Chapter 9: The Heart Wants…?

"D'you think Marietta Edgecombe would go out with me?" asked Blaise. Marietta Edgecombe, a pretty Ravenclaw girl a year ahead of them, sat laughing with her friend Cho Chang across the courtyard.

"No," said Theo at once, without looking up from his notebook. Just over a week had passed since Halloween-a bizarre, surreal week Draco really could've done without. After the night in the Great Hall, he hadn't been sure which mind-boggling development to focus on-Hermione's kiss or the fact he was pretty sure (not entirely, of course, but almost) that it was his fault Sirius Black had entered the castle. He'd wondered whether he should tell someone, but a few moments' thought made that seem an extraordinarily bad idea. Hermione would tell him to go to Dumbledore at once-Hermione, who was kind to lost first-years in corridors and had an air of unimpeachable responsibility that made her irresistible to adults. Theo would tell him to go to Professor Flitwick under the pretext of discussing his homework and try to suss out what the teachers already knew-Theo, whose light smattering of freckles and large, striking hazel eyes made him look incapable of inflicting harm.

Draco possessed none of those traits. Adults had been naturally suspicious of him all his life. Sometimes, it made sense-he was quite familiar with the way tension crept into their shoulders when they heard his surname, and the inscrutable look in their eyes as they mentally compared him to his father. Often, he'd said or done something to warrant their disdain. Other times, though, he could find no such explanation. There was just something about him, he supposed. So, he tended to be careful what he confessed to. Adults already expected the worst from him, there was no need to confirm it unnecessarily.

There was just something about him. Perhaps that was why Hermione didn't want anyone knowing she'd kissed him, and now refused to meet his eyes. It occurred to him, once in a while, to be angry. She'd kissed him, after all-he'd been across the room minding his own business, it wasn't as though he'd done anything to her. And all right, if she really hated the thought of kissing him again, that he could accept. But hadn't they been friends almost the whole time they'd been at school? If he'd known he'd have to choose between talking to her and kissing her-well, he would've made a different choice.

Theo was ignoring him too. Unlike Hermione he knew how to be subtle about it, and Draco wasn't sure whether this made it better or worse. On the one hand, he didn't spin comically on the spot and sprint in the opposite direction to avoid sharing a corridor with him. On the other hand, there was something excruciating about conversations in which they were both talking to Blaise, and neither was talking to the other.

By the end of the week he alternated between desperately wanting to cry and the insane urge to smack Theo's and Hermione's heads together until they agreed to behave like themselves again, but there was no time to do either. They were being assigned more homework than ever, and meanwhile, the first Quidditch match of the season was approaching-Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, because, through it all, the world maintained its nasty sense of humor.

He'd stolen the Snitch from yesterday evening's Quidditch practice, and half-listened to Blaise and Theo as he tossed it into the air and let it get away from him a bit before he caught it again. Pansy and Daphne lounged on the steps and watched, but it wasn't their eyes he wanted on him. It was Theo's, more and more with every moment he remained buried in his wretched drawing.

"What's got you in such a bad mood?" Blaise asked now, frowning.

"I'm not in a bad mood, I just don't think Marietta Edgecombe would go out with you." Theo didn't look up, even as Draco made a particularly impressive catch a few inches away. This made Draco's blood boil, and he intentionally released it quite near Theo's face.

"And why not?" Blaise demanded, sounding quite put out.

"Let's see, she's a year older and quite popular, she reads a lot so she's probably smarter than you, and I've never once heard her mention letting off firecrackers in the toilet as a hobby-"

"Once, I did that once!" cried Blaise indignantly, and Draco snatched the Snitch out of midair just before it smacked Theo in the head. Pansy gasped and Daphne giggled, and still, Theo didn't look up.

"Once is enough," he said smoothly, and Draco contemplated throwing the little gold ball at his face. Instead, he released it gently and allowed it to flit between Blaise and Theo. Blaise smacked it away irritably, and Pansy laughed.

"You didn't mention she's beautiful," sighed Blaise, and at last Theo looked up. His eyes flitted briefly over Marietta and he gave a slight shrug and returned to his notebook.

