying far too many luxuries and privileges afforded by the Ministry, Wizengamot and some even claimed the International Confederation of Wizards, but I rather find that a stretch of the imagination. So the self-appointed leaders of the lower classes-"

"Which were usually incapable of uniting together so solidly, let alone fashion leaders democratically – hence everyone was caught on the back foot," interjected Withycombe.

"That's right," noted Sir Carisius. "These leaders saw it just to demand the Ministry distance itself from the nobility, cease granting them seats on the Wizengamot purely on grounds of their blood and wealth, and cease to reserve high positions in the Ministry of Magic for them in the stead of qualified individuals..."

"Sounds familiar," Harry muttered.

"...The plebs were generally fed up with the nobility. They hated that their futures were always guaranteed, and that they had made the government the Upper House of the Noble Diet. They wanted to see them at their level, to reject this image created of them that they were inherently better, with their pale skins, expensive attire, and crisp, clipped speech. Everything about us to them was repulsive. They wanted to see us taken down a notch—several notches. So they began revolting: they stormed the estate of one of the most famous aristocrats by then: the Xanders.

"The family through several generations owned a handful of publishing houses and thereby retained a monopoly, and they had a good foot in the Wizengamot as well. Koolle Park, the area which comprised the estate, was destroyed and the last of the Xanders fled to France. There were attempts at storming other manor houses of the nobles. Few of those succeeded. But the damage was already done, the message was already conveyed, the symbol was already carved from the debris of Koolle Park: the time of the few privileged elite in the sun was over.

"After the politics in the aftermath thrashed out new policies and spawned dangerously libertarian discourses, after labour unions began springing up and bureaucratic hierarchies formally established, things died down. Now basically the nobility were at the mercy of the masses, and they saw it prudent to seem to want to be nearer the masses. So they sent their children to Hogwarts and Durmstrang and Beauxbaton. The grooming schools were done away with, and in less than two decades they disappeared altogether. So at the base of it, it was the masses being jealous of our stature."

"And you don't think they were right in doing what they did?" Harry asked hotly, a fire in his eyes. "I mean, isn't it wrong for people to influence laws and policies the Wizengamot introduced simply because they have money? And I'm sure those laws benefitted only them. "

"It had always been that way – government lied in bed with big money. There was no need to rattle the status quo. We would've taken care of the plebs as we did the half millennium before that."

Harry changed his opinion of Sir Carisius swiftly. The portrait had endeared himself to him with the warm terms of endearment with which he addressed Draco and his acceptance of homosexual people. But now he discovered Sir Carisius was just as stuck-up as he thought the Malfoy family were in the first place.

"So allow me to get this straight," Draco began, blinking rapidly. "You are for gays?"

"Those words never passed my lips, dear Draco," Sir Carisius argued. "There is a time and place for such activities. It seems cuter between two young boys, but between grown men it does make one's stomach churn slightly. I was never a fan of those... flamboyant types as well."

"Oh so you're not against straight-acting boys being together but you are against the more... er... girly ones?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Not to sound so crass but yes, positively," Sir Carisius answered. Harry snorted his disbelief, at which the portrait frowned. "My boy, it's simply not proper the way they act. It's against nature."

"Acting straight doesn't make them any less... ga1y," Harry educated the portrait. "I could be a raging pillow-biter as Malfoy said and still go to Quidditch practice."

Draco turned swiftly to Harry. "Potter, you're not saying I was right, are-?"

"I'm not. I just don't understand the twisted logic of the people of this house, dead ones too," Harry added with a glare at the portrait.

"Could've fooled me with your never-ending innuendos."

"I was doing those to piss you off deliberately. As if I'd want to fuck your pale arse."

Draco had no words for these. He subsided in shocked, scarlet-faced silence. This was before he said, "You wouldn't know how to in the first place."

"You wanna teach me?"

"Fuckin' hell, that's it. I'm outta here," Draco said, heading towards the front of the library but not without a small smirk on his thin lips.

"Have fun, boys!" came the shout from behind them.

"Tell me what a mo'strip is."

"Information doesn't come free, Harry."

"Since when? Last time I checked information was public knowledge. It doesn't belong to the elite anymore."

They were back in Draco's room. Harry was lying on the bed with his head hanging down its side as he stared upside-down at Draco, who had his feet on his escritoire and had been paging randomly through his book before raising his eyebrows and turning partially to Harry.

