…you know all that disclaimer stuff? put it here. not mine, don't sue me,
all that. have fun.
***
Moonstones had always made Harry think of Draco's eyes...coolly silver- grey, but with the promise of light flashing from them with the slightest movement.
He'd managed to restrain himself from actually owning any moonstones for a while...like he needed any more distractions, any more encouragement to think of Draco when the very existence of Draco was a fevered heat on his skin, when all he dreamt of was Draco, when the first thought on waking and the last thought before sleeping was Draco.
But he craved moonstones. Blindly. And when he'd seen the puddle of stormcloud and silver lying neglected in the corner of a display case, he'd bought it without a thought. He couldn't even remember what shop he'd found it in; he'd lost track of his surroundings as soon as he set eyes on it.
It was a choker. Delicate scrollwork held the stones, perfect gems, and the chain mesh in-between subtly drew the eyes in a circling pattern, dizzying. No Muggle metalcrafter could have managed such precision, such beauty. But then again, it was a *choker*. Not the most appropriate gift for a man, let alone one who despised you. He didn't have to work hard to imagine the mockery that would slice at him if he actually gave it to Draco. But it was also the ideal ornament for Draco...it would flatter Draco's pale skin, his slim neck, would suit his own delicacy and elegance. He knew intuitively that it was perfect. Even if he would never see Draco wear it.
So he kept it in his pocket. Randomly throughout his day he would run it through his fingers and think of what it would look like around Draco's throat. Or draw it out of his pocket when he was alone and admire the stones for hours, seeing Draco's eyes in them, too beautiful and precious to share with anyone.
This obsession was tearing him apart. He couldn't think. He spoke rarely, only to respond to direct questions, and his answers were short and distracted. His schoolwork passed merit only thanks to Hermione's Herculean efforts. Ron and Hermione had begun to worry about him ages ago; he could tell, in an abstract corner of his mind, but couldn't make himself care long enough to focus on reality and reassure them. That is, if there was anything reassuring he could say anyway. He ate little and mechanically, mostly to keep Hermione from bothering him about it. He'd lost weight, had smears of dark bruises under his eyes; there was a daze, a vacancy to his face that no one could miss, and he'd gotten enough reprimands in class, lost enough house points, to make all the Gryffindors look at him sideways in irritation.
He couldn't even remember exactly when it had started. It seemed like he'd felt this somewhere hidden in the back of his mind and heart from the moment he'd seen Draco, the instant he'd stepped up onto a stool beside him at Madame Malkin's. If not then, sometime not far from then...he remembered wanting, oh, wanting to take Malfoy's hand on the train, but being more offended than tempted. Dignity had prevailed. This longing had lain dormant through the years, flickering vaguely stronger sometimes during Quidditch matches, in dreams.
But it had come to the forefront with a vengeance during a Potions class months ago, near the end of 6th year, when as punishment for arriving late, Snape had paired him with Malfoy on top of the usual ten points from Gryffindor. Malfoy was too irritated even to speak for the first half of class, and in the unexpected silence, Harry caught himself staring at Malfoy's slender, pale hands as he chopped roots. He'd flushed when he realized what he was doing and went back to crushing dried scarab beetles...until he realized that he couldn't breathe, mesmerized by the taut pull of Malfoy's robe across his spine and shoulder as he reached over to add the chopped roots to the cauldron.
"Work a little slower, can you, Potter?" Draco snapped as he turned back to the table. Harry quickly looked back to his beetles and found that they'd been powdered entirely— unnecessary, but fortunately still useable.
"Sorry...lost track of what I was doing," he responded lamely, and scraped the powder into the cauldron while Malfoy stirred.
"Obviously. Not that I should expect anything better from you." Draco scowled at the bubbling potion, which had started to sparkle with green phosphorescence. "Daydream on your own time, Potter. I need good marks this term and I refuse to let you hold me back."
"Sorry," Harry said again. And nothing else. Draco glanced at him suspiciously.
