2. Enmity

Harry was standing in front of a mirror in the Gryffindor boys' bathroom. He was staring at himself intently. Green eyes. They were shining like as if he were a madman. His tense mouth was curled to a disgusted frown. He put his fingers trough his tangled ebony hair that was covering the scar on his forehead. And he puked.

"What is going on?" he thought inside his confused head. "What the hell was that all about? I'm not gay, you know. I am definitely not gay!"

He looked again in his own deep, fearful eyes trough the mirror, and received a very doubtful and truth-searching stare. He turned away and puked again in the washbowl.

"And now my life will be nothing but hell, after Malfoy tells the whole school," he grimaced at himself. "And I didn't even do it intentionally!"

He rested on his elbows, staring at the old-fashioned drain where his former breakfast was disappearing, with the help of the silently flooding water. Gingerly, he tried to encounter his reflection once more. The eyes were still there, looking at him uneasily. Harry thought they had the colour of Snape's the most ill-omened poison. Then he concentrated in looking at his scar, which had always made his outer appearance so striking. It was now nearly white, contrasted to his bronze, late summer tan.

"Malfoy is so pale, I think he doesn't spend much time outside these walls, except for the Quidditch practise," Harry found himself thinking. "Fuck Malfoy, that sickly-looking ferret!" he corrected himself, just in time before he vomited once more. Then he heard the door open behind his back. He saw Ron enter the room via the mirror.

"Harry, are you alright?" Ron nearly ran to him. "Are you feeling ill?"

"Well, what does it look like, Ron?" he asked, half irritated.

Ron looked at the basin and retired a few steps. "Are you sure you don't need Madam Pomfrey to take a look at you? I mean, that Quidditch match was really violent. But I'm glad you gave Malfoy a hard handling. He if anybody deserved that."

Harry felt his inners give a jolt, yet again. "Don't mention about it."

"Come on, Harry, if you're not going to go to the hospital wing, you can at least accompany Hermione and I to the dinner table. You haven't eaten anything since the match. Although… 'Spect the food doesn't taste to you, just to take notions of what you have in your washbasin." Ron made a disgusted face.

"Uh," Harry pressed his eyes hard closed. "I'm coming. Just give me a minute, okay?"

"Okay." Ron said vaguely. He returned back to the common room, however giving Harry one more concerned a glance.

Harry spluttered fresh water all across his face. He had to go. He had to face what was ahead of him. Sooner or later, he would have to meet everybody anyway. And the more he prolonged it, the worse it would go. He would meet the sneering Slytherins today.

**

Far away from the Gryffindor tower, Draco Malfoy was enjoying himself. Even though he was always the target of admiration wherever he went, today he was also the target of unrestrained attention. He was the hero, not Harry Potter. After the Quidditch match, he had done nothing but had a shower and sat on the softest sofa of Slytherin common room, being the light of the dim dungeon. Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls Millicent, Blaise and Tracey were hanging close around him, flirting wildly. Grabbe and Goyle were boosting their egos telling everyone they were Malfoy's best friends. And the other Slytherins either gave Malfoy wide smiles whenever he happened to look at their direction, or did a loud shemozzle on the aisles of the school about their victory.

"Potter was quite wild today," Blaise Zabini giggled at Draco's ear. "I never knew he was capable of such roughness."

Malfoy flashed his polished teeth to a grin as if something really amusing would have flooded in his brains, concerning the match. "Yeah, he was really wild," he said, trying not to burst out laughing. "Damn that Potter, he ruffled my hairdo. Does it look bad?"

All the Slytherin princesses took horrified expressions and assured Draco that his hair was absolutely spoilt. He scowled jestingly and reached elegantly for the candy pouch at the nearby table. "You know, maybe Harry is trying to spread his own messy hairstyle around the school, so that he'd be less scruffy-looking. And making my hair resemble his own, he thought he'd succeed better. As it is, everybody follows my superior sense of clothing, already."

Millicent gave an agreeing sigh, whereas Pansy and Tracey nodded eagerly.

"So, did you actually hit him in the face?" asked Mary-Ann Greengrass, who had emerged behind Draco's sofa and was now lolling to its backrest.

"Well, I had to. He was so… wild," he said, this time actually snorting a little, which was highly non-Malfoyish. "Plus, I've wanted to do that for a long time for fun, you know."

"Ooh, but it was so brave to do that in front of the whole school!" Pansy fluttered her long black lashes at Draco. Tracey and Millicent seemed nearly to swoon from admiration.

The girls kept on praising him for another thirty minutes, until it was time for the dinner.

Malfoy had not thought about Potter since the question about punching him in the face, but as he casually walked towards the Great Hall, his thoughts returned to him again. Had that… that… well, had the 'accident' been a meaningless reaction of some sort from his body? Or had there been something else? It was nothing surprising to Draco that also the boys were drooling after him. There were two particularly amusing cases in Hufflepuff house, Justin Flich-Fletchley and Wayne Hopkins, whom Draco thought were a couple. And then there was also Montague from his own house, and Terry Boot from Ravenclaw. Terry had actually written Draco a love letter. Not that Draco ever answered it, though. It was not his style.