"You know a little more than you let on."

"Let's say I've sort of heard this story before. The Wizarding world and Muggle world aren't so different. They aren't," he emphasized after Draco snorted sceptically.

"Well on my terms it isn't free then."

"Then what do you want?"

"Information for information."

"Okay. Fine."

"Do you fancy me?"

Harry laughed. "Draco, that's the question? Don't be ridiculous! What'd make you think of something like that? I told you I was saying those things just to yank your chain."

"There's truth in jest, Harry," Draco said quietly as he paged through his book.

"You don't honestly think I'm into you, do you? I'm straight."

"Would you fancy me?"

"Why would I? I'm straight."

"Something tells me you're protesting too much."

"I don't give a fuck. I'm straight. You can't try and bend the truth."

"You've been staring me at a few times."

"So have you!"

"Fine. So we both fancy each other."

"Pfft! I know I don't! What's all this? D'you now feel validated by your uncle Sir Carisius?"

Draco laughed but his face shut off quickly. He turned his back to Harry and continued paging through the book. "He's not my uncle."

"You still haven't told me what a mo'strip is."

"It's a booklet you buy full of drawn characters – the good ones pitted against evil ones usually. They make for cheap entertainment."

"Oh like comic books? Never mind. Yeah, the Muggle world has those too. I told you, you don't have many differences with them... So what's Netrogy then...? Draco, come on, you can't be angry…"

"What? I'm not angry."

"You're sulking."

"Malfoys don't sulk."

"Lord, help me..."

"Let me find it, the book will explain it better than I can," Draco said dispassionately. Several moments later after perusing the book he began to read: "'Netrogy is the capacity of a wizard to manipulate Universal Magic to produce a spell that remains active indefinitely. The wizard's R. E. N., that force which allows the wizard to perform magic and which binds the core of his magic to his blood, concentrates and fixes Universal Magic to the issued magical energy of the wizard, the latter of which contains the nature of the spell. Because Universal Magic is used to form the issued spell, it can last forever.'"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hang on a minute," Harry protested. He rose from the bed and sat upright. Draco turned to him. "Let me try and work through this stuff. What's R. E .N. then?"

Malfoy looked unimpressed. "It just said R. E. N. is-"

"I want you to explain it in your words own."

"You mean dumbed down?"

"Yeah," Harry said shamelessly.

"I can't explain it any simpler than they did in the book. R. E. N. is the force – that means it's invisible and merely a concept that wizards use to understand things, it's not physical-"

"But how can it exist if it's not physical?"

"Let me explain, you dumbass!" Draco snapped. "R. E. N. is like your internal energy. It's short for resident elemental Netrogy. You have it by merely existing-"

"Do Muggle-borns have it?"

Draco scrunched his eyes shut. "Potter, if you interrupt me one more time I'll stop explaining this to you and kick you out of the house. You can go back to the "Burrow" or whatever rat's sewage you come from."

"Go ahead."

Draco huffed. "They don't have it but because they're in an environment with so much magical energy they get their own R. E. N. gradually. Hogwarts is a breeding ground of wizards and witches for Mudbloods. Otherwise they'd be hopeless. Then again, many large buildings are centres of huge magical energy. So for all intents and purposes, yes – Mudbloods have R. E. N."

"I thought we agreed you weren't going to call them that."

"It's funny how one can't bank on a Slytherin."

"You know, I think you Slytherins just force your perceptions onto yourself. It's like you've internalized what the other Houses think of you. It's a shame-"

"Do you understand R. E. N. now? Good. Leave me to my book."

"As if you're reading it."

"It doesn't matter if I'm not. Fact is I'm doing something, unlike you. I still don't know why you're here."

"Wow," Harry snorted. He was trying extremely hard not to anger Draco, but he had not known how easy it was to do so. Every time Draco exploded it felt like starting all over again, and further away went the opportunity to broach the topic of the murder.

"Fine, Draco. I fancy you too. I told you, you look kinda girly, so that turns me on. Not girly but... sort of pure and small and..."

"Merlin, Potter, do you honestly think I'm still on that thing? You need to get over yourself too, and really quickly."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You know I do. You said yourself I kept staring at you – that's clearly gay." He tried to force the amusement off his face.

