Chapter Three: The Frequently Unseen Side of Harry Potter

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Notes: If it isn't obvious already, I don't like Harry. He's a stupid little boy. So this part may be a bit rough around the edges, if you will. Mainly this was an excuse for slash and Oliver Wood, another neglected character.

Once again, I thank JK Rowling -- For giving the best characters crappy parts.

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The morning shone, clear and bright, through the curiously wide windows of the suite given to Ron. It had been decorated in shades of red: red silk sheets on the bed; soft, red down pillows and a thick, red down blanket; red velvet curtains with gold trim; red marble floors swirled with grey; and a red hue added magically to the flames of the candelabras and sconces along the walls. Laid out on the bed for him the previous evening had been red silk pajamas, his initials sewn onto the pocket in shining gold, and resting on the floor at the foot of the bed had been a pair of heavy red slippers.

But now, as he changed into a set of robes laid over the back of a red armchair for him to wear this morning (also trimmed with red silk at the hems of sleeves and pockets and hood), his mind was running the details of the tale he had been told last night smooth in his mind. He and Hermione had never been close, though numerous people had predicted that they would eventually end up together in a romantic relationship, and he was unsure of how to feel towards her after hearing about her history with his brothers. Fred and George had never allowed him to be close to them, and now, for once in his life, he did not wish to be.

He left the silk pajamas on the bed after smoothing the blankets back over the mattress and slipped into his shoes in his usual morning routine. Though in a new environment, Ron needed to continue his morning routine as perfectly as ever, and he combed his hair and brushed his teeth and washed his face in the much too large bathroom adjacent to the monstrously roomy bedroom, which was also decorated in red. He wondered what colors Harry and Hermione found themselves in now.

After he felt clean enough, Ron made his way down a fat staircase and into the dining room, where an unbelievable spread lay out on the table. Malfoy was already seated at the head of the table, and Harry sat nearby, his piercing green eyes watching the blond man warily. Ron took a seat across from Harry and took the opportunity to tuck in properly, enjoying the food thoroughly until Hermione came into the room. She was very calm and quite content as she helped herself to a small breakfast and a glass of orange juice. There seemed to be a circle of gazes as Potter's eyes never left Malfoy, Malfoy watched Hermione without blinking, Ron found himself studying Malfoy, and Hermione's sporadic glances found Harry's visage and no one else's.

Once the trio of guests had finished eating, Malfoy said in a startling and gentle tone, "I believe that we should move to the study, where we can continue our reconciliation. If I am not mistaken, Miss Granger has finished her tale," Hermione nodded, "and we can move on to hear what Mr Potter has to say." Potter glared daggers, but did not object. Ron merely followed in silence as Malfoy swept out of the dining room and into the study.

They found the seats they had chosen the previous evening, and as soon as they were comfortable, Potter did not need to be coaxed to tell his story. In a challenging sort of way, he looked at Malfoy, who grinned in response, and began to speak.

*

The kiss changed my reality. As a third-year, I was the Seeker for the Gryffindor house team, as I had been my first and second years. The difference, however, was that during my third year Gryffindor house won the Quidditch Cup.

The game had been amazing, and my final grabbing of the Snitch out of Malfoy's very hand was my most memorable achievement in all my years at Hogwarts to date. But it was after I had ended the game, after I had caught the Snitch, that I was given my first kiss.

I went numb after the crowd erupted, the Snitch still trying to evade my fingers from within my fist, and Oliver Wood was the first of the team to lunge himself at me. He was crying -- Quidditch meant that much to him, so I'm happy he went on to be a professional player -- and he didn't seem to care that the entire population of the school was watching. The twins joined the hug, and then the girls on the team, and then the rest of the Gryffindor house; Wood was kissing all of the girls and laughing and crying. At first I had thought it had been a mistake, that in his distracted state he had made an error, but there was something in his eyes as his lips grazed mine which told me that it had been most definitely intentional.

We were all swept onto the shoulders of the Gryffindors, professors and students alike shouting and raving and celebrating. If faced with the challenge, I could have shown the Dementors a Patronus Lupin could have been proud of -- but it would not have been the Cup or even the feeling of the Snitch fighting my fingers, its wings digging into the palm of my hand. My Patronus that day would have been Wood's mouth pressed against my own.