"I suppose."

"You don't think she's beautiful?" gasped Blaise.

"I didn't say that," said Theo.

"Well, you didn't say she is, either."

"I said I suppose, all right, what d'you want from me?"

"Well, who do you think is beautiful?" demanded Blaise.

"Draco!" snapped Theo by way of a response, finally looking up as Draco's hand closed around the Snitch right in front of his nose. "Christ, stop it! We all know you're good, all right?" Draco had never heard Theo sound so annoyed, but all the same felt a small thrill of victory. He'd looked up, and addressed him directly for the first time all week.

"What on earth is going on here?" They all froze at once. Professor Lupin stood above them, staring at Draco with an expression somewhere between shock, disbelief, and barely suppressed rage. "Mr. Malfoy, what do you think you're doing?" Draco looked up, and tried for cold indifference.

"Practicing. Sir."

"Give me that at once," snapped Lupin. He sounded so unlike himself that Draco complied immediately, genuinely fearing what would happen if he didn't. Lupin snatched the struggling golden ball from his hand and pocketed it. "This belongs to-" he broke off, and it was only for a split second, but Draco could swear he saw a glimmer of...fear? No, beyond that-horror-flit over Lupin's face. It was gone almost at once, and he wondered whether he'd imagined it.

"It belongs in Madam Hooch's office. I believe you are on the Slytherin Quidditch team?" Draco gave a slight nod and averted his eyes, no longer daring to look up.

"I would expect you to know, then, how important it is that the equipment be kept locked up outside of school matches to prevent tampering. Risking the consequences to your teammates' safety for your own petty amusement is unacceptable. Seventy-five points from Slytherin." At this, Draco did look up.

"Sir, come on-"

"No end to that sentence could possibly benefit you, Mr. Malfoy. I'll be speaking to Madam Hooch about this." And with that, he swept angrily from the courtyard, leaving Draco feeling vaguely dizzy.

"What the hell's his problem?" said Blaise incredulously.

"He wants Gryffindor to win on Saturday," said Pansy darkly.

"Or maybe Draco reminds him of his long-lost son," Daphne sighed and pretended to gaze longingly into the distance.

"Long-lost lover, with that look on your face," giggled Pansy.

"That's not funny," said Theo quietly.

"You are in a bad mood," Blaise accused. Draco slipped away before he had to hear anything further. He didn't particularly care what Lupin's problem was, but for some reason, the harsh tone of his voice had snapped something inside Draco that had been threatening to break all week. He couldn't stand it if, on top of everything else, his friends saw him cry.

In the days that followed the Halloween feast, the school talked of nothing other than Sirius Black. This wasn't all bad-at least Ron had stopped snarling at Hermione about Scabbers and Crookshanks-but that appeared to be the only benefit. Theories spread through the castle like wildfire, each more ridiculous than the last-Hannah Abbott spent most of a Herbology lesson telling anyone who would listen that Black could turn into a flowering shrub. People suggested he'd Apparated into the castle so often that Hermione grew tired of reminding them this was impossible and simply pursed her lips and let the discussions pass over her.

The Fat Lady's ripped canvas had been removed from the wall and replaced by Sir Cadogan, the portrait of the knight that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had met on the way to their first Divination lesson. Hermione had suspected trouble the moment she saw him, and sure enough, he soon became the bane of Gryffindor's existence. He spent half his time challenging people to duels, and the other half devising ridiculous long, complicated passwords which he changed at least twice a day. It took just short of four days for the entire House to grow fed up to the point of mutiny, but there was nothing to be done-apparently, none of the other portraits wanted the job.

Unfortunately, Sir Cadogan, while annoying, was the least of Hermione's worries. The conversation she'd overheard between Snape and Dumbledore continued to bother her, particularly as teachers began treating Harry with a new, tactful sort of caution that told her they were deeply concerned for his safety. Ordinarily, it was a conversation Hermione might have dismissed. It was well known that Snape was after the Dark Arts job, and by now she was familiar with the open contempt he displayed toward anyone who held it. But at the same time...half the ridiculous theories being bandied about were impossible and the other half simply wouldn't work, but Sirius Black had to have gotten into the castle somehow.