"Are you sick or something, Potter? Don't breathe on me."
"No, just— er— not thinking clearly today. Look, I said I was sorry, alright?" Harry finally got a little irritated and was relievedly working up to a good fight like usual. This whole staring at Malfoy thing was deeply unsettling, just too damned weird.
To his amazement, Malfoy didn't rise to the occasion, but simply kept stirring for a moment before muttering, "Yeah, well, just pay more attention now, will you?"
"Um...okay." Harry said, taken aback. He quickly measured out the requisite nine drops of dove's blood and added them carefully to the potion. With the last drop it stopped bubbling and began to waft up into a faintly glowing mist.
"Perfect," Snape announced from just behind Harry, startling him. "Quickly, lid the mixture, then bottle it for the aging period. Be most careful not to let any of the mist escape." Malfoy had the lid ready and had it done before Snape finished speaking. "Unlike most of your classmates, you've gotten it right. Take five points for Slytherin and Gryffindor. Although you've still lost your house five points, Potter—"
Snape was cut off by a shriek from Neville, whose potion had turned into an alarmingly bright shade of violet and had slid out of his cauldron and onto the floor, where it appeared to be trying to creep up his ankles. "Longbottom, I ought to let it finish liquefying your feet, honestly, how you manage to persist in such stupidity—" Snape hissed as he hurried over to deal with the problem.
"Not bad, Potter," Malfoy said. Harry's eyes flew to his in amazement as he finished, "Though not for lack of trying to foul it up, I'm sure. Thanks nonetheless."
"Are you sure you're not sick, Malfoy? I thought I just heard you thank me for something."
"Don't get too excited, Potter, I'm sure it won't happen again." Malfoy flashed a grin at Harry. "But this just brought my average up to my parents' satisfaction, even if I don't do so well for the rest of the term." They smiled at each other for a moment, warm green eyes meeting warm grey eyes, then simultaneously looked away awkwardly and started cleaning up.
The rest of class passed in silence, although at one point Harry caught himself staring obsessively at the fragile angles of Malfoy's shoulders when his back was turned, and every nerve seemed to be ultra sensitive toward even the air currents Malfoy created when he moved. Finally class ended, and on the way out Harry spent so much time wondering why Malfoy wasn't acting up to his usual degree of arrogant snot that he almost forgot how very clear his silver eyes had been when he had smiled at him…
Harry'd gone straight up to his bed in the dormitory, skipping dinner and telling Ron and Hermione that he didn't feel well. It was true. He *didn't* feel well. Something very unsettling had happened and he needed some time alone to figure out exactly what the hell was going on.
He'd flung himself on his bed and closed the curtains, bringing one candle in with him to place on a small shelf above his head. Sometimes he preferred a candle to casting light; it was less involving, and it didn't go away when he was completely lost in thought or fell asleep.
…What had happened exactly?
He was vaguely tempted to dismiss the whole thing as a moment of insanity on his part, but that didn't explain Malfoy's unexpected— almost— friendliness; and that interaction had been positively friendly considering Malfoy's personality. So it wasn't just him that was insane. Was it a coincidence, both of them being periodically insane at the exactly right moment? Or…
Or there was something there.
All right, so he hated Malfoy, or at least very seriously disliked him; Harry couldn't honestly say he hated anyone except Voldemort, and that was enough hatred for him, thank you, it's very exhausting. He didn't want any more hatred. So. He really, truly did not like Malfoy. Forget about that, forget about why for a moment.
At that moment, he had found Malfoy attractive. He'd never even considered Malfoy in a bodily sense except to size him up as a Quidditch opponent, and yes, so he was slim and delicate and all that; Harry wasn't that much better, but he'd used that small bit of height and reach advantage against Malfoy all the same.
At that moment, he had found Malfoy attractive. So what?
