Looking back on how many books Harry had read from Luna's library, it must have more than doubled the number of books he'd read in his entire life. After his first week of binge-reading, he reached book fifteen, Kohaku of the Haunted Island. The book's cover featured a young Japanese man who periodically disappeared and reappeared.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

"Who are you? You're . . . a ghost." The panic Reo had felt upon seeing the man receded. "Can you speak?" If he kept talking, he could ignore his fear.

The ghost shook his head, then gestured toward the base of his neck.

"You can't speak. But you can understand Japanese. I suppose you look Japanese . . ." Reo studied his angular features, his traditional clothing. The robes were unfamiliar, but then again, he knew little about older wizarding communities in Japan, and just as little about whatever time period this man had died in. "Can you nod for yes, shake your head for no?"

The man nodded.

"When did you die?"

The man didn't react.

"Okay . . . did you live in Tokyo?"

The man shook his head.

"Are you looking for someone?" No. "Are you going to hurt me?" No. "If you wanted to, could you hurt me?" A shrug. "Did people shrug when you were alive?" Another shrug. "Do you know what shrugging means?" A nod. "Can I put on music? It's a bit creepy with you just standing there." A nod.

"Oh, maybe I should write out kana so we can communicate." He fetched a pad of paper and began to copy down hiragana, in addition to writing out common responses, such as "No," "Yes," "I don't know," and "I would prefer not to say."

The ghost stepped closer and reached past Reo to touch "ko," "ha," and "ku."

"Kohaku. It's a nice name. Are you afraid to tell me your last name because I would look you up online?"

Kohaku rolled his eyes.

This reaction surprised Reo. "You must have died recently. Anyhow, it's a bit familiar to just call you 'Kohaku-san,' isn't it? What's your surname?"

Kohaku shook his head.

"Hm. Please tell me when you're able. How old are you? 20? Oh, older. 21? 22–no, I already guessed that. 23? 24? So you're 24. I'm 19. Is that in ghost years? You look the same age as me."

Kohaku just stared. His gaze wasn't threatening, but it was intense. When had he gotten so close?

"If you could move objects, you could use a pen to write, or something . . . No." Reo glanced at the clock. "I have to make myself dinner. Are you staying, or do you have someone else to haunt?" Kohaku didn't reply, just continued looking at Reo. "Alright then, make yourself at home."

The ghost sat down at the table and idly looked around the room as Reo fetched the ingredients and pulled out a book of cooking spells.

"I'm not normally this talkative. But since I've started university, I haven't made many friends. You're the first person I've had a long conversation with. Except you're not even talking."

"Next time."

The voice, soft and deep, sent Reo's heart into a panic. He turned around, shocked, but Kohaku had disappeared. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

By now, Harry could easily see where the story was headed. Reo and the ghost would become closer, one of them would fall in love, and by the end, they would confess but realize it was impossible to be together. Knowing the inevitable ending of the story both compelled Harry to keep reading and repelled him from continuing; the conflict drew him in but the predictability made him somewhat bitter.

And at first, the story went as he'd guessed it would. The two became closer as Kohaku's abilities strengthened, his voice fading in and out, strong one day and distant the next. They fell into a routine, spending more and more time together as Reo's pursued his studies, even (to Harry's secondhand embarrassment) bathing together.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

Kohaku shook his head, pointed at Reo, then gestured at his own face, and patted his heart. He repeated the motion until Reo said slowly, "You like my face?" When Kohaku nodded, Reo laughed. "Even when it's red, I guess."

Apparently Kohaku wasn't finished. He pointed again at Reo, then ran his fingers down his own arm before putting a hand over his heart.

"I think I've lost you."

Kohaku gestured for a pen and paper.

"Alright." Used to the spell, Reo waved his hand and the materials floated over. After Kohaku finished writing, he passed the note to Reo, who read silently once, then again, and again.

You're beautiful.

This took a moment to sink in. Reo avoided Kohaku's eyes, fresh embarrassment rushing into his face. His fingers trembled over the words. "Why would you say that?" He slid the paper back to Kohaku.

When the paper returned, it said, Because it's true.

"But . . . it's strange to say this sort of thing when we're like this."