She wanted to ask Harry and Ron what they thought, but they showed very limited interest in the subject. The Monday following the Halloween feast, Professor McGonagall had pulled Harry into her office and announced that Gryffindor's Quidditch practices would be supervised by Madam Hooch from now on, and he was in a very sour mood about it. Ron stalked about in brooding solidarity, narrowing his eyes and snarling through every Transfiguration lesson.

She wanted to ask Draco what he thought, but, well…

She knew this was her fault. She'd known it the moment the stupid words left her mouth in the Great Hall. Don't tell anyone. What was she thinking? She'd run away before she had to see his face that night, but that only made it worse when she inevitably saw the way he was slower than usual to join in his friends' laughter at breakfast, the way he kept his head down in the corridors. In Potions yesterday afternoon she'd accidentally met his eye. He'd turned away at once, but not before she recognized the look he'd had on that awful evening last year after he'd found out about the Polyjuice Potion-an attempt at anger that did little to hide how badly she'd hurt him.

As long as she'd known him, Draco had gotten annoyed at any hint of a comparison between himself and Harry or Ron, whether real or imagined. At first she'd interpreted this as part of the ridiculous grudge that endured between them, and then she'd thought he resented the implication that he wasn't strong enough, or brave enough, or, hell, good enough to be her friend. Now, though it broke her heart, she realized both were wrong. Hadn't he spelled it out for her, that day she'd taught him to skip rocks?

You're strong like that. Inside, I mean. And I'm...well. Me.

Draco didn't think she thought these things; he thought them about himself. But Hermione didn't. Draco was the cleverest person she knew. His mind worked so differently from hers, but that just meant he never bored her. The way she behaved around Harry and Ron was calculated, carefully set to fit their expectations of the girl they'd met solving the mystery of the Sorcerer's Stone. Draco, on the other hand, simply took her as she was, and seemed to relish it when she surprised him. And, all right, it was true that Harry and Ron weren't afraid of the Forbidden Forest, or any of the dozens of innocuous things that made Draco go pale and shrink almost imperceptibly next to her-but christ, she didn't mind. In fact, the strength he seemed to draw from her hand in his made her feel deliciously powerful, and the way he shied away from things like owls was-there was no other word for it-cute.

What on earth was the matter with her, then? Every morning she told herself that this would be the day she'd tell him how sorry she was, explain (if she could) how much she liked him, and swear on everything she remotely cared about that she'd never make him doubt it again. Every day by lunchtime she'd have found some very thin, illogical reason she couldn't possibly, and every night she kicked herself for letting another day go by without speaking to her best friend.

She couldn't imagine what was wrong with her, but whenever she thought about kissing him again, or even being in the same room, her mouth would go dry, her heart would pound hard and unbearably fast in her ears, and she'd feel faint. The eyes of everyone in school, even teachers, even people she'd never spoken to, bore oppressively down on her until she couldn't breathe. Why, though? She didn't care what anyone else thought.

She didn't.

Did she?

So she asked Ginny what she thought. Not about Draco; about Sirius Black. Hermione relayed what she'd overheard at breakfast, allowing the din around them to mask their conversation. Ginny's frown deepened as she talked, and she bit her lip in thought.

"Well...But of course Snape would say something like that, wouldn't he?"

"I know. But the thing is...he did get into the castle somehow. And it's not because he can turn into a flowering shrub." Ginny snorted.

"Loony Lovegood's been saying he carries around wrackspurts and puts them into the ears of dementors to sneak past them." Hermione frowned.

"You shouldn't call her 'Loony.'"

"Well, she is," said Ginny smoothly. Hermione rolled her eyes, then thought for a moment.

"What's a wrackspurt?" she asked. Ginny laughed.

"I asked. You don't want to know." She didn't. "You know, it's obviously not wrackspurts, but I do think he probably got into the castle the same way he got out of Azkaban," Ginny went on after a moment. "I mean, they're both supposed to be impossible to break into or out of, and they're both being guarded by dementors." Hermione paused for a moment, considering.