But the subject now at hand was Harry Potter. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. He, a gay? No way. That was one thing impossible in the universe –impossible even in the magical universe. Draco shrugged the subject unflappably away and forgot about it once more. He found his seat at the Slytherin table and began to pile loads of steamed crawfish on his plate, with neat sways of his hand.

**

When entering the Great Hall, Harry thought everybody were looking at him curiously. He blushed slightly, but continued his way unwaveringly to the table. Nearly all the other Gryffindors were already there, eating with great appetite. Hermione and Ron sat next to each other on the other side of the table, when Harry found a free seat opposite to them. Not one second had passed by when Seamus Finnigan addressed him, his mouth full of red caviar.

"Awful match it was today. You really look like a wreck, Harry. But I don't blame you. That malicious little pure-blooded brat! Bet he'll tease you the rest of the month about Slytherin's stiff but gorgeous rising to the victory, as I heard him say just a minute ago."

"Yeah, bet he will," Harry replied, swallowing hard. He reached for the potato bowl and chose six potatoes by oversight.

"Wow, you must be really hungry, Harry," Colin Creevey exclaimed, taking a photo of his full plate. "Exciting match it was today, Harry. Dennis and I have sore throats for… cough!... for yelling so many encouraging words to you, Harry! And don't be depressed at all because of our loss. You were still a really hard opponent for Malfoy."

"Uh, thanks," Harry uttered, poking the crab pincers in front of his nose indifferently with his fork, trying to keep his thoughts away from anything referred to 'hard', 'stiff' or 'rising'.

Hermione was giving him worried glares, accompanied with Ron. Harry was sure Ron had told her what he'd seen him doing in the bathroom. Thus, he avoided looking at Hermione, because he really didn't want her to ask any questions. Actually, he didn't want anybody asking questions right now, except himself. He rolled over the sweaty little crayfish on his plate and bit his lower lip. He ventured to take a demure glance towards the Slytherin table.

There he was, sitting like the owner of the world between his bodyguards Grabbe and Goyle. Draco Malfoy. The slimiest git of the world. And yet, he needed to find the courage to ask that question. He needed to know if he had told everybody about what really had happened on the field today. Because, at least the Gryffindor students did not seem to know yet. As to that, Harry did not want them to know either. He would do anything to keep Malfoy's mouth sealed. Anything. As far as that sealing didn't happen with his lips.

Instantly, Harry fumed at himself for even thinking about such a sick choice of action. Kissing Malfoy? What next! Having a shower with a blast-ended Skrewt? He left the Great Hall without having touched his food.

**

The sky had disappeared behind a thick, dark grey could mass by seven o'clock in the evening. Harry was alone in his bedroom, sitting by the window, listening the distant rumble of the approaching storm. Tomorrow, the first two lessons would be Potions with Professor Snape –and with Slytherin. Harry found this fact both appalling and satisfying at the same time. Though there were little things he hated more than Potion classes, he would perhaps be able to talk a few words to Malfoy. Able to ask him if everybody knew.

Talk to Malfoy? Harry massaged his aching left shoulder and made a grimace at the darkening evening. Talk to Malfoy was something he had never in his life done before. That is, he had never started a conversation with him. Never tried, never wanted, never cared to do that. The only occasions they had been conversing were the situations Malfoy had been harrying either him, Hermione or Ron. And now, Harry would have to change some reasonable, and most of all important words with him. How to do that? What to say to him?

"Hi, Malfoy? Wanna change a word?" Harry practised. Grimacing, he tried again. "Hullo, Malfoy. Could you have a word with me?"

Harry shook his black curls and sighed. He sounded ridiculous.

"Malfoy. I want a word. Now."

Hmm. Better.

"Malfoy, you brag pill, have you got the courage to change a couple of words with me –without your lard-ass bodyguards?"

Nah. Right attitude, but too digressing. The previous try was better.

Harry scowled at the eagle owl that was passing his view. It was carrying a large package towards the Slytherin end of the castle. Distantly, Harry recognized it as Malfoy's.

"Maybe I should write him a letter?" he mused. "Malfoy –git. Tell me once and for all… oh, not for all, hmm… tell me this instant if you have told anybody about what happened at the Q. pitch. Anyone at all? Because, if you have, you'll find your stupid show-off eagle owl carrying you a package of shovels next –for your funeral."

Harry slammed his hands across his mouth. He was horrified what he had just said. Had he just threatened to hurt Malfoy? To kill Malfoy? Images and words from their earlier fight rose in front of his eyes. "Give it to me, or I will kick the life out of you!" he had yelled. Harry was trembling. Had he said that to Malfoy, not the opposite way? What was wrong with him?

Harry closed his eyes, cold sweat emerging on his scarred forehead. He must have started really to hate Malfoy at some point of the term. Really, deeply hate him. This aggressive behaviour was not typical of Harry. Why was he like that? The reason wasn't Malfoy's usual childish bullying –it had never bothered him that much. No… But why, then? Why did he feel so belligerent towards him?

That night Harry went to sleep early, hoping he would not see his usual nightmares about Draco ripping his heart out of his chest again.

...to be continued...