Chapter Two

Scandal

-o–#–O–#–o-

"Today the headlines, tomorrow hard times..."

(Queen, "Scandal")

-o–#–O–#–o-

"Harry...

"Harry!...

"Harry!!!"

There was a voice, and the voice was calling his name.

"Harry, come on, you scare me. Wake up!"

The voice belonged to Hermione Granger. Harry hadn't seen her since Christmas, which they'd both spent at the Burrow.

He finally opened his eyes. He was inside his flat, that much was clear although he couldn't remember the precise moment when he'd unlocked the door and stumbled in. Hermione, hair falling in her face, was looking down at him—Harry noticed he'd fallen asleep on the floor and, by the looks of it, he'd slept all day long, the sun having set yet again upon this meaningless world. Hermione's worried expression changed into a more severe one as he stood up, swayed a little and crashed into the sofa.

"Is–is this true, Harry?"

The latest edition of "Witch Weekly" landed in his lap.

"Bollocks," Harry uttered in a dispassionate voice, as one would remark on weather during a tea-time conversation. Memories of the previous night came rushing back. His head felt heavy and his mouth sour. He didn't have the energy to display any kind of emotion. Hermione gratified him with a scowl.

"I'll take that as a 'yes' although the photo speaks for itself well enough."

The photo in question depicted Harry in an undeniably compromising position—specifically, very heatedly entangled on the dance floor with the stranger dressed in black he'd seduced (or been seduced by, if Harry was to believe him) the previous night. They'd put up quite a show, he remembered, of the particular variety of shows that no decent parent would allow their children to watch. He also remembered not caring right then, but he did now—stupid, idiotic bad luck!

"The 'Prophet' also printed an article, but you didn't make the front page there," said Hermione. "I don't receive that Quidditch magazine, what's-its-name, but they're bound to at least mention it with all the attention you've been getting of late. 'Transfiguration Today' is probably not interested and 'The Quibbler' refrained from writing anything. You'll have to buy Luna Lovegood a very nice present some day, Harry."

Harry didn't pay much attention to his friend's words, too busy staring at the picture in front of his eyes and frowning. The Harry in the photo was in fact alternating between groping the other youth and hiding behind him. All in all, Harry thought it was a pretty good shot, considering he hadn't been aware of it being taken. They'd never photographed him with girls, and Merlin knew, there had been plenty of opportunities! In big, purple, curly letters, the headline announced: "Harry Potter and the Surprise of the Century"

Come to think about it, Hermione took 'the surprise of the century' rather well. Harry felt an immense and also inexplicable sense of relief washing through him. Which was why the words that left his lips seemingly of their own accord took Harry by surprise because they did a great job of completely obscuring the relief he felt.

"Yeah, so me and pretty boy in the photo have done the deed. Do you have a problem with that?" he said—in a cold, detached tone, too.

::I'm so obsessed with Malfoy I'm turning into him,:: Harry thought grimly. To her credit, Hermione didn't even blink. She did blush a little, however.

"No, Harry, I don't have a problem with that."

Well, if she didn't have a problem with that... What the hell was that disapproving frown on her face about? Harry was confused, which wasn't exactly the best choice when dealing with a vicious hangover.

"I don't care if you feel like experimenting a little with boys—"

"It's not—" Harry started to protest, but Hermione waved her hands impatiently, cutting his words.

"All right, it's not experimenting," she finished his words. "I'm sorry, Harry. It was an unnecessary comment. What I do care about, though, is what you do to yourself."

Her voice was softening and Harry experienced again the sensation of relief, which, again, failed to explain why his only visible reaction to Hermione's words was a scowl.

"It's not the first time you do it, Harry. Only, before, there used to be those unfortunate girls," Hermione continued. Her grimace blatantly indicated she thought those girls to be a number of things, none of which 'unfortunate'. "I can't understand it, Harry. All this time–"

She sighed and allowed herself to slip beside him on the sofa.

"I'm alone too, you know."

Her words surprised Harry a little. What about her and Ron, then? He thought they had something going on. It suddenly hit him he didn't know much about his friends' lives anymore.

"But why, Harry? Why are you so keen on self-destructing? He's gone, for good," for a fleeting moment, Harry thought she talked about Draco and felt an acute pang of panic in his stomach, "Voldemort is gone, you killed him for good this time. You can start living again."

