Disclaimer: I do not own, nor will I ever own Harry Potter or any of his friends, enemies, or associates.
Author's Note: This chapter runs about two or three months after the previous two; I'm not sure of the timing precisely. Unlike the previous two chapters, the P.O.V. changes from time to time. The P.O.V. at any given moment should be obvious enough. There is repeated use of offensive language. Oh, and there is an actual conversation between Harry and Draco in this one, which I hadn't planned on; again, tell me if it works, please.
Rules of Inference
Draco has never liked any of that romance crap. None of it: not the gazing into moonstruck eyes, not the dawning of fragile realisation, not the first shining, easily mocked days of public displays of affection. Not even the kissing in abandoned classrooms, although Draco is willing to relinquish his distaste if Harry is.
He sends Harry flowers on Valentine's Day anyway. Not publicly, of course, and unsigned; that would be stupid, and Draco tries as hard as he can to avoid stupidity.
They're very nice flowers… not roses: too cliché, or lilies: inappropriate in the face of Harry's dead mother. Instead it's this colourful, expensive bunch of imported sunflowers: bright, cheerful, yellow things, with edible seeds.
There isn't a card except the standard one from the florists, stating in cheap black ink that Harry has a Secret Admirer; it had come with the capital letters, and Draco hadn't been bothered enough to change it.
Draco doesn't regret his decision. Harry looks stunned when the flowers (delivered by a school owl; his own would be too traceable, and Draco had learnt how to avoid being traced years ago, even if he hasn't had much opportunity or reason to use the knowledge thus far) drop into his breakfast, and happy when he reads the card. The happiness doesn't last long on Harry's face: it is quickly replaced by what looks to be nervous anger, as Harry looks around the Hall, trying to figure out who sent them.
Draco pretends to concentrate on his toast as Harry looks briefly at the Slytherin table.
*
Harry is stunned when a rather nice bunch of sunflowers drop into his plate of porridge, early morning on Valentine's Day. The people surrounding him look stunned too, although all recover quickly and ask, in varying tones of surprise, what the card says. Harry tells them – it's unsigned, and says in pretty black handwriting that Harry has a Secret Admirer, capital letters included. The florists are located in Diagon Alley; a place Harry will have no opportunity to go to until next summer.
Ron suspects one of the Third Year Hufflepuffs because sunflowers are yellow and Third Years are silly. It seems logical enough, so Harry agrees quietly and looks round the Hall.
It could be Draco though, thinks Harry, and it is that thought which ruins the gesture for him. If Draco sent them, then Draco definitely knows, and is definitely mocking Harry.
Harry contents himself by asking Ginny Weasley if she sent them; he knows she didn't: it isn't her style at all, and it makes everybody laugh. Harry looks at Draco briefly as he does this, and notices a grimace – not a scowl, not a sneer, a grimace – on Draco's face. The expression disappears into Draco's usual veneer before Harry looks away.
That's it, then. Harry has been found out. Harry has not spent his entire time at Hogwarts thus far angering Draco Malfoy in order to know nothing about the boy: if Draco is grimacing at him, then Draco sent the sunflowers.
*
Shit! Draco thinks. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Harry has worked it out. Harry knows. Vincent and Gregory are giving him funny looks, and Professor Snape looks unamused, but none of this is unusual, and it's irrelevant anyway in the wider context of Harry having worked it out.
Harry has spent the entire Potions lesson thus far attempting to sneak looks at Draco. That is not to say that he hasn't been looking at Draco; rather, that it hasn't been surreptitious at all. This would amuse Draco, in any other situation, but the shit has hit the dragon, and dragons don't like shit.
Because, shit! Harry knows, and fuck! if Harry knows, then Harry is going to spend the rest of his time at Hogwarts making Draco's life miserable, because Harry can and there isn't any reason not to, because Draco is supposed to hate Harry, and he doesn't, and… and… and… Draco answers the question, something about dragon's blood. He ignores the look of surprise and distaste on Professor Snape's face when he gets it wrong.
Draco thinks that if Harry, by any chance, hadn't made all of the necessary connections before this lesson, then he certainly has by now. Draco snickers under his breath about the irony, the cosmic truth, and the fucking injustice of it all.
He receives five points from Slytherin and a detention after dinner. Shit!
*
Harry wakes up in the early hours of the next morning and is certain. Draco definitely sent the flowers. What Harry can't figure out is why, except his early reasoning: that Draco knows, and is taunting Harry.
