CHAPTER TWENTY
Loving a Loathed Enemy
"My only love sprung from my only hate / Too early seen, unknown, and known too late / Prodigious birth of love it is to me, that I must love a loathed enemy." - Shakespeare
"Fascinating, simply fascinating..." Slughorn's boisterous voice preceded even his belly into the hospital wing.
"Shh," Madam Pomfrey reprimanded him anxiously. "You'll wake them."
Draco, who had been denying his return to consciousness for several minutes, as well as the light urging his eyelids to open that signaled the arrival of morning, heard Harry stirring in the other bed. He kept his eyes closed, preferring the privacy of feigned sleep to the various potential harassments of waking.
"Terribly sorry, terribly sorry," said Slughorn, not sounding sorry at all, but rather like a little boy delighted by an unforeseen surprise. "But as long as they're up... might I have a few words with them?"
"Just a minute, Horace!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed, from the sound of it barring Slughorn's entrance into the wing. "Allow me to check on them first. Wait here."
Madam Pomfrey's footsteps sounded on the hospital floor as she approached their beds. Draco resisted the urge to pull his covers over his head and groan. He felt as if he'd spent the night beneath the Whomping Willow.
"Boys?" queried Madam Pomfrey tentatively. "Are you awake?"
There was a pause, and then Harry's voice mumbled, "Yeah."
Grudgingly, and with an inward sigh, Draco opened his eyes. If Harry was awake, Draco had to be too. Clearly Harry hadn't spent his childhood evading unpleasant early morning responsibilities with the sleepy and innocent little boy routine as Draco had, otherwise he wouldn't have betrayed them this way.
"How are you feeling?" she inquired, pushing back Harry's fringe to feel his forehead, then turning to Draco to do the same.
"Fantastic," said Harry, with an edge of sarcasm that, judging by Madam Pomfrey's response of "Wonderful!" only Draco picked up.
"Are you well enough for visitors?" she asked. "Because Professor Slughorn is here and he'd like to ask you a few questions if you're feeling up to it."
Harry's expression – vague impatience and a slight grimace – perfectly reflected how Draco felt.
"Um..." Harry said.
Slughorn, who had evidently been listening in on the proceedings, pushed open the door at this less than decisive acquiescence and strode into the room.
"Excellent!" he said, Summoning a chair to sit in between Harry's and Draco's beds.
"Fifteen minutes. No more," Madam Pomfrey warned him, with a disapproving wrinkle of her brows.
"So," said Slughorn.
Draco pushed himself up to a sitting position, deciding he'd rather not be prone for this conversation.
"So," Harry replied.
"This is quite a situation. Quite a situation indeed," Slughorn mused. "Amazing, really. I've never seen a poison behave in such a way in all my years. And they are many!" he chortled self-indulgently. "It will be a fascinating mystery to solve, I'm sure. But first I need the whole story – that's the starting point. And you're the only ones who can tell me." He fixed them with a beady gaze, somewhat hampered in effect by emerging from the fleshy folds of his cheeks and eyelids.
Draco and Harry exchanged a glance, reluctant to share more than the fragments of the story that had already made their way into public knowledge.
"Well come on, boys. Don't be shy. You're not in trouble!" Slughorn laughed as if the very idea were ludicrous, but Draco didn't miss the way his eyes cut over to Draco's bed, lacking the mirth his laugh feigned. "I am but an ambassador for the field of Potions! Now tell me, how did you end up taking the dose of Nocturna Mortem, Harry?"
Harry stared back at Slughorn without speaking.
"Or perhaps that's not where our story truly begins, is it?" said Slughorn, turning to Draco. "Perhaps the first question I should be asking is why you had a vial of the potion in your room to begin with, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco schooled his expression into benign blankness.
"Sir, he only wanted to study it for class," Harry answered for him. He could defer opportunities to stand up for himself, but he was unable to let someone he cared about go undefended.
Slughorn turned back to Harry. "And what – he decided to do a practical experiment on you, and that's how you came to be poisoned, Mr. Potter?"
Harry glowered. "Draco didn't poison me."
"No? Then I'm sure you'll be willing to explain to me what actually happened."
"It was an accident."
"An accident," Slughorn repeated, with skepticism. He glanced back and forth between them for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Well, let's not quibble over details, shall we? We know Potter swallowed a portion of the potion. For my purposes it doesn't really matter how or why. The important thing is what happened next, because that will provide the insight into why you didn't die." He looked earnestly at Harry, as if he could extract the information with pure determination. "Something interfered with the potion's progress between when it crossed Potter's lips and when he was taken to Madam Pomfrey. I want to know what that something is."
Harry glanced at Draco, unease plain on his features. They hadn't had a chance to prepare an alternative version of events. And, it occurred to Draco, Harry didn't even know what the real story was. Not in its entirety, anyway. Several potential lies flitted through Draco's mind, but just as quickly he discarded them all. It wasn't as if he'd done anything wrong, and he was sick of disguising himself for other people's benefit, as if he were some sort of deviant.
"I kissed him," he said.
Harry's eyes widened with something Draco couldn't identify but wasn't the surprise he'd expected.
"You – what?" Slughorn spluttered.
"I kissed him," Draco repeated matter-of-factly. "To get the potion off his lips."
"You... to get..." Slughorn's expression wavered between astonishment at the impossible revelation and dawning enthrallment with its resulting Potions implications. His eyes glazed over, and though he continued speaking aloud his attention was clearly focused inward. "How remarkable... I wouldn't have thought... but maybe... as an emotional shield... a bond of sorts... powerful... might negate fatality... a lifeline for the drinker... but the other?" He shook his head slightly as if to clear his vision. "Potter," he barked, "did you likewise interfere with Malfoy's status after you were revived?"
Harry, looking somewhat bewildered, replied, "Yeah, I guess. I, uh, I kissed him too. With Wiggenweld in my mouth."
A swooping sensation surged through Draco's body, originating near his heart. He turned his eyes toward Harry, who was blushing and not looking at him. He remembered the emotion that had inspired him to kiss the potion from Harry's lips, how powerful it was, how consuming. And Harry, unknowingly, had done the very same thing... Draco couldn't articulate what that meant to him, but his body was staggered by it.