"In case you haven't noticed, I am living." Harry pointed at the photo in the newspaper, curling his eyebrows in a bitter frown.

"But you're not happy, you're not even content. Harry, I don't remember seeing you laugh since Sirius died."

"Maybe I discovered life wasn't that funny, after all."

"There you go, cynical again. And you avoid us, myself and Ron. On Christmas you acted like a zombie, and trust me, I've actually seen a zombie and I'd know. Even the twins asked what was wrong with you—twice. You're miserable and you're wasting yourself in one-night stands, and drinking, and sleepless nights, and simply not-caring. I honestly don't know how you keep up with your team's practice sessions. You dare fate, Harry, just like every time you take one of those suicidal dives of yours for the Snitch. There's a more dangerous dive you're taking here, and I see no Snitch to be caught at the end of it. I just don't understand, why have things turned out this way for the three of us?"

Harry avoided to answer in the usual way one avoids answering a question, which is by asking another.

"Has Ron seen it yet?"

"He doesn't get the "Witch", you know that."

"But... Ginny, or Mrs. Weasley might. Or he could find out at work."

"Well, it's weekend and, as we both know, Ron mostly sleeps on weekends."

"I don't want Ron to know, Hermione."

"Harry... It's not that bad. He's your best friend, he won't forsake you, no matter what, and you can't hide this from him forever."

Harry shook his head stubbornly.

"I can't tell Ron."

"Why?"

::Because of Malfoy!:: Harry wanted to scream. ::Because none of you could understand, that's why. Because Ron would hate me.::

Because Harry might have been able to hide everything from Hermione, but he wasn't so sure about hiding it from Ron.

::I would tell him about Draco, and Ron would hate me. And I don't need this, not when he is dead anyway. He's dead and I just feel like 'wasting' myself too, Hermione...::

Though, had Draco lived through the madness, it might have not made any difference in the end. Perhaps Draco would have destroyed Harry as surely as he was doing himself at the moment. Perhaps Harry would've enjoyed being destroyed then.

"I can't tell you why, Hermione. Please, just let it go for now."

::For ever.::

"That's what you said about those midnight strolls you went on alone when we were still at Hogwarts," she pointed out, looking at Harry as she was trying to see inside his mind. Hermione was so perceptive at times it was uncanny.

"'I can't tell you,'" she quoted his words from back then. "What stopped you? What stops you now, Harry?"

"I thought you'd have forgotten about that by now," Harry observed with a gloomy countenance.

"Harry. Look at me," she said, forcing him to lift his gaze. "I remember things like the dates of goblin rebellions and what colour a Shrinking Solution turns if you add too much leech juice in it. You're more important to me than all the dates and potions in the world, Harry. "

Hermione didn't say anymore. Her gaze softened with weariness, as she stood up in front of her friend, looking as she was ready to extend her hand to soothe his own weariness. But she didn't.

"Whatever burden you bare, Harry, I'm sorry you can't share it with us. Maybe some day... Anyway, I guess I should go now. I have to wake up early tomorrow. Just... rest a bit, okay? No wild escapades tonight, promise?"

Harry nodded, not really wanting to speak any more, and Hermione walked to the kitchen to Floo herself out of Harry's flat without a glance back. It was her way of telling him she wouldn't bother him again about his private life, if that was Harry's wish—a fact which Harry appreciated at its right value, knowing just how un-Hermione-like was for his former schoolmate to leave a question unanswered.

Her words echoed inside his head, most of them devoid of meaning, like a track playing in the background which you hear but not actually listen to.

::Whatever burden you bare...::

And Harry realised to his horror that he wanted to bare the burden that was the memory of Draco Malfoy. It was all he'd got left. Draco's memory would always stay with him, and little did it matter if Harry liked it or not. More likely not. Bloody Malfoy, even dead he was a nuisance!

To his surprise, Harry felt tears rolling down his cheeks, his chest ripped apart with violent shaking. Why had his body chosen this particular moment to break after a whole year of numbness, he wouldn't have been able to tell, even if in a proper state of mind. So he let the tears fall unhindered. It didn't make him feel any better, it didn't help in the slightest—as they said crying helped lifting the weight from one's soul—and he felt stupid for breaking like that, but he knew he needed to cry, just this once, and so he did.