This time, it took a bit longer for him to receive a reply. After a minute, the paper said: No stranger than you and I, talking to each other every day.

As they stared at each other, Reo grew increasingly self-conscious. "You only give me half-truths. I can tell."

Kohaku put his foot through Reo's calf, then raised an eyebrow, as if to say, "See?"

Reo stared. "But you're . . . I felt you."

Kohaku raised an eyebrow, grinning, then held out his hand. Hesitating only a moment, Reo took it. It was solid—but no sooner had he realized this than Kohaku was gone.

Reo's heart raced. Something was about to change. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

Harry knew little about the magic of other regions in the world, so he had no idea whether the plot twist at the end of the book was at all based in reality:

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

Reo opened his eyes and sat up. He wasn't in his bedroom. Had he visited a friend? Gotten drunk and blacked out? No, he remembered getting in his own bed. And this room was unlike any he had seen outside of a museum, lacking the artificial whites and plastics of a student apartment in Tokyo, instead in a traditional style better suited to the Edo period.

Just before he was ready to get out of there, the door slid open and Kohaku walked in, dressed in kimono, lithe frame fitting perfectly with the size of the furniture, so that Reo knew this had to be his home. Was this a memory or a vision?

When Kohaku made eye contact with Reo, the scene evaporated, and he was back in his bed. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

Shortly after, it was revealed that Kohaku belonged to a thousand-year-old wizarding community hidden off of the coast of Japan. The people possessed unique Apparating powers that allowed them to project themselves elsewhere within a reasonable distance. The Apparitions created by their ability made them ghostlike if they weren't anchored by strong familiarity of a place.

The possibility occurred to Harry that perhaps his father's family was descended from a time-traveling community, and that had caused the time loop. He recruited Hermione to help him pursue this idea, trying to keep his hope in check.

"It's an interesting idea, Harry, but I've never heard of such a community. That sort of thing is usually learned, not genetic."

"What about Tonks? She's a Metamorphmagus."

"And she's known it all her life. I'm not saying it's impossible, but considering you've never manipulated time on your own before . . ."

"Right. You're probably right."

"How did you get this idea, anyhow?"

"A book."

"Can I read it?"

"No!" said Harry quickly—too quickly, so that Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Er, if you read it now, you'd forget it when the day resets anyway."

Back in the library the next day, Luna gave him another book he had yet to read. "This one is quite unusual but it has a happy ending," she said, tapping the spine of Hungry: the sequel in three parts by Kurt Henriksen. The real book turned out to be Lust by Isak Nystrøm, a novel written at the turn of the century about a man who, after dozens of heart-rending flings at university, takes a ten-year vow of chastity. Oslo, his choice of a new place to live, proves to provide a healthy new beginning, largely thanks to the group of academics he grows close to over the first couple of years. When they find out about his celibacy, they secretly wager that they'd be able to find someone alluring enough to make him break his vow. Jeger, one of the friends, lets the protagonist in on the secret bet with the promise of splitting half of his winnings if he makes it a full ten years. Each attempt to break his vow ends with some comedic fiasco.

A year before the bet expires, one of these friends introduces the protagonist to Rav, a man from Denmark who happens to be a Metamorphmagus.

Of course, they fall in love.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

"I lost twenty crowns!" I waved my hands wildly about, almost sobbing.

"You what? Are you out of your mind now?"

"All I had to do was wait a month . . . I just am infatuated with you, Rav . . . you are the most handsome man I've ever known, I could no longer hold back . . ."

"What are you saying?" asked Rav, pulling on his nightshirt and walking to my side.

"I took a vow of chastity to help myself focus. My writing, you know . . . But I refrained from intimacy with you because if I went ten years without touching another person I would get twenty crowns. Now Jeger's out of his money, too!" I came to my senses and went to Rav. "No amount of money could have kept me away from you, not for long."

He was too good for this world, looking at me with the biggest brown eyes I had ever seen. How could I resist this man, chiseled by the gods in every new form he took?

"You say you love me, but you lied."

"I wanted to use the money to take you on a trip through Europe." His brown eyes became blue as he stared at me. "What do you want me to say?"