"So...you don't think anyone helped him to get into Hogwarts, then?"

"I dunno," said Ginny, watching the clouds drift across the enchanted ceiling. "If he could break out of Azkaban by himself, I just wonder whether he'd. Y'know. Need any help."

Ginny was probably right, of course. Her words stayed with Hermione all through Divination, where Professor Trelawney announced, in a deep and tremulous voice, that tonight's full moon meant Harry must beware of a deadly enemy. They echoed through her mind in Charms class, where Seamus Finnegan set fire to his own eyebrows and no one batted an eye. By the time they made their way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, she'd made up her mind. Who better to ask how one might manage to get past dementors, after all, than the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher? And if she did it tactfully enough, she might come away with a better idea of whether Snape's concerns held water.

She was thwarted, however, the moment the class filed in and took their seats. Lupin was nowhere to be seen, and standing behind his desk, surveying them all with utmost disdain, was none other than Snape. Swallowing the lump of dread in her throat, Hermione sat. Harry, however, did not.

"Where's Professor Lupin?" Snape curled his lip.

"He says he is feeling too ill to teach today. Sit down, Potter." Harry remained standing.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing life-threatening," said Snape, looking as though he wished it were. "Five points from Gryffindor, and if I have to ask you to sit down, it will be fifty." Harry hesitated. Annoyed, Hermione seized the elbow of his robes and pulled him into his seat. Snape's eyes glittered maliciously.

"Now, prior to leaving his class in my charge, Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have covered so far-"

"We've done boggarts, Red Caps, kappas, and grindylows," said Hermione without thinking. "We're due to start-"

"I did not ask for information," said Snape coldly. "I was merely commenting on Professor Lupin's lack of organization." This remark elicited an uproar from most of the class, which Snape quelled with an absolute death look around at them all.

"In light of this oversight," he went on, "today we shall discuss…" he snatched up Lavender Brown's textbook from her desk and flipped through it. He was pretending to look thoughtful, but Hermione could tell he had a specific chapter in mind. Sure enough, he reached a page toward the very back and snapped the book decisively shut. "Werewolves. Turn to page 394."

"But sir," said Parvait Patil at once. "We're not supposed to do werewolves yet, we're due to start-"

"Silence," snapped Snape. "I was under the impression I am teaching this class, not you. Page 394, all of you. Now." With quite a lot of sullen muttering and many sidelong glances, the class turned to page 394.

"Which of you can tell me how to distinguish between the werewolf and the true wolf?" asked Snape. There was a very long pause, and sensing that no one else knew the answer, Hermione put up her hand.

"Anyone?" prompted Snape, soundly ignoring her.

"The werewolf differs from the true wolf in several small ways," said Hermione anyway. "The snout of the werewolf-"

"Enough," hissed Snape. "Five points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all." It was as if she'd been slapped. Her face felt hot and cold at the same time, and though she fought bitterly against them, her eyes stung with tears. She turned her gaze sharply down to the floor, unsure whether she was angrier with Snape or herself. The rest of the class, however, dissolved once again into uproar.

"You asked a question and she knows the answer!" said Ron hotly. "Why ask if you don't want to be told?" Hermione had to sneak a glance to make sure it was really him-since when he had ever defended her?-but indeed, he was glaring up at Snape, face slightly flushed.

"Detention, Weasley," said Snape silkily. "And if I ever hear you criticize the way I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed."

No one spoke for the rest of the lesson.

"You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me, on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves," said Snape, as the bell rang. "I want two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want them by Monday morning. Weasley, stay behind, we need to arrange your detention."

Hermione left the classroom with Harry, and the moment they rounded the corner they paused to wait for Ron.

"Snape's never been this bad with any of our other Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, even if he did want the job," said Harry furiously. "Why's he got it for Lupin?" Why, indeed. Hermione considered telling Harry what she'd overheard on Halloween, but now wasn't the time. He was too angry with Snape, he'd dismiss it out of hand. Besides, something about that lesson had stood out to her-even more than Snape's foul temper. Something she'd need much more time to mull over before she spoke up about it.