It was true, he'd never looked at a male in a sexual sense before; he'd noticed, rarely, that some of the males around him were aesthetically pleasing, in a very detached manner, but he'd never seen one and been *attracted* to him. Until now. Today. Malfoy. …Why?
Harry ran through his mental images and memories of Malfoy and had to say that yes, even at this moment, removed from the situation, he *did* think Malfoy had a distinct beauty and grace to him. In fact, ignoring his attitude and nastinesses, Harry couldn't think of anything that *wasn't* appealing about him.
…Okay. So he'd gone mad (—Malfoy! I think is appealing! Oh gods I've gone barking mad.) but he put even that aside. This did not explain Malfoy's unexpected lack of barbs, and most especially did not explain that moment of warmth in his eyes, when they'd gone crystal-clear and depthless and had seemed to cut a window shining deep into his soul.
On the other hand, he was quite possibly barking mad, so maybe he'd imagined this.
But he couldn't have imagined Malfoy's lack of antagonism; he remembered every moment of that class clearly and he'd left Malfoy innumerable opportunities to mock him or insult him or get him in trouble with Snape, and he'd taken none of them. This led him to believe that maybe, just maybe, he hadn't imagined that warmth.
Malfoy behaved out of character. Ever so slightly, but still— out of character. And he had found Malfoy attractive. Before Malfoy started acting oddly.
This meant he hadn't been led to this craziness by Malfoy's actions; before that, they'd been normal. Therefore, he'd reached insanity on his own, or…Malfoy was attractive. To him. He was…attracted…to Malfoy. Very much so. Enough that it took his breath away.
Harry sat up and clutched at his head, knowing that he couldn't possibly make his hair any less unruly than it was anyway.
All right. There were two options at this point.
Either he was truly completely barking mad, or Malfoy was…indeed…attractive to him. And had behaved oddly when he realised this.
There was only one thing to do at this point.
He had to ask Hermione whether he was mad or not.
***
He met Ron and Hermione on the way back from dinner to the common room. They appeared to be having a good time, and he hated to interrupt that— he'd long since decided it was damned well stupid of them to keep dancing around each other like this, or more appropriately for Ron to keep dancing around 'them' like this, but he *really* needed to talk to Hermione privately.
"Harry!" Ron had spotted him first. "You missed it, Dean was trying to show us what Muggle football is like and Neville accidentally made the pea he was using as the ball shoot right up Dean's nose— oh, are you feeling better?"
"Yeah— but I need to talk to you, Hermione, for a bit. Seriously. 'S that okay Ron? I need her massive intellect and all that stuff."
Hermione frowned a bit, concerned, but Ron was positively alarmed. "Harry, it's the weekend, and you shouldn't be needing massive intellect for anything till at least Sunday. 'Specially since all our O.W.L.s are taken. You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, I am, but I want to talk about the nature of reality and question existence for a while, and I want to look up proof in the library. I've been thinking a lot."
As he'd known would happen, Ron looked even more alarmed, and despite many objections and much concern about Harry's mental state to care about such things, they managed to force him into the Gryffindor common room. Fortunately there was the usual it's-the-weekend! party going on inside, and he was immediately sucked into it.
"Harry," Hermione said as soon as the Fat Lady had returned to her usual position guarding the portrait hole, "what's going on? You really are acting strangely, you know."
"'Mione, I need you to tell me whether I've gone insane or not."
Hermione looked startled and for the first time since he'd found them truly unsettled. "What's going on? Why are you questioning your sanity?"
Harry sighed. "I noticed something today, and it's so completely bizarre that I have to wonder whether I've completely lost it, and yours is the best outside opinion I know of on that one. I've…found someone attractive. That I never, in my wildest nightmares, would have thought I'd find…attractive."
Hermione whipped her head around to stare at him white-lipped. "Please tell me you've not fallen for Millicent Bulstrode."
"NO! No. No, in no way, not whatsoever, no. UGH. No. Not her. Not a…her…at all actually." Harry felt nauseous at the very thought of Millicent Bulstrode.