"That we should travel Europe anyhow. I want you to come to Denmark." ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

Harry found the book quite odd on the whole, but he supposed it was intended to be that way. It made him wonder to what extent Tonks Metamorphmagused herself and left him frustrated with the narrator for depriving himself of something he so clearly wanted.

Despite his annoyance, there was something addictive about stories in which the protagonist had not experienced or did not understand love, then found it. Love was so obvious to Harry, especially since he knew those who had no true concept of love, whose ignorance connected to their larger evils. It was one thing to know he could love, but quite another to have faith that he would experience romantic love as strong as the characters in the books he read. The books filled a space in his heart while also worsening his loneliness.

Luna told him there were only half a dozen books left that she felt were worth reading, so he memorized their titles and took his time getting through them.

The first of the remaining books had a cover illustrated with an intricate scene. The illustration took thirty seconds to complete its animation—the white cover slowly cleared away to reveal an island in the mist, and boats filled with people slowly slid into view, before disappearing into the mist again.

The main characters were a group of Korean high school students who decide to find a fabled island in the Sea of Japan, but separate when a typhoon suddenly hits them. Most of the story follows two boys who unlock the secrets of the island, which enhances their magic as it also consumes them.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

"Iseul-hyung!" Ye-Jun ran to his friend, or what his friend had become—his body had been absorbed by the large tree beside the pond. When he reached out to touch the tree, his eyes were flooded with memories, some real, some invented.

As he tried to grasp each memory, he found he was unable to recall what he had just seen. Pushing his mind in one huge heave, Ye-Jun broke free from the trap. He couldn't remember his name, or where he was, only that he had to free the person in front of him. Ye-Jun ran to the tree, placed his hands on the shoulders of the boy in the bark, and pulled. They stumbled backwards and before either of them could think, Ye-Jun kissed Iseul. His memories returned in a flash. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

If Harry hadn't read so many other stories where friends of the same sex realized their feelings for one another, he may have been surprised by the kiss. Now he knew what signs to look for: the mutual obsession, stolen glances, unexplained embarrassment, and the final ingredient—fate. Sometimes there were signs that their relationship would blow up in the characters' faces, other times Harry knew that out of the drama they would end up together.

Still, whenever he thought he had the formula figured out, and grew tired of the same conflicts, characters, and tropes, something would surprise him.

A novella from Mexico was one such story, as its protagonist Marcia had no interest in physical intimacy, which Harry didn't realize was possible. Marcia left school to become an apprentice for an architect in the wizarding community parallel to Mexico City. One of the men there took a liking to her. She initially turned him down, certain it would never work, until she found out he was only interested in her romantically.

In a South American short story collection, he read a Brazilian tale called "A Passagem Velada" in which the protagonist and her female friend fall in love. The protagonist is promised to be married to a wealthy male suitor, but becomes lovers with her friend in secret. When the suitor discovers this, he kills the protagonist, only to be later sacrificed by the lover in order to bring the protagonist from the dead.

In just a few weeks, Harry had familiarized himself with the rich history of queer desire and complex aspirations of the community. So what was holding back everyone else? Why would the wizarding community, already persecuted by the majority of the world, further divide itself? Hermione, he knew, would take up this cause if she learned about it. She would undoubtedly read three times as many books as he did in half the time.

The book he had saved for last was called To London, with Love. It took place in the 1950s, ten years before it had been written by a Scottish author. It followed a forty-year-old man who worked in the Ministry of Magic for the Muggle-wizard relations department. He went undercover to investigate a dealer of magical construction materials. Apparently—and Harry wondered if this really happened—Muggles wanted the supplies to rebuild more quickly after the destruction resulting from World War II.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

Graham burst into the room, about to order Anton to put his hands up, when he spotted the man lying in the middle of the floor. He ran to the body, dread hitting him in the gut—Is he dead?—but the warm breath on the back of his hand told him otherwise. There were no signs of a struggle, which led him to the most likely conclusion: wizards had taken him out.

"Let's get you some help," he said, and Disapparated with the body. At St. Mungo's, there was a ward designed to imitate a Muggle hospital, with fake electrical equipment and crude metal tools, so as not to induce panic in non-magic patients.

Once the doctors assessed the Muggle, the two were left alone in the room.

