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The sorting ceremony was short and sweet. Ten new Gryffindors and a lot of chatting and talking, a hilarious atmosphere as everyone tried to catch up with everything everyone else had been doing, in the course of one supper.
Harry reached for the potatoes and was more than a little surprised when the bowl grew legs and walked away. In fact, all the dishes were walking away. And they now had little pink hands. And was that the Macarena? A juice jug got overly enthusiastic and splashed Seamus Finnegan, purple grape juice dripping down his face and into the collar of his shirt. Giggles filled the air, and everyone looked over to the end of the table where the new Gryffindors sat. Twin girls, with identical chestnut brown hair and dancing brown eyes fell off the bench and rolled around, laughing.
"Oh, no!" Hermione exclaimed, her face the very picture of horror. "Georgina and Frederica!"
Everyone cracked up.
Harry was back where he belonged. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping and he was back where he belonged. He and Ron were engaged in a furious battle of Wizard's chess in the common room, and Harry had no hope of winning. Even the chess pieces were cursing his name as they pelted out useless advice.
Harry wondered briefly if Ron would ever realize the extent of Harry's feeling for him. Ron was the first friend Harry had ever made, the only person who stuck by in through thick and thin. Granted he was a red-head, hot tempered, stubborn as a mule but those flaws only made him more real. Ron was no longer a friend. He was family, a brother, and the only one Harry would ever have.
And that made it particularly difficult to admit a painful truth. Ron just kept pestering him about Cho, teasing him about Ginny. And Harry was genuinely very fond of them. But . . . They just didn't make him . . . gasp aloud in need and desire.
It was even worse when Ron persisted in pointing out every pretty little witch that walked by with a wiggle and a wink. Some of them were drop dead gorgeous and Ron was insistent that Harry could have any of them he wanted. They didn't disprove him, watched him from across the room, with blushes or winks, and each dared him to come over and talk to her. And Harry just wanted them all to go away.
Yeah, Harry could just see that conversation. You see Ron, when I dream, I see only guys. . . First, there would be the inevitable disgust, then the disbelief that would well up in his eyes, like a river of judgement. Then the most painful part of all. Ron would start reflect on their friendship.
And that was the absolute last thing Harry wanted. Ron was family. Family, with the "Eeeww! Off-limits!" sign securely fastened to his forehead. Harry cared about Ron more deeply than any other person (Hermione coming a very close second) but he didn't think about Ron in that way. He didn't think of anyone that way. His fantasies were non-distinct and fading things that left him breathless. And wanting.
"Ummmm, your move, Harry." Ron was looking at him with a 'where in the nine dimensions of Parco, were you?' look plastered on his face. "Is something wrong?"
"I've pretty much lost this game, haven't I?" Harry looked at the board. Any move his King that made Ron would quickly turn into a checkmate.
"I did say check –" Ron said confusedly.
"Then let's sneak down into the kitchen and steal some chocolate pie before bed."
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Draco was tired but he couldn't sleep. He had cast a minor healing charm on his arm but the marks were still there, burning into his bones. Crabbe and Goyle slumbered noisily in the beds next to his own. He rather liked it. If he could hear them snoring, he knew they were sleeping and not up to something. Not standing over his bed, waiting for him to roll over so they could put a knife in his back.
Draco pulled his knife out from underneath his pillow. It was short and gleaming silver even in the pale light. Green serpent's eyes stared at him from the handle. A present from his father. His fifth birthday present to be precise. What kind of man gives his five year old son a knife?
The kind of man who would never imagine what Draco did with it, alone here in the dark. The knife gouged deep and blood, red-blackish blood, in the darkness dripped down onto the sheets, covering them in a luminous fluid (like moonlit rain drops on a frozen night) before they were absorbed.
The blood flowed, releasing the heat as it trickled down his arm, leaving a pathway of blessed relief and reprieve. Draco stared in silent contemplation for a few moments. Then he took out his wand, and gently, gently, soothed the pain away.
Draco walked into his charms class, already in a foul mood. He hated charms. He was excellent at Potions, and Defence against the Dark Arts, and had a knack for Transfigurations. He did decently in herbology, and not as well in Arithmancy. And Charms was his worst subject.
Worse yet, the Mudblood, Hermione was there. She beat him in everything, across the board. And he would have to listen to her point out the correct pronunciation, and correct the Gryffindors wand movements while Professor Flitwick smiled. If his blood had to be so tainted, couldn't he have had a little like hers? Her blood ran with a spark, a glimmer of talent and personality. She didn't need the bloodlines – she was a past, present and future all of her own.
He muttered snarkishly to Goyle and Crabbe and they laughed in their normal, dense, too loud, the-joke-wasn't-really-that-funny-way. He caught a glance of Harry from across the room.
Damn him, why does he always have to look so good? His ruffled hair looked like he had come straight from his bed, even though it was already nearly noon. Worse, he looked happy, innocent, and pleased with whatever Ron had whispered in ear. It wasn't bloody fair, he cursed. Harry was a boy already touched, no, marked by darkness, and he sat there, oblivious to the shadows.
In a reaffirmation of his love of all things evil, and his hatred for all things Potter, Draco reached under his desk and discreetly transfigured Neville Longbottom's Standard Book of Spells into a giant spider.