"Oh thank goodness." Hermione walked in silence for a bit. "Not a her— so you've fallen for a boy then?"
"I wouldn't say fallen…it's just that nothing has ever really hit me this deeply, so I'm a little stuck on the situation, you know? Not fallen, though, gods no. Just…confused." Harry tried very hard not to blush and stared at his feet. Please let us just get to the library soon.
"Is it…because it's a boy that you're upset?"
"No…I mean, I never thought about liking boys before, I never *really* thought about liking…anyone…like this. I mean, I'm not blind to a pretty girl, I see them and I like them and all, but…this…is, er, different. I mean, not because it's a boy, just…different. More…intense. A lot more intense. And weird. Very weird. Out of nowhere." Harry clenched his fists in handfuls of his robes and wailed, "'Mione, tell me I've gone insane! I can't stand this!"
Hermione laughed. "I can't say you've gone insane, Harry. It just sounds like you've fallen in love, or at least into an infatuation. Or just gotten more than your usual share of lust. Blame it on hormones, if you want to. You sound like you're confused, Harry, but not insane." She grinned at Harry. "Nothing wrong with liking boys, Harry. Unless it's Ron, and in that case, we'll have to fight I suppose, because you *know* I've been putting up with him for far too long to let someone else walk in and take my place." She blushed just a bit as she said this.
"NO! Not Ron. Definitely not Ron. Ron is all yours. Yes. It's…about as far from Ron as you can get actually." Harry had found a whole new level to blushing; he thought his cheeks had fallen into a volcano.
She laughed at him again, through her own blushing. "Good! I don't want to get in a catfight. …You're sure you're not upset because you like a boy? And who is it anyway?"
"No…I mean, it is very weird, very very unexpected, that I'd…er…like…boys. A boy. Anyway. But I don't care about that, really, it's more…who it…is. And I definitely don't want to tell you who. It might go away. I hope it goes away." He felt his blush finally beginning to subside, and realized that all he'd really needed to know he'd found out, and they were— at the library.
"Well…I guess I've got the whole way back to convince you to tell me who it is, don't I?" Hermione grinned at him and took his arm as they turned around, and Harry prayed to anything that might be listening that he could withstand her curiosity 'til they got back…
***
So he wasn't, apparently, crazy. Maybe Hermione would have agreed that he was if he'd told her it was *Malfoy* he'd been stricken by. But he couldn't, and so he trusted her judgment for what it was— usually better than his on a lot of levels, but not always, and not on all of them, particularly gut instinct. And his gut was saying this was…not insane, but a vital demand.
Soon enough— Not soon enough! — summer holidays came; they'd all managed to do at least passably well in their O.W.L.s, Hermione as expected bringing home the most. No one doubted that she'd be notified that she was to be Head Girl this summer. Harry himself had done well enough, not as well as Hermione, but then…that was nothing surprising. Even Ron had done well enough to make his family proud, bringing home a completely surprising 10 O.W.L.s. He blamed Hermione for this, but didn't seem to be actually complaining.
Harry planned to do a lot more thinking this summer. He'd not been able to stop this— whatever it was — with Malfoy. He'd kept being smashed at the most inconvenient times with the absolute realisation of the beauty of Draco Malfoy, of his movements, his shape, everything. He'd been caught staring at Malfoy more than once, several times by Malfoy himself. And not only had he not been in another actual altercation with Malfoy that year, but he'd noticed a distinct lessening in Malfoy's animosity; they'd several times been civil to each other. Malfoy'd even stopped haranguing Hermione and Ron, although he'd not warmed to the point of being truly *polite* to them.
He hoped to be able to cleanse himself of this physical draw, at least, during the months away from school. Perhaps when they got back Malfoy would continue to be unusually friendly, and he would see what could be done with that then. Or maybe he wouldn't, and things would go back to normal. One way or the other, Harry wanted to let this attraction fade with time and distance.
It didn't.