Graham had been practicing his German in his head. "I studied German in my twenties, before the war," he said, even though he knew the man could not understand. "Er, wann ich—als ich dreiundzwanzig war, habe ich Deutsch gelernt. Aber . . ." What was the verb for forget? "I vergesse viel. Ich habe viel vergessen? Vergisst? That's not right . . ."

The man waited for him to decide, then said slowly, "Ich heisse Anton. Ich bin vierunddreissig Jahre alt."

So he was 34. "Ich heisse Graham! My name is Graham. Und ich bin vierzig Jahre alt. Ich will Sie Englisch lehren, also dann Sie mehr remembieren können. Ah, I'm butchering this, aren't I? You can't stick "ieren" onto any English word and hope it's a German word . . . And is also a subordinating conjunction? Maybe you can teach me German, since I clearly have room for improvement. Können Sie mir Deutsch lehren?"

"Du kannst 'du' sagen." Anton tapped his head. "Und es ist 'erinnern.'"

"Oh! Du instead of Sie—we've only just met, though? Er, right, then." Between his own ineptitude at using the German language and Anton's distracting lips, Graham wished he could start their entire interaction over.

The door opened and a group of Healers entered. A woman led the group, greeted them with a smile, and sat down next to Anton's bed. They exchanged conversation in rapid German for several minutes as Graham did his best to follow. He hoped he caught the gist of it, that Anton was feeling okay, he couldn't remember, no, and no again, and another explanation of how he was feeling and what he had done over the past few years.

Lacking the words to fully understand, Graham followed Anton's expression closely. The man was staring at the woman intently, and it was obvious that he should, what with her perfect hair and curvaceous figure. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

Harry's heart sank. Graham was going to get discouraged from pursuing Anton, only to later find that Anton fancied him all along. Or Anton would swing from men to women and ultimately leave Graham. At least, it seemed to be headed in that direction, until there was an abrupt chapter from Anton's perspective that clarified his feelings. With the pair on the same page, they finally coupled up.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

"Wie sagt man, 'Can I kiss you?'"

"Kann ich dich küssen? But I should say, 'Küss mich.'" Anton pulled Graham closer by his collar and kissed him. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

When Harry finished the book, he felt hollow, even though the pair had gotten together and presumably lived happily ever after. Or maybe it was because they got together against his expectations; there was something particular about the story, something uncomfortably free and unabashed that rent his insides.

He had grown tired of living life through others. For every character who got their happy ending, he remembered how others relied on him for theirs. For every time two characters of the same sex kissed, he remembered how it felt when Draco's hands gripped his arms and how could he know if he liked the kiss when he had been too shocked to consider it? For every character who overcame a societal obstacle, there was a character who could not. Why waste time forcing himself to question things if he could always choose to be with a woman?

"Thank you, Luna," he said that afternoon when she joined him in the library.

"What for, Harry?"

"You recommended some books to me. Er, the unicorn ones."

"I did? I'm sorry, I don't remember."

"I'm not one for reading when I don't have to. But now I get why people do. For at least three months now, I've been trapped in the same day and it's been more difficult than you'd imagine. I needed an escape."

"Trapped in the same day?"

"Time's repeating, over and over again, and although it may sound cool, a lot of it is really tedious, even though I've discovered things about people—about myself . . ."

"I'm sorry that this is happening to you, Harry." She hugged him, her slightly puzzled face lingering after they parted. "If I've told you to read the books, it must have been more than for you to escape."

Harry nodded, trying to ignore the queasiness in his gut. She was seeing something in himself that he didn't want her to see, and so quickly. "So, er, d'you mind if I . . . ? I've got to go back to the common room, I'll see you around." He kept to a brisk walk and was relieved to find the dorm room empty once he reached it. Instead of having a cry like he'd expected, he flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling.

Don't think about it, think about what to do. Reading, talking, going to class: life was getting too tedious to stand. So to make things more interesting, he was inventing things about himself. Trying to repeat the stories of those he cared about, those he read about. Weaving together misunderstandings to complicate things. He hated that feeling, of having life slow down enough that he was left solely with his thoughts. Most of his childhood had been spent that way—kept from books, television, other children.