"I don't know," she said instead. "But I really hope Professor Lupin gets better soon…"

At that moment Ron rounded the corner in a towering temper.

"D'you know what that-that cock-sucking pillock is making me do?!"

"Ron," Hermione interjected, unsure whether to be shocked or amused.

"I've got to scrub out bedpans in the hospital wing. Without magic! Why couldn't Black have hidden in Snape's office, eh? He could have finished him off for us!"

Harry chimed in sympathetically as they set off down the corridor, and Hermione trailed behind slightly. It had been clear right away that werewolves were not a random choice-Snape had always intended to teach the class about werewolves today, regardless of whether Lupin left a lesson plan behind. An essay on identifying werewolves...on the day Lupin had mysteriously fallen ill. Quite suddenly, another realization hit her, so sharp and starling that she stopped in her tracks. Hadn't Professor Trelawney told them it was a full moon tonight?

The morning of the Quidditch match brought a spectacular storm unlike anything Hermione had seen in her life. Thunder clapped deafeningly overhead, distant lightning forked across the sky, and the noise from the gale outside was unbelievable. Despite this, Ginny turned up, beaming, at breakfast to drag Hermione down to the stands.

"I've been looking forward to this for weeks," was all she said in response to Hermione's questions. "I'm not missing the match because of a bit of rain." Hermione felt that a bit of rain was the most generous description that could possibly be applied to what greeted them the moment they opened the oak front doors. They'd practically have to swim across the grounds.

"Hang on," she told Ginny, catching her elbow as an idea struck her. She pulled out her wand and pointed it at Ginny, ignoring the latter's suspicious frown. "Impervius!"

"What's that-"

"We'll repel water," Hermione replied, now performing the spell on herself. Ginny took an experimental step out into the gale, and grinned.

"Brilliant!" she cried. "I can't feel a thing!"

Hermione's spell held as they crossed the grounds and made their way into the stands, which were far emptier than normal. As usual, Ginny rejected the first few seats Hermione pointed out and refused to allow them to stop moving until they found what she deemed an ideal place to watch the game. Hermione didn't see that it mattered-the arena was a circle, after all-but there was no arguing with Ginny when it came to Quidditch. She therefore allowed herself to be led around the stands without complaint, and settled into her seat as Ginny stood leaning over the railing, rapt attention on the players below.

"I wouldn't fancy trying to fly in this wind," said Ginny earnestly, as one of the Slytherin chasers-a seventh-year girl whose name Hermione couldn't remember-was blown off-course and collided with the stands to their left, dropping the Quaffle in the process. Alicia Spinnet swooped in to catch it, but found herself forced to chase the red ball in an extremely stupid-looking manner as it blew further and further ahead of her. All the players looked soaked to the skin in minutes, and extremely miserable. A few people around them gasped, and Ginny winced.

"Oh no, poor Harry!" Harry, the smallest player on the field, couldn't seem to make his broomstick obey his direction in the gale. Draco, only a few inches taller, didn't appear to be faring any better.

"Neither of them is ever going to get the Snitch if it goes on like this," groaned Hermione. "We'll be out here for the rest of our lives."

"Oh, don't complain," said Ginny good-naturedly, and turned her attention back to the match. "Ooh, why are they passing upwind of one another?" she added, frowning. "If I were Flint I'd have quite a bit to say to Pucey and Montague, they should've made that." Hermione normally brought books to Quidditch matches; the weather today made that impossible, and she was very bored.

"That's bloody brilliant!" Ginny exclaimed, pointing. "Hermione, come look!" Feeling that at least she'd have something to do, Hermione stood and joined Ginny at the edge of the stands. Following her finger, she was initially confused; she appeared to be pointing at Harry and Draco, who were tearing up the pitch around ten feet below, blown chaotically from side to side by the wind, and-wait a moment. Harry was being blown chaotically about by the wind. Draco, on the other hand, looked almost as graceful as he did in perfect weather. She frowned at Ginny.

"How is he…?"

"He stopped fighting against the wind," breathed Ginny, a grin of something close to admiration on her face. "He knew he'd keep being blown off-course, so he just...changed his course." The surge of pride and affection that tore through her nearly knocked her off her feet-or maybe it was the wind.