The summer ended with as burning a desire as it had begun.
***
Moonstones had always made Harry think of Draco's eyes...coolly silver- grey, but with the promise of light flashing from them with the slightest movement.
He'd managed to restrain himself from actually owning any moonstones for a while...like he needed any more distractions, any more encouragement to think of Draco when the very existence of Draco was a fevered heat on his skin, when all he dreamt of was Draco, when the first thought on waking and the last thought before sleeping was Draco.
But he craved moonstones. Blindly. And when he'd seen the puddle of stormcloud and silver lying neglected in the corner of a display case, he'd bought it without a thought. He couldn't even remember what shop he'd found it in; he'd lost track of his surroundings as soon as he set eyes on it.
It was a choker. Delicate scrollwork held the stones, perfect gems, and the chain mesh in-between subtly drew the eyes in a circling pattern, dizzying. No Muggle metalcrafter could have managed such precision, such beauty. But then again, it was a *choker*. Not the most appropriate gift for a man, let alone one who despised you. He didn't have to work hard to imagine the mockery that would slice at him if he actually gave it to Draco. But it was also the ideal ornament for Draco...it would flatter Draco's pale skin, his slim neck, would suit his own delicacy and elegance. He knew intuitively that it was perfect. Even if he would never see Draco wear it.
So he kept it in his pocket. Randomly throughout his day he would run it through his fingers and think of what it would look like around Draco's throat. Or draw it out of his pocket when he was alone and admire the stones for hours, seeing Draco's eyes in them, too beautiful and precious to share with anyone.
This obsession was tearing him apart. He couldn't think. He spoke rarely, only to respond to direct questions, and his answers were short and distracted. His schoolwork passed merit only thanks to Hermione's Herculean efforts. Ron and Hermione had begun to worry about him ages ago; he could tell, in an abstract corner of his mind, but couldn't make himself care long enough to focus on reality and reassure them. That is, if there was anything reassuring he could say anyway. He ate little and mechanically, mostly to keep Hermione from bothering him about it. He'd lost weight, had smears of dark bruises under his eyes; there was a daze, a vacancy to his face that no one could miss, and he'd gotten enough reprimands in class, lost enough house points, to make all the Gryffindors look at him sideways in irritation.
He couldn't even remember exactly when it had started. It seemed like he'd felt this somewhere hidden in the back of his mind and heart from the moment he'd seen Draco, the instant he'd stepped up onto a stool beside him at Madame Malkin's. If not then, sometime not far from then...he remembered wanting, oh, wanting to take Malfoy's hand on the train, but being more offended than tempted. Dignity had prevailed. This longing had lain dormant through the years, flickering vaguely stronger sometimes during Quidditch matches, in dreams.
But it had come to the forefront with a vengeance during a Potions class months ago, near the end of 6th year, when as punishment for arriving late, Snape had paired him with Malfoy on top of the usual ten points from Gryffindor. Malfoy was too irritated even to speak for the first half of class, and in the unexpected silence, Harry caught himself staring at Malfoy's slender, pale hands as he chopped roots. He'd flushed when he realized what he was doing and went back to crushing dried scarab beetles...until he realized that he couldn't breathe, mesmerized by the taut pull of Malfoy's robe across his spine and shoulder as he reached over to add the chopped roots to the cauldron.
"Work a little slower, can you, Potter?" Draco snapped as he turned back to the table. Harry quickly looked back to his beetles and found that they'd been powdered entirely— unnecessary, but fortunately still useable.
"Sorry...lost track of what I was doing," he responded lamely, and scraped the powder into the cauldron while Malfoy stirred.
"Obviously. Not that I should expect anything better from you." Draco scowled at the bubbling potion, which had started to sparkle with green phosphorescence. "Daydream on your own time, Potter. I need good marks this term and I refuse to let you hold me back."
"Sorry," Harry said again. And nothing else. Draco glanced at him suspiciously.