If it had been so easy for him to deny the unexplained phenomena as a child, the things that happened to him that pointed toward difference. Why should he be special? He was already different enough— brown, skinny, weird, bullied—all that on top of inexplicable leaps onto the school kitchen roof and fast-growing hair. He wasn't afforded any explanation, any support for what set him apart. What would it have been like, being raised by two wizarding parents, a father who looked like him and a mum who was . . . he had to stop entertaining the idea.

He started to wonder about everything, about stolen glances at the more alluring parts of the same gender and when awareness crossed into curiosity. No, none of it mattered. Why speculate when it was nothing? When he fancied Ginny, a girl; when he'd hardly ever fancied anyone?

A possible escape route drove him out of his fevered doubt: he had a vial of Felix Felicis. Hermione had told him months back that the potion wouldn't be strong enough to end the time loop and that he'd risk wasting it if the time loop ended. But he had waited long enough.

When he had used Felix Felicis to get information from Slughorn, he'd had a purpose. It seemed at first to take him out of his way by bringing him to Aragog's funeral before ultimately setting up the exact right moment to get what he needed. He hoped that if he used it now, some purpose or strategy would emerge.

As soon as he awoke the next day, he took a generous sip of the potion. Immediately, the Felix made him feel euphoric. He waited for the spark, the instinct of what to do, and it told him, Knockturn Alley.

There was one potion he had not yet tried, and now he remembered that Myrtle had suggested it months ago: Polyjuice Potion. So after spending the day being more inconspicuous than he had been the entire loop, he traveled to Diagon Alley via the Floo Network, withdrew money from Gringotts, applied a few disguise charms, and found an apothecary in Knockturn Alley.

Without bothering to scan the shelves himself, he went directly to the counter. "I'm looking for Polyjuice Potion."

The shopkeep raised an eyebrow at him. "That's a restricted substance. Seventeen and older only."

Impatient, Harry slid her forty galleons, five times the asking price for four hours of potion. Attempting to hide a self-satisfied smile, the shopkeep summoned a large flask and pocketed most of the coins.

Back at Hogwarts, and with Ron and Hermione's help, Harry body-bound Pansy, hiding her in the Room of Requirement. While he conferred with Dobby about an escape plan for the night, Hermione used the Invisibility Cloak to sneak into the Slytherin's girls' dormitory to steal some of Pansy's clothes.

"Why would anyone want to live there?" Hermione's face was screwed up in distaste as she handed Harry his now invisible glasses. "I'm glad I finally saw it, though."

"No Gryffindor would trade it for what we have, that's for certain."

On his way to the dungeon under the cloak and in Pansy's clothes, Harry drank half of the Polyjuice Potion, popped two mints in his mouth, then went to the entrance and recited the password: "Salazar." He pocketed the cloak and entered the dungeon.

The common room was full of students studying, conversations kept to whispers under the greenish glow of the lamps and windows overhead. When he thought of the Gryffindor common room, the first words that came to mind were "familiar," "cozy," and "warm." This was strange, unyielding, and cold, but remarkably posh. Feeling more relaxed under Felix's influence despite his ignorance to the larger point of his being there, more details stood out to him about the room: silver adornments on the high chairs, a number of large black leather sofas, and faded medieval tapestries that hung on the stone walls. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle sat at a desk in the corner, and as Harry approached them, he noticed that Malfoy wasn't reading, just staring into space. Harry was accustomed to his listless expression, but still found it troubling. If the company of his friends in a safe place didn't do much to help his mood, what would?

"Hi, Draco."

Malfoy looked up at him, dull expression at once sharp. "Ah, Pansy, I was wondering where you were." He had recently showered, so his usually slick hair flopped over his forehead. His boyhood self was merely a shadow in his gaunt features, an even starker contrast when next to his longtime friends, who showed no signs of the same level of stress. "Come with me, I'm going to bed. Crabbe, Goyle, you can wait up till midnight, can't you? Tell Zabini and Pike, too, if you see them."

Crabbe and Goyle snickered. "Sure, mate."

Despite Malfoy's implication, no alarm bells rang in Harry's head. He's bluffing.

As they walked up the stairs, Draco asked Harry, tone flat, "Are you planning to grow out your hair?"

"I'm not sure." The Felix nudged him. "No, I'm going to cut it short."

"Good, I like it much better short."