He suffered a sterile, dispassionate reception from Draco for the whole of the following day. Draco was absent for a portion of it as his mother dragged him off to stock up on stationery for the imminent new academic year.

The day following that, his birthday, Draco, quite unkindly, made it clear to Harry that it was in both their interests for Harry not to be seen by anybody, house-elf, friend or parent but should remain under his Cloak and preferably inside his room while Draco enjoyed the festivities beyond. It was a reasonable request but Harry still felt that it was a way for Draco to get back at him for ostensibly denying his feelings for him. The last time Harry checked, Draco was not supposed to be flattered to be the object of the affections of another boy. Or perhaps Harry was reading him wrong.

Harry at one point contemplated finding Draco and his friends wherever they were in the manor, if they were inside it in the first place, but decided against it as he did not want to lay his eyes upon Zabini if he could help it. And the sight of Pansy Parkinson was almost just as unappealing. So he resorted to casually perusing the books on Draco's bookstand. He even explored Draco's trunk and read through his workbooks. He learned more about Draco than he would hope for from Draco himself. He discovered Draco was enamoured with Quidditch more than he let on, there was a tension within him between his cultured self and the part that rebelled against the cloth from which he was cut, and indeed he was obsessed with making sure Harry Potter got his just desserts.

Thankfully the time he spent in Draco's bag and bookstand whiled the hours away until Draco returned to his room in late evening, holding in his hands a saucer with a generously large piece of cake and a tumbler filled with a deep-red liquid.

"Had a ball?" Harry asked even as he felt his mouth flood with saliva.

"A chance to forget about you, yes," Draco replied airily with a strange giggle. He came over and offered the food to Harry. "Your stay is becoming more ridiculous by the day."

"Only because you're still pissed at me," Harry said. He felt almost light-headed with relief as he took the food. He bit into the black forest cake ravenously while Malfoy remained standing in front of him.

"I'm not pissed at you," Draco said, rolling his eyes in a rather exhausted way. "I was over you three days ago."

"You're fooling no one." Harry took a gulp of the liquid and recoiled. Did Draco think cake and red wine was a good combination? But he swiftly reminded himself he was in the Wizarding world and, in a noble house or not, there was still not a wide choice of drinks.

"Suit yourself. What were you doing the whole day? Reading again?" Draco asked with a soft grin. It was slightly strange for Harry to see.

"Yeah. I think I understand that whole Netrogy thing a bit better now. And I think I understand you a bit better too."

A pale, sculpted eyebrow rose. "Good for you," he whispered, nodding. Harry nodded back. Draco watched him devour his slice of cake and down his wine. Harry felt strange. The wine settled coldly and lightly in his stomach.

"You're allowed to drink wine on your birthdays, I see."

"Yes. Mother lets off."

Before Harry could reply there came a series of taps from Draco's window. Draco went over to the window and let his large eagle owl inside his room. Draconis, which Harry knew was the name of the owl from his notes from Malfoy, landed on Draco's arm, an action which nearly took both of them to the ground, so heavy the bird was. Draco, used to it, steadied his arm and with his free hand untied the note on its leg.

As soon as the note came loose the bird flapped its huge wings and flew out of the room. Draco went over to his escritoire as he read the note.

"Okay..." Harry mumbled, floored by the cold transaction and lack of communication between Draco and his owl. He surmised the Slytherin felt that the owl had one, simple purpose to fulfil.

"Some of us aren't crazy enough to think our owls are people we can hold a conversation with," Draco laughed, clearly referring to Harry and Hedwig's brief exchanges in the Great Hall whenever she brought him mail. "Usually he flies into the Owlery, which sets off a notice to a house-elf, which then brings the note to me."

"Right," Harry said noncommittally. He still wanted to feel normal again, but his stomach would not let up. He felt like he was floating.

Draco was indeed pale, but his face now seemed devoid of all colour. His relaxed, lethargically pulled-down features straightened and froze quite rapidly.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"None of your business."

It was dependably predictable; Harry had asked the question to offer the other boy a vent. "Of course."

"Father's coming. He says I must be ready when he arrives tonight."

Harry stared at him in silence for a long time. "Are you scared?" he finally asked, delving into the space of honest intimacy they shared in their notes.

Draco turned to him, fixed his gaze into his eyes, silver to emerald, and seemingly in honour of that honest space they shared, whispered, "Yes."