I was afraid to mention it. I didn't tell Ron or Hermione, to whom I told everything under normal conditions. I didn't dare breathe a word around Wood himself, who was his usual, Quidditch-crazed self for the rest of the year, though I'm still not sure if it was my imagination or not that his liquid brown eyes found mine while he spoke to (supposedly) the entire team. I didn't tell Dumbledore or Lupin or even Sirius, who I probably could have confided in above any of the lot of them. Sirius would have understood.

The first person to speak of it was more of a surprise to me than anything else that had ever happened in my lifetime. It was weeks before I even spoke to myself about it, even months -- the autumn of my fourth year, in fact. While Hermione had herded Ron into the library to help promote her enterprise of S.P.E.W., I had slipped out of the way and gone to the Great Hall to see if there was something I could do to waste time without having to listen to them bicker tirelessly. I found the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan, plotting as usual; several Hufflepuff girls gossiping; Draco Malfoy seated at the shadowed end of a table, alone; and Cho Chang with two of her friends from the Ravenclaw house.

The twins and Jordan were not to be disturbed, as I had learned earlier in the year, or I would be paying with pranks from their aborted effort at a joke shop for months. The Hufflepuffs were also out of the question, because I didn't know any of them. With my luck they would have been of Colin Creevey's persuasion and thrown themselves at me for autographs and pictures and the like. This left the obvious, Chang -- or Malfoy. Chang has always been a very pretty girl, and still is, and a wicked Seeker. But as I approached, she turned her back further on me, and I realized with a grim sense of reality that I had absolutely no place beside her.

I faced Malfoy, who seemed to be put out about something. He was without either of his bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, and was gazing at a small storm cloud he had conjured a few inches above the table. I took a seat several feet from where he sat, on the opposite side of the table, and watched as he transformed the raining cloud into a pale grey snow cloud. Soon he had a pile of snow in front of him, which he carefully formed into a perfect sphere with his fingertips. Glancing around furtively, he took it up and threw it into the midst of the Hufflepuff girls, hitting one square in her nose. Malfoy smirked contentedly before noticing that I had been watching him with a subdued interest.

"What do you want, Potter?" The contempt in his voice was manufactured and tired and did not hold the confidence it often did. He appeared a bit perplexed that I would be without Ron and Hermione.

I shrugged in response, and he eyed me warily, allowing the small cloud to fizzle away in a miniature bolt of lightening.

"Where are Weasel and Mudblood, then?"

"Where are your goons Crabbe and Goyle?" I parroted, ignoring the derogatory nicknames he had for my best friends. He raised an eyebrow but left the subject alone, laying his wand on the scratched tabletop absently; his eyes were fixed on me while I allowed my gaze to wander around the room and bewitched ceiling.

"What's the matter with you, eh?" I blinked across at him as he moved down the few seats to be directly facing me. "You aren't here with your friends. You choose to sit here, but don't mock me in any way. Supper's not for two good hours, Potter, what good is it to be here now?"

"I was bored." He had been ticking off the facts he had collected on his fingers as he grew more and more exasperated with me, and now he seemed completely perturbed. Apparently I was not answering his questions in the manner he had been expecting me to. "Look, what do you want me to say? That I came down here just to bother you, Malfoy, just to see how I could further make an enemy out of you?" It was his turn, now, to blink at me.

"No," he said slowly. "No, I don't want you to say that." He glanced around the room, seemed satisfied that no one was paying the least bit of attention to us, and leaned closer. "I saw what happened after Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup last spring." My eyes widened, but I didn't say a word. Perhaps he was speaking of a different moment in time. I pinched myself inwardly; it was just an excuse I could feed myself for the sake of my sanity. "Have you been writing to Wood, Potter? Do you miss him very much?"

This was exactly the situation I had been wanting to avoid. There was a venom in Malfoy's voice that made me practically boil with anger and flood with tears simultaneously. The possibility of leaving flickered through my mind, but I decided against it with the logic that leaving would give him more truth than he deserved at the moment.

"He was a great Quidditch player," I said shortly. Malfoy seemed disappointed, as though he were doubting himself with the answer I gave.

"Yes," he murmured, his pale eyes narrowing slightly in bemusement, "Yes, he was . . . Quidditch suited him . . . "

"What were you implying, Malfoy?" He waved it off with his hand.

"Nothing, Potter, nothing. Never mind." Clearing his throat, he made as if to sweep off and out of the room, but only made it to his feet. Accusingly, he said, "I saw him kiss you, Harry. I know I did not make it up. But if you want to pretend that it never happened, then be my guest." And he left.