They passed a mirror on the way to his room. Pansy's straight black hair fell past her jawline, almond eyes a striking hazel hue, reminding him vaguely she was mixed race, white and Korean. For some reason, he was both relieved and annoyed that no one would think they looked alike.

Once in the dorm, Harry sat down on what appeared to be Malfoy's bed, if the "DM" insignia on the duvet was any clue. He noted, unsurprised, that their beds were considerably larger than the ones in his dorm. Tall arched windows filtered in the same green light that illuminated the common room.

Malfoy sat down next to him and rested his head in Harry's lap, just as he had with Pansy on the Hogwarts Express. His head felt heavy, surprisingly solid, and the position was childlike, with a suggestion of vulnerability and trust that caught Harry off guard. Beginning at Malfoy's temple, he ran his fingers through his hair. It didn't feel intimate, just calculated, like a cheery greeting before asking a favor. "Are you feeling well, Draco?"

"I'm fine."

"You look tired, is all. Have you been sleeping enough?"

"Not really."

Malfoy's skin was stretched over his cheekbones, and there were dark circles under his eyes, more prominent up close. Though his pale skin tended to be clear, a few spots dotted his upper lip. "This school is getting on my nerves. Potter, the blood-traitor Weasley, the Mudblood girl, Dumbledore . . ."

"Well, they're not here. It's just you and me." Harry's fingers twitched with the effort not to yank Malfoy's hair, the Felix's mental leash straining.

Malfoy scoffed. Maybe he would argue under different circumstances, but he had spent at least half an hour crying in the bathroom and was undoubtedly exhausted.

"Can I massage your back?" asked Harry, moving a hand to his shoulder.

He looked at Harry strangely. "I suppose so. Yes, give me a massage. That would help." He sat up and faced away from Harry, who placed his hands on Malfoy's shoulders.

He kneaded Malfoy's back for what seemed like ages. Without the soothing effect of the Felix Felicis, it would have been disconcerting to touch him in this way, albeit alone in his room, and for so long.

"That's enough." Malfoy returned to his position beside Harry, head back in his lap.

Harry stroked Malfoy's hair, silent, until the potion urged him to try something new. He ran the back of his fingernails across his neck, raising goosebumps on his pale skin.

Malfoy closed his eyes and sighed. "That feels good."

Harry stayed silent, heart racing, even though his mind was calm and sure.

Malfoy raised his arms, stretched, and turned on his back, looking up at Harry/Pansy. "You're awfully quiet."

"I was just thinking of what we'll do once we win the war."

Malfoy chuckled, the reaction nearly a purr. "My family will be rewarded for everything we've done for the Dark Lord. The manor was last expanded in the nineteenth century, so we will oversee renovations in the twenty-first, and you can visit whenever you like."

"I'd like that." Harry flushed under Malfoy's gaze. Because he was in Pansy's body, he must be reacting as she would react, seeing Malfoy like he was, his arms over his head, staring with heavy-lidded eyes.

Malfoy tilted his head up slightly—an invitation—and they kissed. It was nothing like the Amortentia-induced kiss; it was detached, brief, formal, what Harry might've imagined the peck of a faded marriage to feel like.

Malfoy's lips were cold and chapped, but his breath was warm. When he pulled away, he sighed. "I'm going to bed."

Harry fought desperately against what the Felix told him to do. Surely this had gone on long enough. But it was futile; his mouth had other plans. "Can I lie with you for a while?"

"If you want." Malfoy crossed to his drawers and rummaged for pajamas. He took off his shirt, revealing the dark tattoo that coiled up his left forearm.

Harry had seen the mark before, but he hadn't known if any of Malfoy's friends were aware he was a Death Eater.

"I love how you look with the Dark Mark, Draco." Internally, Harry cursed every fiber of his being for sounding so vapid.

"I do, too." Malfoy smirked at Harry as he pulled on his shirt. "Want to borrow something of mine to wear?"

"Yes."

Malfoy searched for something, then threw Harry a button-down.

Harry didn't feel Malfoy's eyes on him as he quickly changed, which was odd. He started to pull down the black tights Pansy wore under her skirt, then stopped. The tops of Pansy's thighs were webbed with harsh blue lines that crackled across her skin like lightning. He stared at them, wondering what on earth could have caused such marks. When he turned around, Malfoy was staring abstractedly into space, just as he had in the common room.