But that doesn't make sense. Even Harry can see that. If Draco had wanted to taunt Harry about it, he's had ample opportunity. There was the Quidditch match, and dozens of meeting in school hallways, and Potions class yesterday, where…. Where Draco was acting strangely, almost like he knew that Harry had worked it out and hadn't expected it, and… but that's just silly, because Draco fucking knows, and this isn't his style at all.
Harry goes back to sleep thinking about it.
That morning, Ron wakes him, as usual. Harry showers, and dresses, and walks down to breakfast slightly behind the adoring couple of Ron and Hermione, as usual, and is pulled into an unused classroom on the second floor by Draco, which definitely isn't.
*
Draco hadn't planned on actually confronting Harry when he'd sent him the flowers. Draco had planned on sort of, well, wooing Harry, courting him. Eventually, of course, Draco had planned to speak with Harry properly, but not until absolutely necessary.
Absolutely necessary has come an awful lot sooner than he'd expected.
Once the decision had been made, though, the planning and execution had been simple and could be explained in one sentence: Get Harry alone, using any means necessary.
Draco wakes up in the early hours of the morning, knowing that he has to speak to Harry; possibly even explain himself, providing time permits. Draco, being a Slytherin, sees nothing incongruous about threatening the object of his affections if said object refuses to do what they're told, and thus prepares a range of back-up plans.
He shoves the plans – totalling eleven feet of parchment plus a model of the second floor classrooms – into his satchel and leaves for breakfast, having had three hours of sleep.
"What are you doing, Malfoy?" asks Harry angrily, the moment Draco has locked the door and placed a silencing charm on the room. Perversely, Harry has remained silent up until this point, and hadn't made so much as a murmur when Draco had dragged him in here.
"I know what you did!" is the second thing Harry says, having had no reply to his prior question.
"I know," says Draco. Curiously, Harry shudders.
"I know," says Draco again, just to gauge Harry's reaction.
Harry does not act as expected. Harry is supposed to taunt Draco, starting now, but instead… "And I think you're a complete git for it. You shouldn't be doing this."
"I know," says Draco for a third time, hopelessly.
Harry apparently misses the tone completely. "Stop fucking saying that! I know that you know, and you're… this isn't something that I can just ignore. I ignored all the rest of it – all the teasing, all the crap you do just because you…"
"The stalking? Yes, well, that's just lovely of you – so fucking noble," Draco jeers. This isn't going well.
"Stalking is an odd word for it, Malfoy. I'd call it taunting." Harry is puzzled by something; Draco can see that.
"Wait a minute, Potter," says Draco. "What is it that you think I know?"
"You know," says Harry, looking decidedly ill.
Draco sneers. "Obviously not, Potter, or else I wouldn't be asking."
Harry looks determined. "If you don't know, then I'm not saying anything."
"Fucking say it, Potter, or I'll hex you into oblivion."
Harry's face softens slightly, and this surprises Draco. "You're so melodramatic, Malfoy."
"I'm not joking, Potter. Tell me what you think I know." Draco is reaching the end of his patience. He'd been expecting this to go more… smoothly, somehow. Harry obviously sees this.
"Fine. This can't get any worse anyway," Harry mutters. "That I… that I, well, that… I know you know that I like you, okay? And you're such a fucking bastard to tease me about it, and I'm going now."
"No!" says Draco, quickly. "No," he says again, sounding stung.
"No what, Malfoy?" Harry does not sound happy.
"No, I did not know. Potter. You fucking moron." Draco is having a very good day now.
"There isn't any need to rub it in, you bastard. I know you're going to spend the rest of your life making me miserable, but you could at least… and, hang on, if you didn't know, why'd you send the flowers?" Harry looks confused. The expression looks curiously natural on his face.
"Because… because I'd like to spend the rest of my life making you miserable. Or, you know, not. Whatever," finishes Draco, sounding defensive. He crosses his arms and tries to look as though he isn't a melting pile of Slytherin slime: slime the exact colour, incidentally, of Harry's eyes.
"Oh," says Harry. Harry still looks confused.
Draco smiles at him. Harry smiles back. The smiles aren't particularly pretty, even if they are genuine; that sort of thing only comes with practise.
Draco spends the rest of the day feeling both utterly happy and utterly stupid: although his logic had been impeccable, not a single one of his premises had been correct.
Harry, apparently, cannot think and feel at the same time, and so his logical misadventures do not bother him at all.
FIN