I waited not a full minute before scrambling after him. If Malfoy had seen the kiss, who else had? And would they, too, come forward and say something? I needed answers. I bolted after Malfoy, catching a glimpse of his robes as he disappeared around a corner. I followed. Turning the corner for myself, I was pulled against the wall and pinned there securely, my head banging into the rough stone with a hollow sound.

"Ouch," I groaned, and a long string of swears slipped from my mouth before I could stop them. It was then that I realized that it was Malfoy holding me to the walls, and the expression on his face was one I couldn't read easily. "Um, Malfoy, I -- "

"Potter, I hold information that you don't want leaking into the public," he breathed, his pale eyes searing into my own. "Promise me you'll do as I say, and it won't become tomorrow's hot gossip with the Hufflepuff girls. Promise?" I barely had time to nod before the wall gave way to reveal a dimly lit passage which ran along the corridor and followed the shape of the Great Hall, ending with a small chamber behind a painting on the main staircase.

Before I could realize what was happening, I found myself backed up against another wall, a smoother stone wall, with Malfoy and his lips pressed up against me. He was nervous, I could feel it in the tremble of his bottom lip as it was barely lifted from my own and the clumsiness of his hand as it nestled into my robes at the curve of my waist. Such a graceful person as Malfoy was not this discombobulated without reason, but I would be one to say that putting himself in a situation as risky as this could be considered a viable reason.

When he pulled away, remaining close, he had tears in his eyes which he blinked away before I had a second glimpse of them. His hand dropped to his side, and he ran his tongue along his lips in what seemed like a final effort to preserve the moment before it crashed in around him.

I opened my mouth to speak, he braced himself, and I whispered, "I promise."

After that day, my free hours were filled with moments of Malfoy. At first I told myself time and again that it was only a matter of keeping Wood's kiss out of reach of the rumor mill and gossiping girls, but eventually I couldn't continue the charade in my mind.

I had fallen for Draco Malfoy.

It hurt to see him continue to challenge Ron and Hermione, but without blowing our cover I could say nothing to stop it. I stood idly by and watched Ron turned scarlet at mention of his financial troubles, Hermione blush pink when her ancestry was brought up time and again. But despite the continuation of his torturing my friends, I noticed that he was no longer flanked by Crabbe and Goyle at every waking moment. They hung around to see the show of Weasel and Mudblood, sat with him at mealtime and in class, but otherwise they seemed to have become nonexistent in Malfoy's world.

He often sent me notes via owl telling me where we were to meet any given night or day, and when pressed, I wrote them off as letters from Sirius, Lupin, and various others. Several times I claimed Colin was sending fan mail, others I said were messages from Dumbledore or McGonagall. Lying to Ron and Hermione was difficult at first, but as time went on it became more and more simple. It was routine, suddenly, to receive an owl, open the envelope or unroll the parchment, and write it off as a letter from the first name which came to mind. Once, in my rush for an excuse, I said that one owl was from Wood; when my gaze caught that of Malfoy, I felt terrible. He blushed, angry and embarrassed, and avoided my gaze after that.

We kept up appearances in secret through Christmas of fifth year. Hermione was scarce during free hours, researching in the library, leaving Ron and I to putter through the corridors and find things to do. Had Hermione been unoccupied, I would have sent her and Ron off somewhere to give myself more time with Malfoy. Instead I satisfied myself with running errands for Dumbledore which entailed detours past the Great Hall, where Malfoy was spending more of his time once the weather grew cold and the snow fell deeper. We would talk for a moment, then slip off to the nearest empty passage through the walls, where we would lose ourselves until the time came that I would have to leave, or Ron would have become suspicious.

I was in love with life, with the freedoms fifth year brought, with Malfoy. I had even learned to deal with the loathing from Snape, which seemed to have been lifted slightly. Perhaps Malfoy had spoken to him, but I think that it was more likely that it was all in my head.

I was happy, but like all things in life which make us happy, it was not fated to last. Fifth year ended, and Malfoy promised to write me as I promised to write him. However, between Draco's Nazi of a father, Lucius, and my uncle Vernon, owls became difficult to keep up, and soon they faded. Vernon intercepted several before I admitted to anything, but I suppose that Lucius was more trouble for Malfoy, because I only heard of one letter finding itself in the father's hands before they were discontinued.