Harry cleared his throat, breaking Malfoy's concentration. After he sniffed and blinked a few times, Malfoy gestured for Harry to lay behind him, even though Pansy was shorter by several inches.

Harry crawled over to where Malfoy had indicated and stretched out beside him. He took a small comfort in knowing that to Malfoy, he was a girl, and it would serve some purpose to do whatever it was he was there for. Even if he didn't know what he was doing, at least the Felix had a plan. Surely it wasn't necessary for him to like the scent of the bedclothes—

And then the Felix clued him in to the point of infiltrating Malfoy's dorm room. Harry would wait until he was asleep, then rummage through his things. There was something he'd missed in Malfoy's plan. He glanced at his watch; it was ten thirty. He probably had a half an hour left until he had to drink more Polyjuice Potion.

Harry wrapped his arms around Malfoy. It felt peculiar to be pressed against Malfoy in a girl's body, though oddly comforting.

Malfoy turned onto his other side and nudged Harry to do the same. As Malfoy held him, he tactfully avoided touching Pansy's chest, but his own modesty from lying fully against Harry was not quite salvaged. Eventually, his awkwardness faded, and despite himself, his breathing slowed. Malfoy's breath was warm, stirring the baby hairs on his neck. It was the longest he had ever been held like this, and it felt good, even if it was with Malfoy. There was nothing inappropriate about what they were doing, it just felt like a prolonged hug. Normally, he would only feel grateful he wasn't pushed to do more, but under the influence of the potion—he wondered why Malfoy wasn't trying anything else.

And then his mind caught up with him. The Felix dulled his panic, but doubts still struggled to the surface and he broke into a sweat. Was it the Polyjuice Potion? Had he taken on Pansy's feelings for Malfoy? And if not, did that mean what he suspected? Whether it was the Felix who reassured him or his own reasoning, Harry only managed not to run away by deciding his enjoyment was purely out of his need for physical comfort.

Eventually, Harry could tell the hour mark was approaching. He told Malfoy he had to use the loo, drank the rest of the potion, then returned. Malfoy had taken off his shirt, watching as Harry quickly chewed a mint and crossed the room, stopping at the side of Malfoy's bed. "What are we doing, Draco? Do you fancy me?"

Malfoy straightened, looking uncomfortable without his shirt, like he thought taking it off was merely what he was expected to do. "I've told you, I don't want anything serious. Where is this coming from, anyhow?"

"I'm ready to go further, but you keep pushing me away." Harry felt ridiculous, but the lines easily came to him. "Are you not attracted to me?"

"Pansy, you are being absurd. Of course I am, it's just hard for me to want a relationship with everything that's going on."

Harry didn't know how Pansy would act in this situation. The Felix didn't seem to be guiding him to act like she normally would. "You can tell me anything, you know that, right?"

"You know I can't, Pansy."

"I don't mean about the Dark Lord."

"What, then?"

Harry sat down on the bed next to Malfoy. "Do you prefer blokes?"

A deep red color spread across Malfoy from his chest to his face, and his hand twitched. "What do you mean?"

"Is that why you won't touch me?"

Malfoy scoffed. "You think I won't touch you? What have we been doing just now?"

"My family knows a few people who are more inclined toward the same sex. I can't tell you who they are, but—"

Malfoy raised his hand as if to slap him, but balled his fingers back into a fist at his side. "Don't ever accuse me of something like that again. Get out."

"But—"

"Get out!"

"You're not going to even try to convince me otherwise?"

Draco looked as though he wanted nothing more than to strangle her. "Why would I bother convincing you of something so obvious?"

"Because the alternative is that there's a problem with me. That I'm not good enough for you."

Malfoy sneered. "You've gone mad."

"Have I? We haven't done anything in a long time. I don't know what to think."

"Yes, well . . . I have a lot on my mind. I wish I could think about you as I used to, but . . ." He exhaled dramatically, clenching and unclenching his fist, his anger dissipating.

"I'm sorry for accusing you of something so . . . perverse."