-o–#–O–#–o-

After finally crawling to bed the other night and crashing in, he'd woken up early—too early—with an undefined feeling of anxiety gnawing at his chest. The dreams had been particularly vivid that night, and even if he couldn't remember the details, he knew what—or rather who—they had been about. Draco. His dreams were always about Draco. Only this time, there had also been the Book, Its presence burning inside him, promising, tempting.

Around eight o'clock, an owl arrived from his team manager, inviting Harry to "dispatch his lazy arse at the Headquarters a.s.a.p."

Consequently, at half past eight Harry was standing in front of a shabby looking door, upon which the letters 'E s e bro k' still hanged undauntedly—the door to Mr. Eos Pembrook's office, more commonly known among his players as the "Headquarters". Harry knocked politely and braced himself.

"That better be you, Potter!!!" The angry words erupted from inside the office as the door burst open, hitting the wall violently.

"Good morning, boss," Harry uttered, as he stepped inside.

"Quite the contrary, Potter, quite the contrary. If this morning seems good to you, it'll very soon turn to, pardon my language, 'Griffshit. You have three guesses." The little man stuck three bony fingers into Harry's face.

"Erm," Harry shrugged, "they cancelled the Cup this year?..."

"Don't play the innocent fool with me, Potter. Not that it'll help you, but I want a very good explanation for this and I want it now!"

A copy of "Witch Weekly" hit Harry hard on the chest. His hands snapped reflexively to catch it, but he didn't bother to give it more than a cursory look.

"Well, say something Potter! Anything! That it hadn't been you! That it's a fake! That you have a queer twin no one knows about because you keep it locked inside your wardrobe!"

"I didn't know you read the 'Witch', boss," Harry replied in a dry tone.

"Potter."

"And I'm not technically gay," Harry felt compelled to point out. "I've slept with plenty of girls too, so I'd know."

"BO-LLOCKS! Don't give me this shit now, Potter! Do you have you any idea about what this means?" He pointed to the newspaper. "They'll eat us alive! Our team will become the laughing stock of all those bloody gossipers faster than you can say 'broomstick'! All because you couldn't keep your 'broomstick' in check!"

"I thought you always said publicity, bad or not, was always good for the team, boss."

"Publicity, Potter? Pu-bli-ci-ty!!? This--" nervous pointing at the newspaper again "--is a bloody scandal! They'll eat us alive, I'm telling you."

"With all the respect, whom I choose to fuck is my business and mine alone! It had nothing to do with Quidditch or the team!" Of course, Harry knew he was wrong.

"Stop being so naïve, Potter! In the world I live, which is also the world you live in, it's everybody's business if everyone's favourite Golden Boy turns out to be enjoying other boys' company too much."

There was a knock at the door. Instead of opening it, Mr. Pembrook magic-ed it close.

"That must be them. I'm amazed they haven't been here earlier, the gargoyles! They must be dying to get their hands on you and start pouring questions. You know, Potter, you should be very grateful that lady friend of yours placed the Fidelius Charm on your flat, or they'd have gotten their claws into you by now."

The knocking started again, more impatient this time.

"It's really your choice, Potter! It not a matter of if, it's a matter of when. So do you want to face them now or later?"

"Pembrook, we know you are inside! Open up, we only want to ask a couple of questions," came a shrill voice from the other side of the locked door.

"I don't need this shit now, boss!" Harry scowled in the direction of the door.

"Thought so myself, my boy. Well, then, let's continue this conversation in your flat."

The little man's head tilted to Harry's left, in the direction of a dusty fireplace. Harry took the hint, along with a handful of Floo powder and, next moment, he was standing in the middle of his kitchen, cleaning the ashes from his clothes.

Mr. Pembrook followed suit in no time. He'd been into Harry's flat only once before, right after the young man had moved in. It had been Mr. Pembrook's responsibility as a manager to check with Harry that everything was all right and that his Seeker was satisfied with the arrangements.

"Not very busy decorating, eh, Potter?"