Slughorn's eyes lost focus again, oblivious to the turmoil of emotions welling in the two unlikely students whose circumstances had him so captivated. "Of course... a sacrifice shares the effects... the saved alone holds the capability... must reciprocate to, in turn, save the savior..."
Just then Madam Pomfrey bustled back into the room. "That's sixteen minutes, Horace. These boys need their rest, as I'm sure as a fellow professional you will agree."
"Yes, yes, of course," Slughorn complied absently, rising and exiting without seeming fully aware of his surroundings, still murmuring to himself.
"You two," said Madam Pomfrey, addressing them sternly, "ought to go back to sleep, if you know what's good for you."
"Mightn't we... mightn't we go back to our dorms? And sleep there?" Harry asked. "I feel fine, honest."
Madam Pomfrey narrowed her eyes as if suspicious that anyone could feel remotely fine after nearly dying the day before, and Draco had to agree with her – he felt battered and weary and would gladly spend the next two days sleeping it off.
"Tomorrow morning – maybe," she allowed, well-versed in Harry's brand of obstinacy after years of familiarity with his resistance to prolonged invalid-hood. "For now, drink up."
With a swish of her wand, two goblets appeared on the bedside table. Draco appraised it reluctantly, wanting to stay awake for a little while to discuss the last thirty-six hours with Harry rather than immediately going back to sleep. But Madam Pomfrey was apparently not about to budge until she saw both goblets emptied, and so, with a commiserating glance in Harry's direction, Draco gulped the contents down.
… & …
It was dark in the hospital wing when Draco came to. For a moment he was disoriented, confused as to what had woken him. Then a whisper disturbed the room's soporific stillness – "Draco!"
Draco's pulse jumped, more awake than the rest of him, at the sound of Harry's voice.
"Harry?" he whispered back.
"Are you awake?"
Draco rubbed his eyes. "Sort of," he murmured.
There was a swish of sheets and a soft thump, and then a warm brush of air across his cheek as Harry whispered, "Scoot over."
Draco obliged, and Harry inserted himself into the empty space, pulling the blankets up over them and tangling his feet with Draco's.
"Ag! Your feet are freezing!" he accused, his face inches from Draco's but barely visible in the darkness.
"Sorry," Draco whispered abashedly, even as an amused smile tugged at his lips.
Rather than pulling away to escape Draco's cold feet, Harry pressed himself closer, snuggling in so they were tucked intimately together. A warmth that had nothing to do with outside temperature started in Draco's toes and rose to spread throughout his entire body, ending with a flush of his cheeks.
"To what do I owe this unexpected midnight pleasure?" he asked quietly.
Harry didn't answer, instead capturing Draco's lips in a kiss that was all sleepy softness and warm skin. The kiss lingered, their lips never pulling more than a couple centimeters apart to allow for air. Draco's free hand threaded into Harry's hair and slid to his neck, cupping it so that his mouth was at the best angle for Draco's kisses. His foot slipped between Harry's legs and Harry shifted to accommodate it, so that they were intwined beneath the cover of sheets and darkness but otherwise in plain sight of anyone who might stray into the hospital wing – unlikely at this hour of night. It was a relaxed kiss, a kiss without the tension of undisclosed secrets or the ache of over-wrought passions. It was a patient kiss, a kiss sure in the knowledge that more would come.
"You kissed me," Harry said when they finally parted, though their mouths still hovered only an inch apart so that the tips of their noses occasionally touched when they moved their heads.
"Actually, I think it was you who kissed me," Draco corrected.
"No, not now. Earlier. Yesterday."
"Oh." Draco exhaled so that his breath washed across Harry's face. "Yes, I did."
He peered into Harry's eyes, wishing he could see them more clearly. Harry peered back, his eyes outlined by the shadows of his lashes and seeming wider than ever with his omnipresent glasses forgotten on the bedside table. He raised a hand and traced Draco's eyebrow with his thumb, pressing gently as if to relieve some invisible tension.
"Thank you."
Harry's softly spoken words washed over Draco with the soothing fluidity of Phoenix tears. Draco let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and let his cheek fall into the palm of Harry's hand. His eyelids fluttered shut and he held still, feeling the stroke of Harry's thumb across his skin. Then he turned his face and pressed a kiss to Harry's palm.
"You do realize what being released tomorrow means, don't you?" he said, opening his eyes.
Harry nodded solemnly. There was no need to articulate it. They both knew the acute attention bordering on hysteria they'd be facing.
"What should we do?"
"I don't know. I think – "
Just then there came the sound of a door opening from the direction of Madam Pomfrey's quarters, followed by footsteps. Harry's eyes widened and he immediately began to extract himself from Draco's bed.
"We need to talk," he whispered earnestly as he slipped out from under the covers.
"I know," said Draco. "Tomorrow – come to my room, as soon as you're alone."
"And until then?"
The footsteps crescendoed.
"Just... just try to avoid saying anything."
Harry – who had already tucked himself back into his own bed – made a wry face at Draco at this hyperbolic request, but nodded. Then his eyes closed and his expression relaxed into the blank calmness of sleep, so convincing that Draco himself would have believed it if Harry hadn't been talking to him just seconds before.
A moment later Madam Pomfrey emerged into the room to check on her patients and found them both fast asleep.
… & …
Much to Harry's relief – he hated being powerless, in the face of danger or rumors or anything else – he and Draco were discharged the following morning in time for breakfast. Neither of them suffered any residual symptoms of their recent bout with Nocturna Mortem other than a disinclination to get out of bed, something just as well explained by the earliness of the hour (and the lateness of their midnight tryst, but Madam Pomfrey, of course, knew nothing of that).
They had decided in a quick sotto voce conversation outside the hospital wing that it would be best for them to enter the Great Hall separately, so as to attract the least attention and not further feed the flames of the roaring rumor mills. Standing outside the doors to the Hall a few minutes later, however, Harry regretted that decision. He wished he had someone with him for moral support as he faced the overzealous eyes of the student body. Entering alone, he felt conspicuous and exposed – and for good reason. The moment he steeled himself and stepped into the room, as nonchalantly as possible, it was if a thunderclap had sounded to announce his arrival. It seemed to him that voices fell silent mid-conversation, mouths slowed mid-chew, and movement froze in mid-air as everyone in the hall paused what they were doing to turn and watch him as he made his way to the Gryffindor table.