"Why is Harry sticking so close to him?" she asked, after a moment. "I mean, isn't he afraid they'll crash?" Ginny shook her head.

"He probably can't see," she said. "Not with his glasses in this rain. He'll never spot the Snitch, but Draco might...and Harry can spot Draco..."

"So Draco will lead him to the Snitch," Hermione finished. Ginny nodded.

"They're good. If they were on the same team they'd be unbeatable."

Hermione sighed slightly and returned to her seat. Yes, that thought had crossed her mind once in a while, and not just about Quidditch. She couldn't be sure how much time had passed before Ginny turned back toward her, face now glowing with panic. She yanked Hermione roughly up from her seat.

"What the-?"

"It's Harry," Ginny explained, voice much higher than usual. "We've got to get to the hospital wing!"

Draco's hand was so cold and wet that he nearly fumbled the Snitch and dropped it. When the whistle signaled the end of the game he shot gratefully toward the ground; he didn't care that they'd won, he simply couldn't stand another second of his sodden Quidditch robes. They stuck to his skin so tightly he couldn't breathe. It occurred to him, as he touched down, to wonder where Potter had gone-he hadn't left Draco alone all game, sticking so close that he'd been terrified they'd crash and fall to their deaths-and then suddenly it was as if he'd evaporated into thin air.

It was colder now, too. The air was thick, and a low-hanging fog covered the pitch that he could've sworn hadn't been there when the match had started. Intense dread prickled at the back of his neck, and he sped toward the distant green blurs he supposed were the rest of the team. The moment he reached them, it was clear something was very wrong. Teachers had come down onto the pitch, which never happened, and were clustered tightly around something Draco couldn't see. The Gryffindor team huddled a few feet away from the Slytherins, and Wood and Flint stood between them, heads together, talking.

"What happened?" he asked. Lucy jumped.

"Christ, Draco," she breathed, then shook her head. "It's Potter," she explained. "He fell off his broom a few moments before you got the Snitch." Draco froze. Loath though he was to admit it, this didn't seem right. Potter wouldn't simply fall off his broom.

"Why?" he asked. "I mean, what-" he broke off. Lucy was frowning at him.

"You really didn't see?" she asked. Draco shook his head, perplexed.

"No." Lucy shuddered.

"Dementors," she said softly. "They came on the pitch a few minutes ago. He ran smack into them, and then a moment later he fell off his broom." Draco felt as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him. Of course-the fog, the cold. He was an idiot.

"We won, though," Lucy added.

"Er-what?"

"You caught the Snitch, Draco. Don't tell me you've forgotten the rules of Quidditch."

"I know the rules of Quidditch," snapped Draco. "But that doesn't count. I mean-" he broke off. Why he was arguing, he couldn't have explained in a million years. Lucy shrugged.

"It's a rough game," she said, unconcerned. "Things happen. There's no reason it doesn't count."

Yes, Quidditch was a rough game. Things did happen. Injuries. Not bloody dementors. That's why he was arguing; Draco wouldn't have wished the way he felt around dementors on his worst enemy-literally. He broke from the team and walked over to Flint and Wood.

"Call it off," he said flatly. "I didn't know. It's not fair." Both Captains turned sharply to face him, startled.

"Go back to the team, Draco," said Flint sharply.

"Say you'll call it off," he insisted. Flint made an impatient sound in his throat and looked away. Wood, on the other hand, was studying Draco intently.

"We're not calling it off," said Wood heavily. "It's over. You've won." Draco shook his head.

"But I-I didn't-"

"I know you didn't, Malfoy. It isn't your fault. We're still not calling it off." Wood spoke like an old soldier admitting defeat in a battle. It made Draco feel sick.

"Wood, I-I'm sorry." He was. "If I'd known..." he trailed off, for something else had caught his attention. Hovering perhaps ten feet away, partially hidden among the stands but unmistakably there, was a black dog. Draco stared for a few moments, heart suddenly racing-was this the same dog? It had to be.