Harry's kitchen furniture consisted, apart from the fireplace and the sink, which had come with the flat, of a medium-sized table with no table-cloth on it, a pair of wooden chairs and a very large fridge. Dishes and assorted cutlery were piled on top of it.

"I don't need more," he replied flatly.

Mr. Pembrook seemed to find the fridge more interesting than Harry's answer.

"Is it one of those boxes Muggle use for storing food?..."

Harry tried to chase away the exasperated look which, he felt, was creeping on his face. Mr. Pembrook must have caught some of it, though, because he coughed and tore his gaze away from the fridge.

"Right, right, Potter. Back to business."

Harry sighed and led Mr. Pembrook into the living-room, motioning him to sit on the sofa, while he took the armchair. His living room was in a slightly better state of furnishing than the kitchen, and only Ron and Hermione knew how much they deserved a prize for that. It was, however, a lot messier, with empty bottles and clothes lying on the carpet, and Mr. Pembrook couldn't help noticing the remains of the Snitch-clock, but thought better than mentioning it.

"Listen, Potter. I'm not going to pester you any more about the Incident." Mr. Pembrook had a tendency to capitalize words in an ominous manner as he was speaking. "What's done is done. All we have to worry no is how the hell are we going to come out of it as nice and good as possible."

"So you don't want me to leave the team, then?" Harry's voice was emotionless.

"Don't be daft! No, I don't want you to leave the team, Potter. You're the bloody best Seeker we've had in decades and you know it. But the team will be a problem."

"How's so?"

"How blind are you, boy? Your not exactly popular among your fellow players, not that you've been exactly trying. They've been reasonably civil towards you till now, because you kept winning the matches. But the age of nicety is over. Gone. Finished. I know them well enough to tell. The ladies might take it a tad better, but the rest of the pricks, starting with Anderson, will resent you heavily for the Incident."

"I'm part of the team, whether they like it or not."

"Exactly, Potter. Everything you do reflects on them. I might be wrong, but with the little stunt you pulled, the gargoyles will start hunting them too. Start to ask awkward questions. Make up stories about them."

"You don't imply that because I slept with a guy, the papers will suggest the rest of the team does it as well on a constant basis. Except Woodring, they're all married, for pity's sake! With women. It's not like we have bloody orgies going on in that locker room!"

"First of all, Potter, you did not sleep with anyone. They only have one photo of you and that bloke making out and, as far as they're concerned, it's the only thing that happened. Secondly, yes, that's precisely what I imply. And thirdly, if you ever utter the words 'orgies' and 'locker room' in the same sentence again, I'll personally nail you to a goal post."

Harry shrugged.

"Don't give me that damned I-don't-give-a-fuck shrug of yours, Potter!"

Before he could stop himself, Harry shrugged again. Mr. Pembrook gave him a disapproving look and Harry sighed and briefly closed his eyes before speaking.

"What do you want me to do, then?"

"Several things, actually," Mr. Pembrook replied promptly, in the voice he used to explain game strategies.

Harry looked at him expectantly.

"They'll probably start picking on you, make dirty jokes, call you names and crap like that. Don't listen, don't answer, don't fight back. It's that simple, Potter. If it becomes too much, come directly to me. Things are bound to settle down in time. Oh, and Potter... No more showering in common."

"Excuse me?"

"Erm, you heard me. It's bad enough they are convinced you've been gawking at their arses all this time. No need to make things more awkward."

"I have not been--" Harry started in an angry voice. He didn't even use the showers at the stadium that often. What was the point, when there was a nice, deserted alley only five minutes away from his flat where he could Apparate unseen and unheard by Muggles and then hurry home? But it was the point that mattered.

"Well, that's not my business anyway," Mr. Pembrook interrupted, looking reasonably embarrassed.

"So what do you want me to do? Shower with the girls?"

"Don't be daft, Potter! You can shower at your own place. Here. Look, it's for your own good, boy."

Mr. Pembrook stood up.

"I'm going now, Potter. Guess I'll have to face them gargoyles sooner or later, and it'd better be sooner. I'll tell them that you drank too much and lost it a bit, and that's all."

"And you expect them to buy it?"

"Of course not, Potter! But I expect them to bit their nails in frustration. You rest well today boy, 'cause tomorrow it'll be practice again."