Activity began to restart in slow motion. Limbs frozen in suspension drifted to their destinations, food was distractedly swallowed, heads began to turn from him to neighbors, and voices expressed an awed curiosity than soon crescendoed into a bold chorus of speculation and assumption that buzzed throughout the hall.
As Harry passed along Gryffindor table, looking for his friends, a hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm.
"Harry! Here," said Ginny, pulling him into the empty seat next to her.
Hermione had just enough time to lean forward earnestly and ask, "How are you, Harry?" before Harry was descended upon from several angles by Gryffindors and neighboring tables alike in a barrage of questions, which he answered as honestly as he could without revealing a word of the real truth.
"Were you really in Malfoy's room, Harry?" a fearful younger Gryffindor wanted to know. ("Yes.")
"Is it true you and Malfoy made a suicide pact?" someone probed from over his shoulder. ("No.")
"I heard he lured you into his room to poison you as his start to becoming the next Dark Lord," a pompous Ravenclaw informed Harry and the crowd at large. ("That's rid– ")
"Don't be daft," countered a cocky Hufflepuff boy with a distinctly devious expression. "He lured Harry there to make him his love slave." ("He didn't – ")
"Ooh, that's really sick, Will," another shrieked delightedly. ("He's not – ")
"Did he really kidnap you, Harry?" a concerned Gryffindor interjected. ("No!")
"So Harry Potter's developed a dark fetish, has he?" purred a rogue Slytherin girl. "Let me know when you need proper hit, we all know Malfoy's not exactly up to snuff anymore." (This Harry didn't even dignify with a response.)
For all his effort to be equivocal, however, nobody was really listening to him at all. It didn't take long for Harry's patience to snap.
"Draco Malfoy did not attack me, trick me, or harm me in any way!" he exclaimed, hoping – rather in vain – to set Draco's record clean, if nothing else.
There was a brief pause as the group was taken aback by his outburst, but then the stream of questions bubbled up again as more people crowded around Harry to get their few words in. Harry sighed. It was the biggest Hogwarts scandal since the dramatic departure of the Weasley twins and everyone was angling to get their own handful of it as if it were leprechaun gold at the World Cup.
Across the table, Hermione watched him concernedly, visibly swallowing against the words of well-intended support and inquisition that she was clearly dying to smother him with. Next to her, Ron's eyebrows were furrowed in Harry's direction in what was a grave, though not openly hostile, expression. Under the table, Ginny took his hand and squeezed it.
Suddenly several voices broke off at once and an unusual hush fell across the hall. Harry looked up to search out the source of the disturbance in time to see Draco slip into his seat at Slytherin table. His bearing was a masterpiece of deception – aloof, unconcerned, and impenetrable. Harry's chest tightened at the sight of him, because he alone knew what that deception hid and he ached to weather the surge of unwanted attention together.
The chaos around Harry stilled, and he realized that everyone was waiting to see (and then dissect at length) how he reacted to Draco's presence. Draco seemed to realize this too, because he raised his head to look over at the Gryffindor table. Unsure for a moment what to do, Harry settled on a curt nod, which Draco returned.
As the chatter resumed around him, Harry tuned it out, preferring to covertly watch Draco from across the room. Stoically, Draco poured himself a cup of coffee and took a couple slices of toast that served as props more than anything – he didn't do more than pick at them as he sipped his coffee. Unlike Harry, he was not descended upon en masse. The other occupants of his table appeared variously torn between apprehension and insatiable curiosity, settling for occasional whispers and sidelong glances in his direction. Draco ignored them with his infamous polished sangfroid, looking up only once to meet Harry's eyes. When he did, Draco's grey eyes burned with the same deep-rooted desperation that sucked at Harry's composure like a black hole unfurling in his belly.
… & …
As soon as he'd scarfed down a plate of eggs and potatoes he didn't taste, Harry fled. Halfway across the entrance hall his absentminded flight was interrupted by a spirited shouting.
"Harry! Harry, wait up!" Georgia cried as she descended on him. "I can't believe it! You and Draco! Why didn't you tell me? I knew it all al– "
Harry spun, wildly scanning the area for a place to hide and making sure it was free of bystanders, then took Georgia by the arm and pulled her behind a nearby tapestry before she could say anything more.
"Shh!" he hissed, covering her mouth with his hand. "Are you out of your mind? You can't just go shouting things like that in the corridors!"
"Sung hurry buh lie sting," she said, her eyes bright and her eyebrows energetic.
"What?" Harry said, then realized his hand was still over her mouth and had muffled her words. He drew it away quickly.
"I said, 'Sorry, but it's so exciting!' " she repeated. "I knew he liked you, right from the beginning!"
"You... what?" Harry was having a hard time keeping up. If he had pictured Georgia's reaction to this news – which he hadn't – it would have involved tears and claims of betrayal, not glee and the euphoria of wish-fulfillment.
"I told you that he fancied you ages ago. I... I practically set you up! Remember? Why didn't you tell me you liked him back?"
"Well, because I..."
"Oh, look at you blushing!" She grinned sappily. "There's nothing I love more than I good romance..."
"Georgia, why are you so... happy?" Harry asked, deciding to forego discussing the validity of her conviction. It didn't really matter if she knew – or thought she knew – or not. Georgia's inextinguishable giddiness was too benign to be a real threat. "Why aren't you upset?"
"Upset?" she echoed, wrinkling her nose as if the very word confused her. "Why would I be upset?"
It was Harry's turn to look at her in confusion. "It's just that you seemed so... keen on me."
"But Harry, I told you weeks ago that things wouldn't work out between us. I thought you understood?"
"Oh, I did," he rushed to say. "I just wasn't sure that you... felt the same way."
"But Harry," she said, laughing as if he were too silly to take seriously, "I was the one who told you so!"
"Right... sorry..."