"Just try to control your emotions, for Merlin's sake. Girls are so bloody sensitive." Malfoy ran his hands through his hair, then noticed Harry staring at him. "What?"

"I want to stay the night with you. We don't have to do anything. But I don't want to sleep alone." What was he saying? It was likely the only way to get Malfoy to fall asleep so Harry could go through his things.

Malfoy scoffed. "No, not after what you said. You should leave."

"Won't the others think it's strange, kicking me out so soon? Zabini already doubts we've done anything serious."

"What?" said Malfoy sharply. "He said something to you about it?"

"I had difficulty convincing him otherwise." Harry casually examined his fingernails, which were trimmed short and painted black. "If I stay tonight, though . . . I'll tell the boys we slept together."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, nearly concealing their gleam, which reflected the dim green light. "You say that as though it's a favor. Our family name—if my mother were to somehow catch word of the rumor—"

"It will stay a rumor. Act coy with your friends, earnest with your family."

Malfoy stared at him, resting his chin on his curled fingers. Harry knew he would agree, so he remained silent, waiting.

"Fine." Malfoy pulled back the duvet and rolled underneath onto one side of the bed.

Relieved, Harry climbed in next to him. All was not lost.

It took ten minutes of fidgeting for Malfoy's breathing to slow. He stretched an arm over Harry, now facing him, the lack of composure in his face disconcerting. Lines of stress and fatigue had faded away, leaving only the points of his chin and cheekbones.

He pulled Harry closer, mumbling incoherently.

Merlin. Noticing other people's casual intimacy on a day-to-day basis, embracing Hermione and Ginny, kissing Cho—these experiences could not have prepared Harry for this, for studying Malfoy's expression, his slack and unworried features, breathing in the traces of hair gel and lived-in bedsheets . . . Was it the Felix that made him study the gradual slope of Malfoy's hips, his bare torso? What purpose did it have to send a prickling sensation from where Malfoy gripped his shoulder? He couldn't help wondering how Malfoy felt when he wasn't so skinny, his elbows and ribs blunt under soft skin, when his lips weren't chapped and his fingernails weren't chewed to the bit.

His body reverting to normal jolted Harry awake—he must have slept for an hour, then. Carefully slipping out of bed, he cast the Muffling Charm, then downed more potion before starting to rifle through Malfoy's belongings. There were rolls of parchment from past homework assignments, half-full bottles of ink, random unopened trinkets that must have been gifted to him. In the next drawer, he found concept sketches for the "Potter Stinks" buttons—So it was him, thought Harry, anger suppressed by Felix. He paused when he found a page that must have been torn out of a book. The bolded heading at the top read the imperius curse.

Harry heard the bed creak, so he stuffed the paper back and closed the drawer. Before turning around, he flicked his wand to release the Muffling Charm and popped a mint in his mouth.

"What are you doing?"

"I just thought—to be convincing, I'd strew our clothes about."

"Hm. You done, then?"

Harry tossed Pansy's shirt onto the floor, then climbed back into bed, mind working through what he had discovered. Why the Imperius Curse? Malfoy was capable of using the Cruciatus Curse, he knew that now. The Imperius Curse would be innocuous, though, if he had done it correctly. Was there someone he had forced to do his bidding?

Another hour passed, this time with Harry resting his head on Malfoy's chest as he slept. He began to feel his body change, but there was no more Polyjuice Potion. Shifting only slightly under Malfoy's grip, Harry reached for his robes and pulled the potion out of the pocket.

The Felix told him to rub his thumb over Malfoy's lips, rousing him halfway from his sleep.

"You're dreaming," said Harry, voice low.

"Potter . . . ?" Because it was so unlikely for Harry to be in his bed, Malfoy didn't panic, just closed his eyes and made a small sound as he exhaled, as though he were dying and the future was entirely irrelevant.

There was a sudden rush of laughter from outside the room and the door opened, shooting panic through the two boys.

Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini stood staring at them in the glow of their wands. As realization dawned in Malfoy's eyes, Harry leapt out of bed and said, "Dobby!" The house-elf whisked him away to the Gryffindor dorm.

Now safe, Harry brusquely told Dobby to leave and evaded Ron's questions. He rolled into bed, then took a sleeping draught and fell into a deep sleep.