::Oh, yes,:: Harry thought, ::and what a joy.::

-o–#–O–#–o-

The world was slowly melting away. Warm rain, highly unusual for that time of the year, was pouring from the dark sky, digging sharp holes into the snow, washing the whiteness away, blurring the windows, but then Harry's whole life was nothing but a blur right now.

It was still morning and still early when Mr. Pembrook left his flat and Harry found himself facing another day confined between the walls of his so-called home. He'd never felt so trapped before. He'd never experienced the urge to go out and roam the streets during daytime before. Just because right then he couldn't do it, roaming the streets was very, very appealing. In the end, he went to his bedroom and swallowed a full dose of Sleeping Draught.

He woke up from his self-induced sleep with a start , late in the afternoon. Something didn't feel right. He could barely breathe and the walls of his room were closing over him. He'd never suffered from claustrophobia (a decade spent inside a cupboard pretty much kicks claustrophobia out of the equation), yet his bedroom was shrinking to the dimensions of a drawer around him—a very dark, very crammed drawer.

And a voice kept whispering inside his head.

Among the growing panic, he finally understood. The Evil Book. How could've he forgotten about It.

Harry stood up, walked on unsteady legs to his wardrobe and retrieved the Book from the drawer he'd confined it to the previous night. The claustrophobic sensation dissipated in an instant.

::Thank you, Master. It was getting rather hard to breathe in there.::

::You're an Evil Book. You don't 'breathe',:: Harry thought at It flatly.

::I was speaking metaphorically, my Chosen. And you're clearly prejudiced against me because I have black pages and ominously looking, blood-coloured letters, and I can read your mind.::

::What...!?::

::You've just called me 'Evil', my Master.::

Harry was taken aback, but didn't let it show.

::I can't believe this. Next you'll be telling me I hurt your feelings.::

::It was very cruel of you, my Chosen, very heartless indeed,:: the Voice whined inside Harry's head.

::Don't expect apologies.::

::No, of course not. I'm yours to do what you want with me, my young Master. It's a job of many hazards and few satisfactions,:: It sighed, a bit dramatically in Harry's opinion.

::So I could set you on fire then?::

Harry could have sworn that the Book shivered in his hands at the threat.

::You need me, my Chosen. I wish you wouldn't deny it anymore.::

::Well, I wish you'd shut up. Funny how we don't always get what we want, isn't it?::

::They despise you know, Master. The very same people who used to adore you.::

::Yeah. Maybe they do. I thought I told you to—shut—the—fuck—up—Book!:: It was becoming too much to take. He didn't need reminding about things he knew so well himself. And when did it get so dark?

The Voice refused to yield.

::They're so disgusted and appalled, them in their self-righteous 'normality'.:: The words were pouring like venom into Harry's thoughts. ::You could make them suffer for it. You could make them repent and beg for your forgiveness. I can give you that.::

The Voice was stupid to insist like that. Harry was too weary to be tempted by revenge. He simply didn't have the energy for it.

::Not interested, I told you. I've spent seven years of my life trying to rid the world of a crazed maniac and now that he's finally gone I don't fancy turning into him.::

Which wasn't entirely true, because in the end he'd given up trying—rather ironic that he'd succeeded despite it. There was a moment of silence inside his head and Harry was beginning to hope he'd made his point clear, when the Voice continued undeterred.

::They have no right to judge you, my Chosen. And I understand better than you imagine. I can see what they've put you through your entire life. What you've been forced to do, become and what you've been denied.::

::Well, it's not like we can always make our own choices. Life doesn't work like that.:: It had been a hard lesson, but Harry had learned it in the end. ::But what would you know, you're just a book.::

The Book ignored the insult.

::It could work like that for you, my Chosen. Just say the words.::

::No.::

The Voice changed tactic.

::You don't want power over them, but why should you be denied everything? You've got nothing to lose now, Master. It wouldn't make any difference in their eyes.::

::I still have friends.:: But the thought had been uncertain, wavering, and the Book apparently sensed it.

::They don't understand you like I do. Neither can they help you. They can't soothe the ache.::

A wave of cold swept through him and he could sense darkness everywhere. In his room, in himself.

::Neither can you.:: He wouldn't give in.