"Seriously, Draco, go back to the team." Flint again. Not knowing what else to do, Draco obeyed. By the time he looked back at the stands, the black dog had vanished.

His confusion mounted as he walked the familiar path back up to the castle. If his theory was correct, Sirius Black had broken into Hogwarts again. To...watch a Quidditch match? This seemed so trivial as to render the whole thing absurd, but he'd definitely seen the dog. If he was correct, and Sirius Black had broken into the castle twice now...well, he was officially the worst mass murderer Draco could imagine. He could've easily killed Draco on Halloween, at least, but he hadn't even attacked anyone, unless you counted slashing a portrait. And this time...why had he bothered breaking into the grounds just to watch Quidditch?

Well, Draco reminded himself, apparently he wouldn't have had to pass the dementors.

By the time he'd showered and put on dry clothes, he felt simultaneously sick with guilt about Potter and disgusted with himself for caring. Why the hell did he care, anyway? The longer he thought about it, the angrier he felt at himself as the answer eluded him. He couldn't speak to his friends or teammates, couldn't eat dinner, certainly couldn't celebrate Slytherin's victory. By the time a party broke out around him in the common room, he couldn't stand it any longer.

Before he could think better of it, he slipped silently out of the crowd and put one foot in front of the other until he reached the hospital wing.

He paused just outside the door, listening. There were a thousand reasons this was a terrible idea, and it wouldn't do to have anyone catch him at it.

Madam Pomfrey admitted him with pursed lips and a disapproving scowl-he supposed the Gryffindor team had probably made a ruckus there all afternoon, but they were gone now. Good.

Potter saw him approach and narrowed his eyes at once.

"You," he snarled. "Come to gloat, have you?" Well, he couldn't have been hurt that badly if his temper was still intact.

"No," said Draco flatly. He took a deep breath to steady himself. "I actually came to apologize." Potter scoffed.

"Right."

"I'm serious. When I got the Snitch I had no idea the dementors were there. I'd never have caught it if I'd known, and I think it's rotten that they called the match for Slytherin. So, I'm sorry." Potter was studying him in a way he didn't care for, though he couldn't have said why.

"What d'you want from me?" he said finally. Draco frowned.

"What?"

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't want something, and I'm tired, and I don't want to talk to you any longer. So spit it out." This was so unbelievable that it took Draco a moment to gather a coherent thought.

"Fuck's sake, Potter, I don't want anything." As he said this, his eyes lit upon something sitting on the bedside table. It was a battered paper bag, seemingly full of bits of splintered wood. Catching a bit of gold lettering on one of the larger pieces, Draco felt his heart stop and his stomach drop to his feet. "That's not-" he heard the tremble in his voice, but he didn't care. Potter didn't need to say anything; his expression was enough. "Christ, Potter, I-I'm so sorry."

"Get. The hell. Out." Potter didn't sound purely angry any longer. His voice was brittle in a way Draco had never heard before, and it chilled him to the bone.

"Right," he nearly whispered. "I-sorry."

He turned and walked back across the hospital wing, feeling bizarrely empty inside. It was bad enough what had happened with the match; losing his broomstick….well, Draco couldn't imagine. Rationally, he knew that bit wasn't his fault-it wasn't as if he'd called the dementors-but the thought made him sick. And, as if this wasn't enough, he opened the door and nearly walked smack into Hermione. She froze, and went pale as their eyes locked. He could tell by the guilt-ridden look on her face that she'd heard everything. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but if Draco heard her voice, he was sure he'd break in half and bleed out in the middle of the corridor. He brushed roughly past her and shot off down the stairs, heart thudding, mind racing, not a clue where he was going-only knowing he needed to keep moving, or the consequences would be unspeakable.

By the time he returned to the common room, most everyone had either sneaked out to wherever it was the older students took their parties after a certain hour, or gone to bed. Theo sat by the fire, absentmindedly stroking Olive with one hand and drawing with the other. His eyes looked green with the flickering of the fire reflected in them, a shadow perfectly followed the line of his cheekbone, and his hand looked shapely and pristine against Olive's dark fur. Draco wasn't sure whether he'd ever seen anything so beautiful, and then something inside him snapped. He crossed the room in what felt like a single step and snatched the notebook from Theo's hand-the drawing was of a girl's face, half in shadow, with what looked like the Hogwarts lake and the mountains around it reflected in the pupil of her visible eye. It clearly wasn't finished, but nonetheless it was perfect, which only made Draco angrier.