"There's no need to apologize! I'm just glad we've got it all sorted it out now!" She beamed at him expectantly, to which Harry could only respond with an uncertain attempt at a smile. "I won't pretend I wasn't a little upset, when I heard..." she went on, "but I thought about how Malfoy pined for you while you courted another" – Harry could only assume she meant herself – "and how your tortured pasts must have brought you together... and I realized how terribly romantic it all is."
Harry found himself torn between mortification and mirth, and had no idea how to respond. Fortunately he was saved from doing so by Georgia becoming suddenly serious.
"Just one more thing Harry, before I have to go," she said. "You do remember the," she glanced around and leaned in, stage-whispering her next words, "omen I warned you about, don't you? Your beloved Malfoy is in grave danger!"
Harry, who had much experience in the misleading and often melodramatic nature of prophecy, recognized in retrospect that if Georgia's prediction had, in fact, been valid, it had probably already been fulfilled – by Harry and Draco's recent mishap with Nocturna Mortem.
"Don't worry," he assured her. "I'll take good care of him."
"You'll protect him?" she asked.
"With my life."
She raised her eyebrows.
"I promise."
Georgia nodded, apparently satisfied with his sincerity. "I have to go to class," she said. "Good luck!"
"See you," Harry replied.
With a concerned backward glance, Georgia left. Harry fell back against the wall as the tapestry swung shut, laughing to himself in disbelief and catching his breath as if he'd just flown a quick lap around the Quidditch pitch.
… & …
The flurry of attention didn't die down during Harry's morning classes, but out of necessity became less vocal. It was with acute relief that he loitered after his Defense Against the Dark Arts class until everyone had gone to pull out his cloak and sneak down to the dungeons.
Murmuring "Malkin's" to gain access to Draco's room – he hadn't answered Harry's knock so Harry had decided to let himself in and wait – sent a thrill down his spine. Once inside, he abandoned the cloak and went to stand in front of the still-flickering fire that suggested Draco hadn't been as committed to keeping up appearances that morning as Harry had been.
… & …
Draco could feel his pulse beating in his temples. It wasn't painful – not yet at least – but it was distracting and contributed to the overwhelming sensation of ill-ease that had plagued him since parting ways with Harry that morning. It was probably yet another affirmation of his innate weakness, but after the ordeal that was breakfast he had retreated to his room instead of going to his first class. The cowardliness of this avoidance wormed its way under skin and nettled him enough there, however, that he'd emerged to attend Arithmancy. He'd taken a longer but blessedly less-traveled route back afterward, and was only now returning to his room.
Entering in a haze of selfish preoccupation, Draco stopped in his tracks at the striking sight of Harry silhouetted by the simmering embers in his fireplace. Harry was standing still, evidently entranced by something he saw in the feeble flames. His hands were anchored within his pockets and Draco could see the stress of their situation in the slightly arched slump of Harry's shoulders and the sober hang of his head. Yet there was an inextinguishable vibrancy in him that clung to the ends of his hair and stretched elastic in his posture, that intangible something that had always managed to raise the small hairs on the back of Draco's neck. This latent vibrancy now fed off the fading firelight to render Harry with a shadowy allure that ignited a slow-burning longing in Draco's chest.
"You... You're beautiful." Draco hadn't intended to speak, but the words emerged anyway.
Harry turned, and on seeing Draco his posture immediately changed: he straightened and his features went lax, spreading out in a beatific smile.
"Draco," he said, simply.
As if this were his cue, Draco's body came back to life. He strode across the room, took Harry's face in his hands, and kissed him soundly. When he pulled away a minute later Harry's face hovered frozen for a moment, eyes still closed and lips still parted. Then he sighed, smiled at a private joy, and finally opened his eyes.
"What were you thinking about when I came in?" Draco asked, still cradling Harry's face between his hands.
"I was thinking..." said Harry slowly, as if making an effort recall the discontented person he'd been but two minutes ago, "about how I never would have expected to be here. Not like this."
Draco's hands fell to his side at the swift reminder of the incongruity of their relationship owing to the roles they'd played in their former life. "I know," he said, turning his head away from Harry. "The things I've done..."
"No, Draco. That's not what I'm talking about," Harry chastised him gently. "Well, in a way, but what I meant is that even though you were – "
" – awful," Draco supplied.
Harry acknowledged Draco's interjection only with a wry quirk of his lips and went on. "You were sort of regal, untouchable, you know?"
Draco stared at Harry for a few seconds in subtle awe at this latest revelation of Harry's unintentional refusal to align with the two-dimensional 'Potter' he'd been to Draco for so many years. He shook his head, smiling to himself.
"Look who's talking," he teased.
Rather than amusing him, Draco's attempt at lightheartedness seemed to remind Harry of just how tangible his fame could be when everyone was vying to get a finger on it. His expression lost the looseness it had gained when Draco arrived and resumed the downcast, taut quality it had had as he contemplated the fire.
"We need to talk," he said, his voice somber. "This morning was – "
"A nightmare," Draco finished. Lifting a hand to brace his forehead and pinch his temples, he walked over to sag down onto the foot of his bed.
Harry joined him. "What do we do?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"Do you..." Harry hid his face, seeming embarrassed by his own question.
"Do I what?" Draco offered Harry this small help.
"Do you want... to be seen with me?" Harry winced as soon as the words were out. "That came out wrong."
"I know what you mean. And trust me, I do. I'm sick of hiding," Draco said with a bitter honesty neither of them were accustomed to.
"But?"
"But I think we have to be realistic. People may be starting to move on from the war, but they haven't forgotten it. As far as they're concerned the line between our two sides is as clear and inflexible as ever."
"It's not the gay thing you're really worried about at all, is it?" Harry asked, hitting the nail on the head. "It's how you think they're going to react to you."
"Don't get me wrong," Draco was quick to say. "The gay thing concerns me. But yeah, I guess I'm not exactly confident that anyone's going to take kindly to me having their hero under my spell – as they'll see it, anyway."
Harry looked like he wanted to protest. But he wasn't stupid, no matter what Draco had claimed countless times in their adolescence. He knew there was truth to Draco's words.
"What if..." he began, scrabbling for options. "What if we only told our friends?"
"Because that went so well with Ron," Draco snapped, frustrated not so much with Harry as with the obstinacy of their predicament.
Harry's face went pinched under the stress of the emotional sprain Draco had aggravated.