When sixth year began, I was apprehensive about seeing Malfoy again. On the train, I chose a seat in the middle of the car, and Ron soon found me and sat in the compartment I'd chosen. However, even as Hermione and Neville found us, I made sure that the compartment next to us was empty, while the other contained the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan.

Malfoy never showed up.

The next time I saw him was during the sorting of the first-years. He refused to meet my gaze across the room, and I was irked and brooding by the end of the evening. I made a vow to myself that I would take him aside after the feast and ceremony to get to the bottom of it all. I, however, did not get the opportunity, because I was swept off by McGonagall to be offered the position of Quidditch captain for the year. Taking Wood's old job was, indeed, very impressive, but I had to turn it down. I didn't want to do the same to an unsuspecting third-year as he did to me.

In fact, I didn't have the chance to take Malfoy aside until the next day before lunch. I was walking with Ron and Hermione to the Great Hall when I heard the voice behind me. Cold and silver, it haunted me until I slipped out of the conversation with my friends and ducked into a side corridor until Malfoy passed and I pulled him in after me.

"Malfoy," I breathed into his ear from his back, holding his arms behind him. He squirmed at first, not willing to speak, but eventually gave in with a reluctant sigh.

"Potter, I -- "

"Why didn't you tell me when your father forbid you from sending more owls? Surely it would not have hurt you to sneak one last message?" I heard my voice; it sounded pinched and painful. I tried to remind myself that he had not meant to hurt me.

"I tried," he said softly. "He had the house-elves oversee the owls that left the house -- there was nothing I could have done. The elves don't listen to me, only my father. They've never listened to me. My father's trained them not to." I let him go but watched to make sure he didn't try to flee before I had the chance to talk.

"I missed you, Draco." A pained look came over his face, and he shook his head at me.

"Don't," he whispered. "Father has spies ... He's hired house-elves and other Slytherin students and maybe even Snape. He'll send me to -- " He winced. "To You-Know-Who if you keep this up. He's watching you, Harry. He's watching the both of us. It's not worth it."

Several hesitant moments, two long and heavy sighs, and one extended, wistful gaze later, I leaned close to kiss him one last time. He accepted at first eagerly, then seemed to remember all he had just told me, and broke away, shame creeping into his eyes.

"I'll not forget you," I said hopefully. He turned his back, straightened his robes.

"No one will hear of this, nor will they hear of Wood. I expect you'll do the same curtesy for me."

I watched him leave with dry eyes. Despite the urges from nearly the entire Gryffindor table, I didn't eat, either. I was numb. I was angry and hurt and empty. I was alone again. And he hadn't even said goodbye. He hadn't even seemed remorseful. He hadn't even seemed to care.

*

Potter had broken off, and stared intently into the flames of the grand fire roaring in the grate. Malfoy's harsh glare had softened, his malevolent demeanor had faded slightly. Hermione glared daggers at the blond man now, and she glanced at Potter and Ron.

"Do continue, Harry," she said, mocking Malfoy. He glanced up sharply at her, his pale eyes moist with what appeared to be tears. "We all want to know how this tale ends." Malfoy scowled, and Potter thanked Hermione with his eyes.

"There is more, you know," he said, more to Malfoy than to anyone. "There's almost two years I've yet to tell. Would you like me to continue?" Malfoy nodded, eager to hear more but apprehensive as to what the man might say next.

"Go on, Harry," Ron said, breaking his solemn silence with few encouraging words.

"All right," Harry Potter said, and his story continued without a hitch.

*

Malfoy and I avoided each other for several months to follow. And then, one day, it seemed that he had forgotten I existed. All of sixth year we ignored one another, and I even began to forget what good I saw in him altogether.

One day, early in my seventh year, I saw him sitting at the Gryffindor table with Ginny Weasley during breakfast, and I was shocked. Ginny Weasley was the last person I expected to be sitting with a Malfoy, but to see him at our table was enough to make me lose my appetite completely. I was outraged.

I approached Ginny one evening in the common room. "Ginny," I said, not unkindly, "what do you and Malfoy find to talk about?" She blinked at me with a blank look.

"His name is Draco," she said flatly, getting to her feet. "If you think it's your business you should know to call him by his right name." And she disappeared into her dormitory.