::Ah, but he can. You still remember. It torments you, both the memory of having him and the knowledge you can't have him anymore.::

It was strange how the darkness became less menacing all of the sudden and more comforting.

::I can survive. I've managed this far.::

::You need him, my Chosen, my Master. It's not fair to deny it to yourself. Not for them. Not because you try to be their perfect little hero,:: the Voice chanted maliciously.

::I've never really tried that. It just sort of came along the way,:: Harry protested, albeit weakly.

::And you hated it. But to him, you where no hero. You needed him back then.::

::He tricked me into it. A low, vile trick just worthy of a Malfoy.::

::But it didn't change too much, did it?::

::It changed everything.::

::It set you free, my Master. The real you. Your body knows it. It aches for him.::

::You're talking crap, Book. There was and there is just one me. And I'm not bloody perfect, and if my body has this kind of needs, there are many others to satisfy them! Malfoy isn't the only one!::

He slammed the Book into the floor and left it to lie there. He walked into the bathroom and put his head under an invigorating jet of cold water. He was already on his way to the kitchen when the characteristic thud announced him that someone had just Floo-ed into his fireplace. It wasn't that hard to guess who. Only a handful of people were able to Floo into his flat, and he had a suspicion it wouldn't be Hermione or Mr. Pembrook again. His stomach did a nervous twist as he entered the kitchen.

"'S up, mate?" Ron's voice happily greeted him from amidst a blur of ashes. "Beside every speck of ash in your fireplace, I mean."

"Ron. Um, hi..."

Harry acknowledged his best friend's presence with a wary gaze. Ron looked his usual cheerful self and Harry almost let out a sigh of relief, which would have been a bit difficult to explain. Against all odds, his friend hadn't seen the article yet.

"What are you doing here?" he inquired, still a bit apprehensive.

"Well, Hermione dropped by earlier and made me promise I'd come to see you." Ron made a funny face. "Said you were feeling down or something."

"I'm fine, thanks," Harry replied, a bit more sharp than he'd intended.

"Your hair's dripping," Ron needlessly pointed out. Harry shrugged.

"Right. Er, I told her, we all get bit depressed after the winter holidays," the redhead continued. "She rolled her eyes at me, you know, like she used to do all the time in school. And then, I thought, we barely see each other now, with your practice sessions and my job and all..."

"How're things going at the Ministry?"

Ron turned up his nose involuntarily at the mention of the Ministry.

"Better not ask. I'm thinking 'bout leaving. Fred and George reckon they'll need some help with their shop now that they're expanding. It's just that Mum will probably throw a fit." The redhead rolled his eyes. "No respectable enough, she'll say. Dad's all right with it, I guess. I'm still working on a how to break the news to Mum."

As Harry watched his friend going on and on cheerfully about his family, he suddenly realised he'd missed Ron.

"I'm glad you came, Ron."

Ron looked a bit taken aback by this sudden display of sincerity. He'd become so used to a withdrawn Harry lately that he was at a lack of words first.

"Everything all right there, mate?" he inquired eventually, feeling stupid for asking.

"Hey, I've got an idea!" Harry ignored his friend's question. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."

"Wait, where you going?"

"I'll fetch us some pizza and something to drink. Not going far, it's right across the road."

"Pizza?"

"Yeah, Muggle food, you'll love it. I'm suddenly starving and the fridge's empty. I would've ordered by phone, but they could look for ages and wouldn't manage to find my flat. Make yourself at home. Oh, and just ignore the mess."

"All right. But just dry your hair before going outside. 'S winter, y'know."

"You're turning into your mum," Harry chuckled.

"Harry dear, you're so thin it's a miracle the wind doesn't knock you off your broom when you fly. You must start feeding yourself properly, young man!" Ron said in a exceptionally good imitation of his mother's voice.

They both burst into laughter.

"Now you see why I have to move out of the Burrow," Ron concluded.

Harry finally stepped through the door, hair dry and a grin on his face. He'd missed laughing with Ron so much. He'd missed laughing, period. But now his friend was waiting for him to return and they would spent the night contradicting over Quidditch, and remembering pranks from their school years, and Harry would pretend that everything was all right. That he had no secrets Ron would hate him for.

When he returned with his purchases, twenty minutes later, Ron was sitting on the sofa. It struck Harry that something was wrong with his friend. He was very silent for a start, but that was not it. Ron was avoiding Harry's eyes.