"Harry, I'm sorry," Draco said, immediately repentant. "I didn't mean it – "
"No, you're right," Harry interrupted him. "It did go really badly with Ron. But it caught him by surprise, didn't it? Before I had a chance to tell him properly. I'm not saying he would have taken it well under any circumstances, but it might have gone a bit better if he could have found out differently."
Draco had strong doubts about that, but he was willing to concede that Harry certainly knew Weasley better than he did. Maybe Ron had more capacity for understanding than Draco was aware of.
Harry sat up with the illumination of sudden inspiration in his eyes.
"Maybe we shouldn't make an announcement at all," he said. "What if we just go about our business as if nothing's out of the ordinary? If we act like it's not a big deal, maybe other people won't either."
"I don't know..."
"We'll keep a low profile on the whole, er, PDA thing," Harry continued, "but we won't hide that we're on friendly terms now. People can make of that what they will." He shrugged. "We of all people don't owe them anything."
It was strange, but even as an inkling of optimism settled over Draco for the first time since he'd decided to give in to the passions of his (admittedly predominant) selfish side and devote himself to establishing a real relationship with Harry, his prideful streak reared its ugly head and decided that having Harry wasn't enough. It wanted people to know that Harry belonged to him and he to Harry – in every way. He bristled at the assumption that their physical relationship would be something they would forever hide. For the first time he not only saw the benefits of PDA but coveted those who had the freedom to be demonstrative in their affection, people who had previously disgusted him. He scooted closer to Harry and leaned in so that he spoke his next words against Harry's mouth.
"Do we have to be discreet forever?" he asked in an undertone. "What if I want to do this," he nipped Harry's lips gently with his own, "in public?"
Harry swallowed visibly. "Then... you'll just have to..." – Draco kissed him again – "wait."
Draco was not in the mood for waiting. He kissed Harry again, not teasing this time, and tipped him backward on the bed, sliding on top of him. When they broke apart a minute or so later, he gazed into Harry's face, with Harry's unruly hair sprawled out behind him and his eyes intensified against the dark green of Draco's bed covers. Mine, Draco thought triumphantly. All mine.
"It's almost Christmas holidays, you know," said Draco conversationally. "We're graduating in a few months, and then what people at Hogwarts have to say won't matter anymore."
"Right," said Harry. "What's your point?"
"My point," said Draco, "is that perhaps after graduation we could... reevaluate."
"Reevaluate?"
"Yes, reevaluate."
Draco realized that he was crossing into new territory right now, Future territory (with all the implications of the capital F), but he didn't care. Selfishness and pride made him bold, it always had.
"I like the sound of reevaluation," Harry agreed, with an irresistible breathy quality to the words.
"Ah, me too," murmured Draco, leaning down for another kiss. Or two. Or three.
As Draco attempted to make the move from Harry's mouth across his jaw to the unfathomably delicious underside of his throat, Harry placed both hands on Draco's chest and pushed him away.
"I'm hungry," he stated. "We're missing lunch."
"Food. Trifles," said Draco, much more interested in Harry's skin than pumpkin juice or biscuits and gravy. But now that Harry had brought it to his attention, a gnaw of hunger yawned his stomach. He sat back on his heels. "You're right," he sighed.
Harry's eyes crinkled in amusement. Draco pretended not to notice and with exaggerated gallantry extended his hand to pull Harry to his feet.
"So, would you care to accompany me to the great hall?" Harry invited.
And Draco, knowing he was agreeing to something much more, replied, "Yes."
They were late for lunch, so the corridors were deserted as they made their way to the great hall. They didn't encounter a single soul until they reached the entrance hall, and even dared to tangle their fingers between them. When they crossed the threshold from the dungeons into the entrance hall, however, Harry stopped abruptly, eyes fixated on something across the way. Draco followed his gaze straight into the perturbed and nervous eyes of Ron Weasley. Their fingers separated under Ron's scrutiny.
The two parties stood locked in a sort of frozen face-off, neither making a move. Ron twitched; uncertainty flared across his unguarded features, and for a moment Draco thought he might actually say something to Harry. But the moment passed and Ron turned yet again from his best friend and disappeared into the great hall without a word.
Draco heard Harry's sigh next to him and reclaimed his hand to give it a supportive squeeze.
"We should go," was all Harry said outloud, but his eyes said more. They said, "Thank you."
You're welcome. A thousand times, you're welcome.
… & …
Evening found Draco alone in his room, sitting by a crackling rekindled fire nursing a cup of tea – he was focusing his efforts on more natural sleeping aids now – and thoughts of Harry before bed. A knocking at the door roused him from the lulling pleasure of his reveries. He rose to answer it with considerable curiosity; he'd never had a visitor to this room before. Few even knew it existed, much less where it was.
It was Pansy.
"Can I come in?" she asked.
Draco hesitated.
"God, Draco. I found you half-dead in Harry Potter's arms just yesterday morning. I think the least you can do is let me talk to you."
Draco didn't concede so much as allow her to pass by him into the room without impeding her. She immediately dropped into one of his armchairs as if she belonged there, draping a leg over one arm and lounging languorously.
"What did you want to talk about?" asked Draco stiffly, following her into the room.
After hovering for a moment, uncertain of where to position himself in relation to her, he ended up bracing his forearms on the upper ridgeback of the other armchair in a pose made awkward by its forced casualness. The difference in how he occupied his own room between when Harry and Pansy shared it with him was striking. With Harry he had been relaxed, spread out and connected with Harry even when separated by physical distance. Now he was a person in compression, pulling every stray essence of himself within the compact boundaries of the little space he was taking up. More than that, though, it was impossible to have her back in his room without it dredging up memories of her last visit, memories Draco took great pains to keep below the surface of conscious thought.
"You've been a naughty boy, Draco," she said, inspecting her fingernails as if the topic bored her. Draco saw straight through her act, however. It was an elementary deception tactic, one every Slytherin learned to see through by the end of their first year.
"Have I?" he countered in his old drawl, as if his transgressions could serve to only mildly amuse him.
"Mhmm."
"And how is that?"
In an instant Pansy lost her affected languor. She sat up and leaned toward Draco. "Tell me Draco, exactly how long have you been in love with Harry Potter?"