"Are you sick or something, Potter? Don't breathe on me."
"No, just— er— not thinking clearly today. Look, I said I was sorry, alright?" Harry finally got a little irritated and was relievedly working up to a good fight like usual. This whole staring at Malfoy thing was deeply unsettling, just too damned weird.
To his amazement, Malfoy didn't rise to the occasion, but simply kept stirring for a moment before muttering, "Yeah, well, just pay more attention now, will you?"
"Um...okay." Harry said, taken aback. He quickly measured out the requisite nine drops of dove's blood and added them carefully to the potion. With the last drop it stopped bubbling and began to waft up into a faintly glowing mist.
"Perfect," Snape announced from just behind Harry, startling him. "Quickly, lid the mixture, then bottle it for the aging period. Be most careful not to let any of the mist escape." Malfoy had the lid ready and had it done before Snape finished speaking. "Unlike most of your classmates, you've gotten it right. Take five points for Slytherin and Gryffindor. Although you've still lost your house five points, Potter—"
Snape was cut off by a shriek from Neville, whose potion had turned into an alarmingly bright shade of violet and had slid out of his cauldron and onto the floor, where it appeared to be trying to creep up his ankles. "Longbottom, I ought to let it finish liquefying your feet, honestly, how you manage to persist in such stupidity—" Snape hissed as he hurried over to deal with the problem.
"Not bad, Potter," Malfoy said. Harry's eyes flew to his in amazement as he finished, "Though not for lack of trying to foul it up, I'm sure. Thanks nonetheless."
"Are you sure you're not sick, Malfoy? I thought I just heard you thank me for something."
"Don't get too excited, Potter, I'm sure it won't happen again." Malfoy flashed a grin at Harry. "But this just brought my average up to my parents' satisfaction, even if I don't do so well for the rest of the term." They smiled at each other for a moment, warm green eyes meeting warm grey eyes, then simultaneously looked away awkwardly and started cleaning up.
The rest of class passed in silence, although at one point Harry caught himself staring obsessively at the fragile angles of Malfoy's shoulders when his back was turned, and every nerve seemed to be ultra sensitive toward even the air currents Malfoy created when he moved. Finally class ended, and on the way out Harry spent so much time wondering why Malfoy wasn't acting up to his usual degree of arrogant snot that he almost forgot how very clear his silver eyes had been when he had smiled at him…
Harry'd gone straight up to his bed in the dormitory, skipping dinner and telling Ron and Hermione that he didn't feel well. It was true. He *didn't* feel well. Something very unsettling had happened and he needed some time alone to figure out exactly what the hell was going on.
He'd flung himself on his bed and closed the curtains, bringing one candle in with him to place on a small shelf above his head. Sometimes he preferred a candle to casting light; it was less involving, and it didn't go away when he was completely lost in thought or fell asleep.
…What had happened exactly?
He was vaguely tempted to dismiss the whole thing as a moment of insanity on his part, but that didn't explain Malfoy's unexpected— almost— friendliness; and that interaction had been positively friendly considering Malfoy's personality. So it wasn't just him that was insane. Was it a coincidence, both of them being periodically insane at the exactly right moment? Or…
Or there was something there.
All right, so he hated Malfoy, or at least very seriously disliked him; Harry couldn't honestly say he hated anyone except Voldemort, and that was enough hatred for him, thank you, it's very exhausting. He didn't want any more hatred. So. He really, truly did not like Malfoy. Forget about that, forget about why for a moment.
At that moment, he had found Malfoy attractive. He'd never even considered Malfoy in a bodily sense except to size him up as a Quidditch opponent, and yes, so he was slim and delicate and all that; Harry wasn't that much better, but he'd used that small bit of height and reach advantage against Malfoy all the same.
At that moment, he had found Malfoy attractive. So what?
It was true, he'd never looked at a male in a sexual sense before; he'd noticed, rarely, that some of the males around him were aesthetically pleasing, in a very detached manner, but he'd never seen one and been *attracted* to him. Until now. Today. Malfoy. …Why?
