----
It was the next morning, and another The Art and the Artiste
class with Professor Jimison. This time, when everyone'd
entered the class, Jimison was setting fire to the newspaper
clipping on the walls, muttering about philistines and
professional jealousy the entire while. She stopped once
everyone was seated, though she used the last flame (the only
words left visible were "A ridiculous interpretation of the
post-modern gender issue--") to light a new cigarette.
"First of all, tomorrow's assignment is another essay. Use
what Inspiration you had yesterday to write tonight's, and be
prepared for some sort of open mike session with it. Next, I
want everyone to lay their notebooks on their desks, please."
The class did so, though some, like our dear protagonists, did
so reluctantly. Jimison nodded, and pulled out her wand.
"Now, I want you all to duck."
The books jumped into the air, swooping at lethal speeds
toward Professor Jimison's head, neither noticing nor caring
whether a student was in their paths. As soon as a notebook
came within a meter of Jimison she'd fire several little arrows
of smoke, always striking the book dead center; the notebook
would then wobble back to its owner, weeping piteously.
Harry was boggled. "What _is_ this?"
Ron was staring at his notebook, which had just flopped
dejectedly back onto his desk. He opened its front cover, and
bit back an exclamation inappropriate for younger readers.
Hermione was looking at her notebook too, looking faintly
sick. "It's the grading process."
Harry's book was flopping weakly about his ankles. He
picked it up, and tried to dislodge the arrows sticking out of
the cover. Every time he tried, though, his fingers went right
through them. So, ignoring his notebook's moans and
hacking cough, he opened the front cover.
"Gosh," he said a moment later. There was really nothing
else he could say.
His essay and two haikus (both of which talked about what a
marvelous color silver-blond was) had been covered in
commentary, all written with bright red ink. Some of the
reader remarks were quite large, and easy to read ("You can
skip to something interesting any time now"), while others
were long and written very small, cramped between sentences
and curving around the edges of paragraphs ("Your puerile
attempts at masked sexual division make me retch, while
your rather boring fantasy scenarios make it seem like you're
looking for a grade rather than a successful seduction of
Other -- which, coincidentally, is likewise a very poorly
disguised view of Self").
With a brief look around the class, Harry knew he wasn't the
only one who'd gotten unintelligible, but clearly negative,
commentary. Hermione was past looking sick, and was
working on outrage. "Will you look at this grade? She gave
me less than half marks!"
"Join the rest of us, eh?" said Ron mournfully. "Mum's going
to kill me."
"How the hell do we get rid of these arrows?" Harry asked.
Half marks were bad enough -- his notebook was squeaking a
funeral dirge.
"Those, kiddos, you can never get rid of." Professor Jimison
grinned at the unhappy faces surrounding her. She pointed
toward the Inspirations. "Ever wonder what these things are
for if you _don't_ want to write something?"
Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to try it
first. Harry looked around, then shrugged. He pulled out his
wand and tapped a black sticker.
He heard the fizzling noise, like the day before, and then he
blurted out: "Half marks? _Half marks_? Bloody _genius_,
that's what I give her, and what do I get in return, lads? _Half
marks_! Soul on the page, and the bitch rips into it, like, like,
like -- Jealousy! _That's_ it! She can't handle what the up-
and-comers are producing, wants to push us down, beat the
bloody _originality_ out of us, wants to make us all status
quo, what the _publishers_ want, what they can sell, not what
the readers _need_ to read! Not what they really _want_, oh
no, then those publishing _dictators_ wouldn't, wouldn't,
wouldn't... Wouldn't that bitch like to have _half_ my talent,
eh, lads! Here, I'll sell something soon -- the next round's on
me!"
---
After lunch, the Gryffindor Seventh Years were making their
way to Divinations. Harry was letting himself be pulled
along by his friends while he thought about what he was
going to write about for tomorrow's The Art and The Artiste
class. Suddenly, a young and perky figure threw herself in
his direction.
"Oh, drat!" Mary Sue Cutebottom cried. "Would you just
look at that?! I'm sorry for running into you, Harry, but
you're just what I need. I seem to have dropped my quill
somewhere; will you help me look for it?"
"Well," said Harry, trying to disentangle himself from her
grip, "d'you remember the last place you saw it?"