Draco would have been ashamed to admit outloud how much this blunt accusation threw him off. But in his defense, he was hopelessly out of practice; he had already made peace with his decision to relinquish the Slytherin lifestyle.
"Excuse me?" was all he managed to come up with.
"There's really no point in trying to deny it," she said. "Shall I tell you how I found you?" She raised her eyebrows and Draco felt that he'd probably rather not, but it had been a rhetorical question. She leaned back in the chair, once more taking on the careful boredom. "Goyle had told me about his conversation with you the night before and I wanted to come talk to you to set the record straight."
Draco thought it rather more likely that she had intended to make sure the bridge to Draco hadn't been entirely burned, but if there was anything he knew, it was when to hold his tongue.
"I knocked on your door but you didn't answer," she continued. "I was going to give up, until I remembered that I knew your password. It was already nine o'clock so I figured I could wake you if you were still sleeping, so I went inside. And what I saw..." Her eyes took on a shrewd glint. "You, in nothing but the silk pajama bottoms your mother gave you for Christmas sixth year," (Pansy loved those silk pajama bottoms, and had made no secret of it that winter during lazy mornings spent lounging in the Slytherin common room) "laying on top of an equally topless Harry fucking Potter."
Draco cringed. He would have signed away a large portion of his Gringotts vault if he could have Pansy un-see that particular sight.
"So," she said in conclusion. "I don't think you can explain this one away, Draco." She sounded smug.
Draco knew when he was defeated. And it was only Pansy, after all. He abandoned his standing position to sink gingerly into the chair instead.
"I know," he said.
"What?" Pansy's surprise slipped out before she could temper it. She'd obviously expected him to resist.
"You're right. I'm in love with Harry Potter."
She might tell, but Draco was banking on her embarrassment of having the seven-year object of her affections (or rather, ambitions) turn gay to keep her quiet. Besides, the small enjoyment he got from her shock made spilling the secret worth it.
"So that's why you rejected me," she said, taking a stab at him to make up for the slip of her composure.
It didn't work, because that was hardly the sole – or even main – reason he'd rebuffed her; he hadn't even known he'd been in love with Harry at the time. But again Draco held his tongue and said simply, "Yeah."
Pansy sat up straighter, as if this verified her vindication. "Have you been in love with him all along? Is that why you've been so obsessed with him all these years?"
Draco smoothed out the fabric of his robe against his knee and spoke into the fire. "I don't know. I was so selfish and corrupted back then; maybe in its own sick way my hatred was love and I was too blind to see it." He looked up at Pansy. "You know, I wanted to apologize for the way I used you. I shouldn't have taken it that far. I just... I guess part of me hasn't changed much at all."
Pansy's expression looked scrambled, as if Draco's pensive candidness was unsettling her far more than the idea that he could love a Gryffindor. Somehow, without drawing on a single Slytherin instinct, he had regained the upper-hand in this encounter. The one card she'd held – the knowledge of Harry and Draco's affair – she had played with too cavalier haste. And Draco had always been the superior player.
"About what Goyle talked to me about," he said, changing the subject.
"Right," said Pansy, perking up. "I wanted to tell you – "
"I'm really happy for you," Draco went on, as if she hadn't spoken. "Goyle may not always have a lot to contribute, but he's as loyal as they come. He'll be good to you."
Pansy's mouth hung open, empty. Draco stood up, offering her his hand. All had been said that ought to be, and any more was at risk of being superfluous at best.
"It was nice of you to stop by," said Draco, escorting her to the door before she knew what hit her. Maybe there really is something to the whole Gryffindor 'killing them with kindness' nonsense, he thought, smirking.
"Bye..." she managed, before she was out in the hallway with the door to Draco's room sliding shut behind her.
Draco breathed deeply when she was gone, relishing a certain lightness that had come over him. That could have gone worse, he thought. Much worse.
… & …
"When was the first owl domesticated?" Harry asked Hermione a couple days later in the library. He was working on one of the periodic written assignments Hagrid assigned them for Care of Magical Creatures to appease what he called the "traditionalist twats" on the school board.
The other day, Hermione had magnanimously offered that Draco join them studying one afternoon. Partly, Harry suspected, out of guilt that Ron had yet to come around. Harry had somewhat tentatively broached the idea to Draco and had been pleasantly surprised when Draco agreed. And so here they were, arranged in an amiable, if awkward, triangle around a library table of which Harry was the vertex, with their respective homework spread out between them.
"1263," she replied, without looking up from her Ancient Runes essay.
"Why do you even know that?" Draco asked, with an awe that made Harry – having grown used to Hermione's encyclopedic knowledge long ago – smile.
"I read it in a book," said Hermione, as if were obvious. To her, of course, it was.
Draco turned to Harry, the look of awe still on his face. Harry raised his eyebrows and shrugged in a gesture that said, "It's Hermione. What do you expect?" Draco returned to his work, shaking his head to himself in disbelief.
The scratch of quills served in place of conversation amongst them. It was still a fragile truce, but it was going well so far, and Harry's hopes for the future were growing by the minute.
"Oh, Harry," said Hermione, looking up from a parchment crammed with tiny, strict lines of writing. "Have you thought any more about shadowing an Auror?"
Draco's head raised in interest.
"Yeah," said Harry, feeling very aware of Draco's eyes on him. "I, um. I think I'll do it."
"Brilliant!" Hermione praised him.
"You're going to go into Auror training?" Draco asked, in a pointed tone that wasn't exactly accusatory but verged into the slightly defensive, and Harry realized that for all the talking they'd done about the future of their relationship recently, they'd never discussed this – the obvious dilemma facing every seventh and eighth year: what they were going to do after graduation.
"I've been thinking about it, yeah." Harry was now hyper-aware of Hermione's attention, feeling as if he and Draco had accidentally begun a private conversation rooted in subtext.
Thank God for her social savviness, Harry thought when she turned the conversation into one of the many identical ones their graduating peers had on a daily basis by asking Draco what his plans were. Not to mention Harry was now keenly curious.
"To be perfectly honest," said Draco, "I have no idea. I'll be making things up as I go along, I suppose."