Harry ran through his mental images and memories of Malfoy and had to say that yes, even at this moment, removed from the situation, he *did* think Malfoy had a distinct beauty and grace to him. In fact, ignoring his attitude and nastinesses, Harry couldn't think of anything that *wasn't* appealing about him.
…Okay. So he'd gone mad (—Malfoy! I think is appealing! Oh gods I've gone barking mad.) but he put even that aside. This did not explain Malfoy's unexpected lack of barbs, and most especially did not explain that moment of warmth in his eyes, when they'd gone crystal-clear and depthless and had seemed to cut a window shining deep into his soul.
On the other hand, he was quite possibly barking mad, so maybe he'd imagined this.
But he couldn't have imagined Malfoy's lack of antagonism; he remembered every moment of that class clearly and he'd left Malfoy innumerable opportunities to mock him or insult him or get him in trouble with Snape, and he'd taken none of them. This led him to believe that maybe, just maybe, he hadn't imagined that warmth.
Malfoy behaved out of character. Ever so slightly, but still— out of character. And he had found Malfoy attractive. Before Malfoy started acting oddly.
This meant he hadn't been led to this craziness by Malfoy's actions; before that, they'd been normal. Therefore, he'd reached insanity on his own, or…Malfoy was attractive. To him. He was…attracted…to Malfoy. Very much so. Enough that it took his breath away.
Harry sat up and clutched at his head, knowing that he couldn't possibly make his hair any less unruly than it was anyway.
All right. There were two options at this point.
Either he was truly completely barking mad, or Malfoy was…indeed…attractive to him. And had behaved oddly when he realised this.
There was only one thing to do at this point.
He had to ask Hermione whether he was mad or not.
***
He met Ron and Hermione on the way back from dinner to the common room. They appeared to be having a good time, and he hated to interrupt that— he'd long since decided it was damned well stupid of them to keep dancing around each other like this, or more appropriately for Ron to keep dancing around 'them' like this, but he *really* needed to talk to Hermione privately.
"Harry!" Ron had spotted him first. "You missed it, Dean was trying to show us what Muggle football is like and Neville accidentally made the pea he was using as the ball shoot right up Dean's nose— oh, are you feeling better?"
"Yeah— but I need to talk to you, Hermione, for a bit. Seriously. 'S that okay Ron? I need her massive intellect and all that stuff."
Hermione frowned a bit, concerned, but Ron was positively alarmed. "Harry, it's the weekend, and you shouldn't be needing massive intellect for anything till at least Sunday. 'Specially since all our O.W.L.s are taken. You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, I am, but I want to talk about the nature of reality and question existence for a while, and I want to look up proof in the library. I've been thinking a lot."
As he'd known would happen, Ron looked even more alarmed, and despite many objections and much concern about Harry's mental state to care about such things, they managed to force him into the Gryffindor common room. Fortunately there was the usual it's-the-weekend! party going on inside, and he was immediately sucked into it.
"Harry," Hermione said as soon as the Fat Lady had returned to her usual position guarding the portrait hole, "what's going on? You really are acting strangely, you know."
"'Mione, I need you to tell me whether I've gone insane or not."
Hermione looked startled and for the first time since he'd found them truly unsettled. "What's going on? Why are you questioning your sanity?"
Harry sighed. "I noticed something today, and it's so completely bizarre that I have to wonder whether I've completely lost it, and yours is the best outside opinion I know of on that one. I've…found someone attractive. That I never, in my wildest nightmares, would have thought I'd find…attractive."
Hermione whipped her head around to stare at him white-lipped. "Please tell me you've not fallen for Millicent Bulstrode."
"NO! No. No, in no way, not whatsoever, no. UGH. No. Not her. Not a…her…at all actually." Harry felt nauseous at the very thought of Millicent Bulstrode.