Then Harry saw the infamous copy of "Witch Weekly" (which Hermione had neglected to take back) in Ron's hands and wanted to kick himself for his stupidity. Leaving it lying around on his floor instead of burning it or something—that was dumber than dumb. Kind of ironic, actually, that Ron had found out the truth in the only place Harry could have prevented him from doing so.

Ron lifted his eyes and met Harry's. His freckled face was flushed and he looked ill at ease.

Harry dropped the bags into the nearest armchair, and waited in silence. Ron opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

"Ron..."

"Are you—are you, err, y'know..."

Harry knew what Ron meant—was he the sick perv everybody was pointing their finger at?

"I suppose so." He paused, realising it didn't come out very well. "Not entirely." That didn't sound better, either. "I've slept with enough girls to lose count opposed to only three guys. Playing for both teams, as they--" Harry scowled in the direction of the newspaper "--call it. It's what I am. Well, it's getting late. Good night, Ron."

And with that, Harry headed for his bedroom.

"Harry?" Ron finally stood up. "Are you throwing me out or something?"

He'd sounded genuinely puzzled. Harry stopped and turned, a bit surprised.

"No. But I figured you wouldn't want to stay anymore, it being this awkward and stuff. Don't feel compelled to," he ended bitterly.

Harry turned his back again.

"Harry." Ron's voice was hesitant. "Did..."He gulped. "...it cause problems with your team?"

Harry's response was delivered after a second of hesitation in a dull voice.

"My manager is pretty pissed haven't met the other's yet how come you're still here Ron?"

It didn't even sound like a question. Ron's eyes bulged with incredulity at his friends reply.

"I'm your friend... Harry..." More uneasy gulps. "Look... it's all right..." Ron closed the distance between them and his hand came to rest reassuringly on Harry's shoulder, if a bit hesitant at first.

And then Harry felt he couldn't take it anymore. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve having friends like Ron. He tore himself away from Ron's touch.

"No, it's not. How come you don't hate me, Ron? How come you're not disgusted? How come I don't freak you out?"

Ron looked hurt. Then angry.

"You're bloody mental, aren't you?" he yelled at Harry. "'S what you want then, is it?! Bloody hell, I can give you that, it's easy—I hate you—I thought you trusted me—and—and I'm positively freaked out—you could've told me—we've shared a bedroom for seven years and you—you never told me!"

"Oh, now you're worried about you're virtue, Ron?" Harry asked him mockingly. "Rest assured, I didn't have any dirty thoughts 'bout you, I was more into blonds. Although, come to think about it..." Harry leaned dangerously close, his lips almost touching Ron's neck.

Ron blushed furiously. Harry felt an acute pang of guilt. He hastily stepped back from his friend.

"I'm tired, Ron, tired of hiding. You think you hate me now? No, let's make it proper loathing, then."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm gonna tell you the whole story. But you'd want to sit down first."

"Come on, mate, you—you scare me. No need to say things like that. I'm sorry I yelled at you."

And Ron didn't sit.

"Suit yourself," Harry shrugged. There was a pause, and then he said,

"Me and Malfoy."

"You and Malfoy what?" And then Ron understood and went pale and sat down this time.

Harry nodded slowly. "He'd started it. I helped him finish. And finish himself off, I might add."

A look of understanding crossed on Ron's still horrified face. "You mean, Malfoy... Draco Malfoy... was... and he... that night... he really?... MALFOY DIED FOR YOU?!" Ron finally snapped.

What Harry had told his friends after 'that night' could have been summarised more or less like this: Draco Malfoy had owled him an empty piece of paper which turned out to be a Portkey that actually worked inside the castle and sent Harry inside the Forbidden Forest, straight into Voldemort's open arms; but then, Malfoy turned up as Voldemort prepared to deliver Harry to the other world ("Perhaps he felt guilty for what he'd done?") and, unfathomable as it sounded, died in his place, right after summoning Harry's wand from his own father's hands.

His friends had yet to come to terms with Harry's account of that night's events, accurate as they were in almost every aspect. Hermione was still baffled by the Portkey and the sheer impossibility of it working inside Hogwarts. Ron, less academically inclined, was still having problems grasping the concept of Malfoy dying in Harry's place.