Olive fled as Theo's head jerked up in alarm.

"What the hell-"

"Why are you afraid of me?" Draco interrupted. In a million years he wouldn't have chosen to ask this question, and certainly not in this manner, but it wasn't him in charge of his actions any longer. It was the hot ball of hurt, confusion, and anger he'd carried around since Halloween, and possibly even before. It was tired of being suppressed, and hungry for answers. The color drained from Theo's face.

"I-you said-"

"I know what I said," snapped Draco. "And I changed my mind. You're not the only one, you know. It's her too, I can see it, that's why she-" he broke off. "I'm trying so fucking hard!" he heard the catch in his voice, and gritted his teeth. "I know, all right? That I haven't always been a good person, I'm not stupid. I know that's why you never liked me at first, even though Pansy and Blaise-well, they couldn't see it, but you're different, you could-"

"Draco-"

"But I thought we were past that! I thought you could see me differently now, I mean-" he broke off and swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty. Suddenly, every time he'd been rude to a teacher, shoved a younger student, or-fucking hell-snapped at Theo in the last two years flashed before his eyes, making him dizzy. "I know I'm not...the best, all right, that's fair, but I'm trying-"

"Draco, stop." Theo was trying to meet his eyes, but couldn't quite seem to do it, as if afraid he'd be burned. But Draco couldn't stop.

"Tell me what it is, then! Tell me what it is I've got to change so you won't be afraid of me, because I can't stand it anymore!" Theo was staring at him as if he were a hitherto undiscovered and possibly dangerous creature.

"I'm not," he said, so quietly that Draco scarcely caught it. "I'm not afraid of...you."

"That's not going to work," said Draco at once. His insides were shaking so badly that he couldn't believe he could still speak. "I was there, all right, I saw the boggart, and I'm not fucking stupid, you haven't said three words to me since October-"

"Draco, for fuck's sake!" Theo got to his feet and raised his voice slightly. "You can't do that! You can't ask a question and then keep talking before I can answer it!"

"Answer it then!" Draco retorted.

"I did!"

"Then I don't believe you!" They were yelling now, standing on opposite sides of the rug in front of the fire, panting as though they'd just run a hundred miles.

"I'm telling the truth." Theo's tone leveled out. "I'm not afraid of you." Draco felt as if the earth were suddenly spinning without him. Without thinking he crossed to Theo's side of the rug.

"You're saying that as though I'm supposed to catch your meaning so you don't have to tell me, but I don't! I don't understand what you mean!"

"I'm not exactly sure I do, either!" snapped Theo. He took a step back, small but noticeable. "I'm sorry, all right?" he added after a moment, in an entirely different tone. His hands were shaking, but his eyes didn't waver from Draco's. There was a look deep inside them that tugged at Draco's memory, but he couldn't seem to place it. "I...it's hard, sometimes, to look at you? Because I really don't know how I feel about you-but you-I'm not afraid of you." Draco shook his head. He felt as if Theo's meaning were trapped in some part of his brain he'd never used and didn't have the key to.

"I still don't know what the fuck you're-"

"Oh, my god!" exclaimed Theo, and kissed him.

It occurred to Draco for half a second to fight, but his body wouldn't cooperate, and then...well, it felt good, didn't it? Theo's hand slipped back into his hair, warm and solid, and he felt the breath leave him.

They broke apart slowly, almost lazily.

"I know what you mean." Draco heard the words leave his own mouth as if spoken by a stranger. Theo looked terrified.

"I-oh, god, I-don't tell-" he broke off, and, before Draco could speak or think, fled the common room. It felt as if someone had pulled a plug somewhere and drained the room of air like water from a tub. Draco threw himself onto the sofa, buried his face in the pillows, and screamed.