"Oh thank goodness." Hermione walked in silence for a bit. "Not a her— so you've fallen for a boy then?"
"I wouldn't say fallen…it's just that nothing has ever really hit me this deeply, so I'm a little stuck on the situation, you know? Not fallen, though, gods no. Just…confused." Harry tried very hard not to blush and stared at his feet. Please let us just get to the library soon.
"Is it…because it's a boy that you're upset?"
"No…I mean, I never thought about liking boys before, I never *really* thought about liking…anyone…like this. I mean, I'm not blind to a pretty girl, I see them and I like them and all, but…this…is, er, different. I mean, not because it's a boy, just…different. More…intense. A lot more intense. And weird. Very weird. Out of nowhere." Harry clenched his fists in handfuls of his robes and wailed, "'Mione, tell me I've gone insane! I can't stand this!"
Hermione laughed. "I can't say you've gone insane, Harry. It just sounds like you've fallen in love, or at least into an infatuation. Or just gotten more than your usual share of lust. Blame it on hormones, if you want to. You sound like you're confused, Harry, but not insane." She grinned at Harry. "Nothing wrong with liking boys, Harry. Unless it's Ron, and in that case, we'll have to fight I suppose, because you *know* I've been putting up with him for far too long to let someone else walk in and take my place." She blushed just a bit as she said this.
"NO! Not Ron. Definitely not Ron. Ron is all yours. Yes. It's…about as far from Ron as you can get actually." Harry had found a whole new level to blushing; he thought his cheeks had fallen into a volcano.
She laughed at him again, through her own blushing. "Good! I don't want to get in a catfight. …You're sure you're not upset because you like a boy? And who is it anyway?"
"No…I mean, it is very weird, very very unexpected, that I'd…er…like…boys. A boy. Anyway. But I don't care about that, really, it's more…who it…is. And I definitely don't want to tell you who. It might go away. I hope it goes away." He felt his blush finally beginning to subside, and realized that all he'd really needed to know he'd found out, and they were— at the library.
"Well…I guess I've got the whole way back to convince you to tell me who it is, don't I?" Hermione grinned at him and took his arm as they turned around, and Harry prayed to anything that might be listening that he could withstand her curiosity 'til they got back…
***
So he wasn't, apparently, crazy. Maybe Hermione would have agreed that he was if he'd told her it was *Malfoy* he'd been stricken by. But he couldn't, and so he trusted her judgment for what it was— usually better than his on a lot of levels, but not always, and not on all of them, particularly gut instinct. And his gut was saying this was…not insane, but a vital demand.
Soon enough— Not soon enough! — summer holidays came; they'd all managed to do at least passably well in their O.W.L.s, Hermione as expected bringing home the most. No one doubted that she'd be notified that she was to be Head Girl this summer. Harry himself had done well enough, not as well as Hermione, but then…that was nothing surprising. Even Ron had done well enough to make his family proud, bringing home a completely surprising 10 O.W.L.s. He blamed Hermione for this, but didn't seem to be actually complaining.
Harry planned to do a lot more thinking this summer. He'd not been able to stop this— whatever it was — with Malfoy. He'd kept being smashed at the most inconvenient times with the absolute realisation of the beauty of Draco Malfoy, of his movements, his shape, everything. He'd been caught staring at Malfoy more than once, several times by Malfoy himself. And not only had he not been in another actual altercation with Malfoy that year, but he'd noticed a distinct lessening in Malfoy's animosity; they'd several times been civil to each other. Malfoy'd even stopped haranguing Hermione and Ron, although he'd not warmed to the point of being truly *polite* to them.
He hoped to be able to cleanse himself of this physical draw, at least, during the months away from school. Perhaps when they got back Malfoy would continue to be unusually friendly, and he would see what could be done with that then. Or maybe he wouldn't, and things would go back to normal. One way or the other, Harry wanted to let this attraction fade with time and distance.
It didn't.
The summer ended with as burning a desire as it had begun.