"Let me think, let me think... " Mary Sue was darting glances
about the hallway; she's probably trying to find her quill
without my help, thought Harry. Her eyes widened, and for a
moment it looked like she grinned with triumph. Then she
said in worried tones, "I remember now -- I was writing down
my assignments in Charms. Or... was I printing my name on
the study group list _outside_ of Charms?" She grabbed his
arm and started tugging him toward Professor Flitwick's
classroom. "Come on, Harry, let's look."
"But-- I've got class-- "
"Oh, bother, Harry. There's at least five minutes before
classes begin. Besides, you've never liked Divinations -- just
tell Trelawney you had a vision of the future. Mention lots of
blood." She had him by Flitwick's door, now. "Drat the bad
luck, Harry. It must be inside. Could you look?"
"But you haven't even looked here!"
"Oh. Right." Mary Sue stared at the floor for a moment, then
said, "Well, so much for that. Go on, Harry, look inside for
me?"
"Now, just a moment, Mary-- "
Mary Sue looked at him, and he was embarrassed to see tears
in her eyes. "Oh Harry," she sniffed, "please? It's, it's, it's the
quill I had during the perilous conclusion to the prequel, you
know, the one that saved my life and the life of-- "
"I remember, Mary," Harry said. He sighed, and straightened
his glasses. "Where's your desk?"
"Um... " She looked into the classroom. "Third from the
back, on the far left."
"Alright, then. Back in a mo'."
Harry entered Flitwick's classroom and started heading
toward the back, looking around the path Mary Sue had
probably taken when she'd left her Fifth Year Charms. He
could tell people were looking at him, but he couldn't take the
time to chat -- much as he owed Mary Sue, he did _not_ want
to make up ghastly predictions of his own demise. He'd had
to do it twice yesterday.
He was in the back of the classroom, now; he turned and
made his way over to the left-hand side. It was startling how
many things students had left behind over the course of the
day -- an inkpot, a bit of owl feed, a glitter-encrusted sneaker-
-
Ah, third desk from the back, Harry thought. Still no quill,
though--
" 'Scuse me, you haven't seen a bright purple quill, have you?
Belongs to a Fifth Year, should say 'MSC' on it?" said Harry,
searching the ground around the shoes of the desk's occupant.
"Potter... " a low voice drawled out. Harry looked up and
saw, for the first time, who precisely was sitting at the desk.
Draco Malfoy said, "Potter, just what are you doing?"
Oh dear, thought Harry.
"Looking for a quill, Malfoy. Mary Sue Cutebottom's
actually. Seen it?" Harry's brain fought a valiant battle
against Harry's eyes, which kept trying to stare at Malfoy's
lips and long, pulled-back hair. Harry's brain was losing.
"Now why would I have a Mudblood's quill, Potter? Gone a
bit daft in your old age?" Malfoy's eyes kept flicking back
and forth between Harry's eyes and his forehead. Probably
getting the closest look he's ever gotten of my scar, thought
Harry. I haven't stood this close to him since we were First
Years.
I'm standing very close indeed.
Harry didn't feel like stepping back. Instead, he slowing
crouched beside the desk, until he was at Malfoy's eye-level.
"Fine," Harry said quietly, "you haven't seen the quill.
Should I ask what you _are_ seeing?"
"Me?" Malfoy said, just as quietly. "Nothing, Potter. Ever
since the exciting adventures of last year, it must seem
strange for you to have absolutely no one to battle -- no evil
to defeat, no puppies to save... you've run the course of your
destiny, Potter, and what have you to look forward to now?
_Nothing_."
Harry stared into Malfoy's eyes -- grey, a stormy grey. "What
of you, Malfoy? Voldemort's gone. Your parents emigrated
to Rio and left you to the mercies of the wizarding world. If
it weren't for me and my 'destiny', you'd be trying to survive
with the Muggles and their version of justice." Storm grey,
with a hint of lightning. "If I've got nothing, then what
exactly have you got?"
Malfoy smiled. When Harry saw it, something inside him
hurt. Not like the way Voldemort had ever hurt him... in a
different way. A more important way.
"Potter... "
"Harry. My name's Harry, you bastard. I'm tired of this
bloody distant attitude of yours, and I've been tired of it for
the last seven years. Call me by _name_, not by legacy."
Malfoy watched him for a moment, something indefinable
behind those cool grey eyes. "I haven't been the only distant
one," he murmured. "If you're Harry... then who does that
make me?"
The bell rang.