He said it with his signature aloof self-confidence, but there was a tension around his eyes that told Harry he was anything but. He tried to catch Draco's eye, but Draco made a point of choosing that moment to busy himself with refreshing his quill's ink. Harry was just about to open his mouth and say something to solicit Draco's attention when they were interrupted by the arrival of a fourth party.
Ron approached the table with an embarrassed shuffle. He eyed the one empty chair, across from Draco, but anchored himself to Hermione's side rather than taking it.
"Hermione, can I, er, talk to you for a minute?" he asked in an undertone, his eyes flicking uncertainly over to Harry. He seemed almost wary of Harry, as if Harry might attack him at any moment.
"Ron, I'm studying," said Hermione impatiently.
"I know, but – it'll just take a sec."
After a quick glance at her table-mates, Hermione sighed and turned back to Ron. "Alright," she said, standing up and following Ron to an alcove a few feet away, where they commenced a semi-heated whispered conversation.
Harry and Draco both pointedly returned their attention to their work, but as Hermione's whispers became increasingly shrill and Ron's cheeks increasingly flushed it was impossible not to catch some snippets here and there.
"… why you're here with them when you could be …" – "We're studying, Ron … welcome to join us …" – "… like hell I'd join him … rather have tea with Grawp …" – "Well go ahead then!"
There was no need to overhear this last statement. It was exclaimed without a shred of discretion and punctuated by Hermione stomping back over to the table, taking her seat with a huff, and resuming the scratching of her quill. Ron gave their table one last sheepish look before fleeing the library for locations more conducive to indulging a red-headed temper.
Hermione continued her angry scratching until she thought that Ron had gone, then set down her quill in exasperation – whether with Ron or herself, it wasn't clear – and looked up.
"So," said Harry, to spare her the awkwardness of acknowledging her scene and to show her his gratitude for arguing with Ron on he and Draco's behalf, "how do I arrange a meeting with an Auror?"
"Well," said Hermione, latching onto the topic with relief, "first you should talk to McGonagall..."
… & …
The last few weeks before the winter holidays passed in a blur of classes, homework, and hours wiled away with Draco. The morning of the holiday diaspora found Harry sprawled on his bed in his pajamas, watching his roommates scramble to finish last-minute packing. As much as he loved Christmas with the Weasley's, Harry had elected to stay behind with Draco, who for the first time had no where to go but an empty manor.
The fury of speculation that had followed Harry and Draco's sojourn to the Hospital Wing had finally cooled off to a low simmer. An impasse had been reached between them and the rest of the school: they refused to confirm anything nor conform to their old, expected roles; their fellow students allowed them to engage in their strange new friendship with minimal heckling (there had initially been several instances when Draco had been harassed, but those, too, had died down once Harry made it clear that anyone abusing Draco would have him to contend with – somewhat to Draco's mortification, but Harry suspected that deep down Draco enjoyed being protected) but refused to definitively cease the rumors and speculation. It was, like so many other things in Harry's life at the moment, a precarious harmony, but it was functional.
The room emptied out as people finished their packing and went down for their last breakfast at Hogwarts before the holidays, leaving their trunks on their beds for the house-elves to retrieve and load onto the train. Eventually only Ron remained, packing so slowly he seemed to be stalling for some reason.
Harry lay back on his bed, flipping through a Victor Krum biography Hermione had relegated to him when Krum himself sent it to her (she having no interest in it), signed of course (the cheesy endearments scrawled onto the first page were Harry's favorite part, suspecting Krum had no idea how vain his continued efforts were).
He and Ron had yet to have an official reconciliation, but in the past few weeks they'd begun exchanging the occasional civil word, at least at the dinner table when dishes needed passing, or in front of the Gryffindor fireplace at night when their obstinate avoidance of interaction had begun putting a strain on the group's conversation.
At last Harry heard the click of Ron shutting and latching his trunk. A moment later, Ron himself appeared at the foot of Harry's bed. Harry sat up.
"All set?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Ron. "Just finished. Probably shoulda started packing before this morning, but..." he waved a hand through the air awkwardly and didn't finish his sentence.
"You looking forward to the holidays?" Harry asked, not knowing what else to say.
"Sure," said Ron, with a little more enthusiasm than he would have used if things had been normal between them. "You?"
"Yup."
"Mom's all buggered that you're not coming this year. She's probably going to use every color of yarn she has on your sweater to make up for it." Ron rolled his eyes.
Out loud, Harry laughed. Inside he wondered whether Mrs. Weasley knew the real reason why he wasn't joining the Weasley's that year.
"Maybe next year," he offered.
"Yeah, maybe."
Ron looked uncomfortable again, and Harry realized he'd brought the elephant into the room with his casual statement. Would he be free to come alone next year, or would he have Draco in tow? Harry knew the answer to that already, but he guessed Ron was holding out hope for the former possibility.
A self-conscious silence fell between them then, and Harry found himself wishing Ron would make his excuses and go to put an end to it. But Ron stayed, watching his feet fidget back and forth on the floor beneath him, so there was nothing Harry could do but wait it out to see if Ron would spit out whatever it was he'd come over to say.
"Malfoy's staying behind too?" Ron asked, though he must have already known the answer.
"Yeah."
Harry braced himself for the coming conversation, knowing it had to happen eventually but dreading it all the same.
Ron resumed his inspection of his fidgeting feet for a moment, as if they could give him the will to go on. "You know I – I don't like him. He's been an arrogant git all my life and I can't forget that," he said, looking at Harry in a way that clearly wondered how Harry could. "But you've been my best mate for just as long, and I can't forget that, either."
Harry waited to see if Ron was finished. Ron, evidently interpreting Harry's silence as dissatisfaction with the completeness of his apologetic preamble, capped it off by articulating the implied, "I'm sorry."
Harry experienced a sudden impulse to hug Ron, and wondered whether it was the indulgence of the poof in him that was making him so demonstrative in his affections lately. However, he doubted that Ron would appreciate an opportunity to get in touch with his expressive side, so he limited himself to a friendly bumping of Ron's shoulder with his fist. It wasn't a perfect reconciliation, and they still had a long way to go, but it was start.
Ron lips quirked with the beginnings of a relieved and sheepish grin that was still too shy to wholly unfold.