Hermione was gone most of the time now, so I could not ask her to find information for me. Ron would not care enough to find anything of use for me, nor did I want to have to explain the situation if he asked. Ginny wasn't speaking to me presently, because I could not bring myself to refer to Malfoy by his 'proper' name -- I had always called him Malfoy, even when we were together. It appeared as though I had no one to turn to for an explanation. But an opportunity presented itself when I wasn't looking, and I seized it with great interest.

Colin Creevey was once again seeking autographs and photographs, but so was his younger brother Dennis. Dennis, a very small boy, came tottering after me, babbling with his brother, and would not let up. The idea struck me to have him find the information I needed, and he obliged completely without needing to be asked twice. I sent him to ask Ginny, and even Malfoy himself, and Creevey came back to me several days later with notes scrawled on odd bits of parchment.

"Ginny told me," he relayed, handing me the bits of parchment in a large envelope, "that she and Mr Malfoy have much in common and are quite content to sit and talk about anything which comes to mind. She also told me to tell you that she knew that I was spying for you and you should just give it up." I swore, but urged the boy to continue with his report. "Malfoy said that it was none of my business, but that if anything happened we'd all surely hear about it quite quickly. Something about Hufflepuff girls who like to gossip."

It was all I needed to hear. I sent the kid on his way after signing a picture of the both of us I'd allowed him to take after four years of his brother chasing me through the corridors trying sneak photographs with the irritating encouragement of the former Professor Lockhart.

Eventually I let it alone, but by that time, Ginny Weasley had turned him away. She had found a new boy to fill her time, and Malfoy had returned to the Slytherin table at meals while his old seat at Gryffindor's table was filled with a new face I didn't bother to meet. I was still obsessed with finding out the truth behind Malfoy; I sensed that he hadn't told me the full truth of the matter.

Hermione was spending more and more of her time in the library. I rarely saw her unless I was in class, and even then she had her face buried in a book while her hand was raised high. Ron, too, had suddenly taken leave, disappearing at all odd hours of the night and between classes, and I was alone. I found myself traveling to Hogsmeade whenever I was left to my own devices in the free hourss of the afternoon or early evening once my homework had been completed.

Seventh year came and went, fairly uneventful and quite miserable and lonely for me. Hermione, as well, seemed fully detached and antisocial save for her unexpected friendship with Neville. The only person in the whole of my limited circle of comrades to show any signs of happiness was Ron, but he wouldn't tell me a word of the reasoning behind it. Seeing him so blissful often made me more upset, because I had it in my mind that Ron was supposed to be the unhappy one. As terrible and mean as it sounds, I felt as though he was mocking me when he was in a good mood. Disgusted with myself, I managed to push everyone away but Hedwig. She made the perfect friend -- she never flaunted her moods or stronger friendships or talents.

After leaving Hogwarts, I took on a job at the Ministry, but found it dull and repetitive. During one of the many meals I shared with Dumbledore at the Leaky Cauldron, I mentioned how miserable I had been since I left Hogwarts; for as unhappy as my final years were at the school, it was my home and certainly not as bad as working under Percy Weasley. Dumbledore had been searching for a professor to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts and was as delighted to offer the job as I was to accept. Not only was I home, I was teaching with Hagrid, who was thrilled to have a friend who could influence the other professors when Dumbledore wasn't around to stand up for him.

As a professor, I now stand on level ground with Snape, who has backed off significantly, and enjoy watching for the children of friends I had as a student. As of now I have taught three Jordan kids, Ryce and Wesley, Dennis Creevey's son, and a daughter of Cho Chang -- as well as many others whose names were more memorable than the faces of their parents. Sometime I think it's better that way.

*

"Well," said Potter after a long and awkward silence. "That's my story." Malfoy was gazing intently at the highly polished wood floor, while Ron's grey gaze was fixed on Hermione's shoes. Hermione was the only person in the room to be looking at Harry, who blushed slightly upon this realization.

"It certainly explains a lot," she said quietly. "Why you don't get along -- you and Draco, I mean." She paused, looking wistfully at Malfoy, who shivered beneath his robes. "I know that I wouldn't -- "

"It was a touching story, Mr Potter," the blond man interrupted shortly, ignoring Hermione's murmurs of protest. "Indeed, a moving tale." He eyes moved to Ron, who appeared startled that he should be the center of attention now. But suddenly Malfoy was on his feet and very nearly out of the room when he announced, "It's time for lunch."

Hermione, Ron, and Harry exchanged glances before following.

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