"Oh, Harry!" called Mary Sue from the doorway. Harry
flinched, his eyes breaking from Malfoy's to stare
dumbfounded at the bouncing Fifth Year. "Look! I had my
quill all along! Sorry for dragging you in here -- come on,
you'll be late for Divinations!"
Harry stood up slowly, and made his way to the doorway and
out into the hall. He could feel Malfoy watching him as he
left.
_Hell_.
---
Harry thought about what happened all through the rest of
classes. He'd never consciously thought of Malfoy in any
sense other than 'rotten-to-the-core prat' -- but ever since he'd
written that essay, he couldn't help but think over the past few
years... there was the awareness of Malfoy's growth spurt
some two years before, how large it'd turned Draco's hands.
Malfoy's hair, which he'd let grow several inches past his
shoulders, and the way he'd tie it back so it hung like a rope
of silver. Those grey eyes, watching Harry... seeming all the
more dark for appearing next to translucent skin and pale
hair...
Bloody, bloody hell. Why hadn't he ever _consciously_
realized this stuff?
"Because it's _Malfoy_, Harry. Why else?" Mary Sue
plopped beside Harry in the near-empty Gryffindor common
room. "And while I can see why that would be something of
a hang-up, you must consider his good qualities."
"I see the author's letting you be psychic now," Harry said
quietly, as he began tugging on his chair's loose threads.
"No, no -- I get to be empathetic, but not have direct mind
reading abilities," Mary Sue said. "So tell me: Aside from
the fact that it's the boy you've been quarreling with for the
past seven years, why precisely do you have a problem being
madly in love with him?"
"I am _not_ madly in love with Malfoy."
"All right, then: Why do you have a problem being madly in
_lust_ with him?"
"It's not that, either," Harry said, standing up. He began to
pace, though not as wildly as Malfoy had three scenes ago.
"It's... it's that I thought I was quite blatantly heterosexual.
That whole business with Cho, for instance, and you in the
prequel... and let's not forget fanfic's attempts at explaining
my love life. Hermione this, and Lavender that, and a host of
'original' characters... But now, suddenly, not only am I
feeling _something_ for a man, but... but that man is
_Malfoy_. I mean, why him? Couldn't I have fallen for Ron
or something? A fellow Quidditch player? Someone who
_isn't_ out to ruin my life? Someone who makes _sense_?"
"Well..." Mary Sue looked faintly upset. "You have taken
into account who's writing this story...?"
Harry gestured vaguely. "Yes, yes. It doesn't make me feel
any better about the situation."
Mary Sue said nothing for some minutes, then reached out
and stopped Harry. "Sit down for a moment, would you?"
Harry sat on the ground beside her feet. "Look, it's like this:
Draco's made about as many mistakes as a person can
possibly make when it comes to human relationships. He's
insulted your friends, openly despised the culture you grew
up in, and nearly joined forces with a hideous evil that
wanted you dead for nigh on seventeen years."
She touched Harry's shoulder. "But has it occurred to you
that maybe the only reason he's keeping up that charade is
because you... _need_ it?"
Harry blinked. "No, can't say that it has."
"If Draco started acting nice and... affectionate, let's say, then
what? What would you think?"
The response came automatically. "That he was out trick me,
and a murder attempt was imminent."
"See? So if he acts just as he has for the last seven years -- a
sarcastic, openly hostile bastard who only hates _Muggles_
more than he hates you -- will you avoid him more, or will
you keep at least the token distance granted him?"
"I... " Harry stopped, and thought about what Mary Sue was
saying. Finally he looked up. "I don't know," he said quietly.
"How can I be sure? That I'm doing the right thing?"
"Well, there's the easy way, and there's the hard way."
"Um... not that I'm shirking my leading character, always-
taking-the-rougher-road type responsibilities, but out of idle
curiosity... what's the easy way?"
"You find all the gimmicky magical objects that
Dumbledore's 'accidentally' let you find over the years and
mess about with them until you are granted knowledge of
some sort. Or are turned into an orangutan."
"Ah. And the hard way?"
Mary Sue shrugged. "You have to realize that you can't be
sure. The best you can do is speak the truth, and hope." She
smiled. "Have fun with your writing assignment, Harry."
And then she left Harry alone with his thoughts.
----
(cont. in 4/7)
----
Note: Humor isn't the solution. But it is _a_ solution. Luck
and love, m'dears, and drinks are on me when the world stops
burning. -Bressingham