"How are things with Hermione?" Harry asked, thinking that by asking Ron about something he loved he could reciprocate the sentiment of Ron's apology.
"Brilliant." Harry wanted to laugh at the look of amazement on Ron's face, as if he couldn't quite fathom his own luck. "I'm actually – I'm going to propose to her on New Year's Eve." He looked scared by the enormity of his plans, but excited all the same.
"Ron, that's great!" Harry exclaimed, in genuine enthusiasm. Now that he was happy in love himself, there was nothing to stain his happiness for his best friends. "Owl me when she says yes, will you?"
"'Course," said Ron.
They were interrupted by Ron's stomach growling audibly.
"You should go before you miss breakfast," said Harry, seeing that Ron would refrain from excusing himself on the basis of their new truce.
"Yeah, probably should," Ron agreed, not needing any further encouragement to go placate his protesting stomach. "Well, I'll see you around. Happy Christmas, Harry."
"You too," Harry said earnestly. "Good luck."
Ron gave a small parting wave, then disappeared down the staircase. Harry fell back against his pillows, feeling that this one thing, at least, wasn't as precarious as it had been when he woke up. Slowly but surely his life was solidifying around him, and for the first time in a long time he was allowing himself to be optimistic. To stake hopes in the future. To plan ahead.
… & …
Harry and Draco were sitting cuddled up on Draco's bed late Christmas morning, Harry reading a Defense Against the Dark Arts history Draco had given him – largely devoted to the establishing and development of the Auror department – and Draco doing nothing but wallowing in his own contentedness. Theoretically, with the majority of the school dispersed for the holidays, they could be doing this in one of their common rooms without worrying about discovery, but even with the school to themselves they preferred the coziness of Draco's small room. Besides, Draco would have felt vaguely exhibitionist engaging in some of the... activities they favored in a public room, empty or not. His room – with its large, luxurious bed – was simply more convenient.
"So there's a Ministry function coming up that I have to go to," said Harry, looking up from where he was curled up in the crook of Draco's arm.
"What for?" asked Draco absently.
"Something about naming their new wing." Draco remembered seeing a headline to that effect a few weeks ago, though he hadn't read the article. "Anyway, they really want me there. Actually, I'm kind of, well... I'm sort of the guest of honor," Harry said.
"Ah." Draco smiled to himself. He could almost hear Harry blushing.
Harry sat up and looked Draco in the eyes.
"I want you to come," he said. Draco opened his mouth to protest; he'd been raised on pretentious, ceremonious gatherings and had lost his taste for them long ago. But Harry wasn't finished. "I want you to come," he repeated, "and I want to be able to say, 'Hi, Mr. Ministry Official, how are you this evening? Allow me to introduce my boyfriend, Draco Malfoy.'"
Draco's stomach Vanished. Or at least that's how it felt.
"Harry," he said. As far as they had come, they had yet to put label on their relationship, even between themselves.
"Draco," Harry countered.
"I can't. You know I can't."
"No, I don't. So why don't you tell me."
'Please don't make me,' Draco begged with his eyes. Nothing doing. Harry's eyes were set, and determined to receive an answer. He sighed. "Look. However I may have changed, my name remains the same. And it does not exactly bring joy to the hearts of the Ministry. I highly doubt they'll consent to add my name to the guest list with a smile and a wave of their quill."
"They're naming the wing after me, Draco. I think that qualifies me to bring any guest I want."
"I don't know, Harry..."
"Is that the only problem you have with it?" Harry asked. "It's not... the other bit?"
"You mean the poor ministry officials fainting left and right when you sidle up to them and announce that I'm your boyfriend?" Draco asked insouciantly. "Nope, that bit I have no problem with whatsoever." He smirked.
Harry made an endearing struggle with his lips to force their smile back into straight line. "Draco, I'm serious."
"So am I."
"You mean it? You... you want to be my boyfriend?"
Draco lifted his hand and slid his fingers through Harry's beautiful thick hair, coming to rest on his neck. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Harry's lips. "I wouldn't settle for anything less," he murmured, smiling against Harry's mouth.
Harry's smile broke free and surged across his face and he lunged at Draco, tackling him onto the couch for a sweet, enthusiastic kiss, which Draco, clasping Harry's cheeks between his hands, eagerly returned.
After a few minutes Harry pulled away, propping himself up on his hands above Draco.
"When is it?" Draco asked.
"When is what?"
"Your evening of honor!"
"Oh, that..." Harry rolled his eyes. "A week after graduation."
"And you're asking me now? That's not exactly 'coming up,' is it?" Draco asked, touched that Harry was not only thinking that far ahead but also willing to make plans that superimposed their relationship onto the future.
"I wanted to give you enough time to find something decent to wear," Harry teased, smiling because they both knew it was just an excuse.
"Think I can get away with re-wearing my graduation robes?"
"Have you seen them? I don't think you'll want to. Ron swears he heard they've combined all four house colors into one garment." Harry's eyes crinkled, a sure sign that he was kidding.
Draco made a face. "Don't even joke, Harry. That's ghastly!"
Harry laughed.
"Okay," said Draco, growing serious again. "I'll go."
"You will?" Harry's expression was one of such earnest hope that if Draco hadn't already agreed to go, that alone would have convinced him.
"Yes, I will."
In a surge of triumph, Harry grabbed Draco by the neck to pull himself up and plant a sound kiss on Draco's mouth. They smiled stupidly into each other's faces, then settled back into their previous engagements – Harry to his book and Draco to his thoughts, absently stroking Harry's hair.
After a few minutes Harry set down his book again, the flush of victory at getting his way having ebbed into guilt for demanding it in the first place.
"Draco, are you sure you want to go through all that for me?" he queried anxiously. "I mean, like you said, people aren't exactly going to be happy to see you... I'll understand, you know, if you think it's not worth it."
"Of course it's worth it," said Draco adamantly.
Seeing Harry's still skeptical expression, Draco shifted so that they were sitting face-to-face rather than nestled side-by-side. He braced his hands against the headboard on either side of Harry's head and stared straight into Harry's eyes, their faces only inches apart.
"Harry Potter," he said, "don't you know that I love you?"