"Oh, that I wouldn't know," came Harry's reply. "But he certainly died because of me. After I'd shagged him the night before."

Ron's eyes widened in horror before he could stop himself.

"He must've done something to you, Harry! I would bloody kill him, if he weren't dead already! Because of him, it's his fault that you, I mean—" Ron stumbled.

"You mean, because of him I've become like this—a—a pervert? That's what you wanted to say, Ron? You can say it, along with the rest of the world."

"No! No, I didn't want to say that! I don't care, Harry, I don't, honestly. It just came out wrong, I'm sorry. It—it will be all right, in the end. People won't talk for ever. I—listen—we've faced worst together, right?"

"Look, Ron. I'll tell you the whole story. What I figured out, at least. And then you can go back home and hate me for the rest of your life. Don't feel compelled to lend me shoulder to cry on."

"YOU STUPIT GIT!" Ron was reaching the end of his patience. "STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO BLOODY DO AND THINK!"

"Save that for later, will you? Just listen to me now, please? That's the last thing I'll ask of you."

And Harry told him the whole story. About meeting a strange girl at night. About how he lost the Marauder's Map. About Malfoy kissing him out of the blue. About the charade Malfoy had played. About something finally breaking inside when he'd found out the truth. About how he, Harry wanted to hurt Malfoy for his low trick and, at the same time, needed him in order to stay sane. About how good kissing and touching him felt. Ron listened in silence, paling and blushing alternately, and didn't speak for a while after Harry had concluded.

"Did you—did you love him?" he finally asked his friend.

Harry laughed, or, rather, forced himself to.

"What? No, Ron."

::There was too little time,:: his mind treacherously supplied.

"I don't think anyone could have fallen in love with him."

::I'm lying. I just might've. But you don't need to know that, Ron.::

"With his money, maybe. Or his family's power. And those didn't do anything for me. And, anyway, I don't think I believe in love anymore."

::It's easier this way.::

"And he for one didn't."

::Because Malfoy always knew what was good for himself, I have to hand him that.::

Harry filled his lungs with air before continuing, like someone who was preparing to take a long dive to the bottom of the sea. Words started rolling from his lips easier as he kept pouring his soul out.

"I didn't love 'her' either. But I did care about 'her', a lot. I needed 'her'. You wouldn't believe, but 'she' was really fun to be around—except 'she' wasn't real at all. Things were different after I found out the truth. I didn't care about Malfoy like I'd cared about 'her', but I needed him just the same. Maybe more. It started even before I figured out the whole charade, but I'd been too scared to admit it to myself. Some things are above love and hate. He could make me forget. I might've even started to like him a little."

He paused again for a while.

"And that's why I wonder—I can't help wondering, Ron—what would have happened if he'd lived through that night."

And then it struck Harry.

::...and I would give everything to have him back. But you don't need to know that, either.::

"He was a sick bastard, Harry! 'S not whatcha think, I'm not saying you're sick or anything. But Malfoy'd taken that potion night after night and turned himself into a girl only to play mind games with you. I bet it tasted vile and hurt like hell, just remember the Polyjuice Potion. And Malfoy's potion was dark magic, Harry, you can put Galleons on that, and that's the worst you can get. And still he took it, for all the coward he was. He must've hated you more than he loved himself to do that."

"Maybe. I don't know why he did it. Maybe his father made him do it."

Ron slowly shook his head.

"Look, Harry, I know Lucius Malfoy's a screwed-up maniac, but not even him could've asked Draco to become a girl to—to—seduce you or whatever. I think their family's too full of their pureblood crap to even consider it."

"I don't know, Ron, I just don't know, okay! He used to tell me he hated me a lot and mostly I believed it."

"You don't think..." Ron's mouth twitched. "You don't think Malfoy... he'd fallen for you?"

"I think he simply got used to having me while playing 'Mystery Girl' and refused to give it away. He didn't believe in love, I told you. He had some whacked out theory about the whole thing."

"Oh, and when did Malfoy tell you the truth, I ask!" The implication of what he was saying made Ron halt abruptly. "Bloody hell, 's too much for me, mate! I... I need to think 'bout all this."

Ron stood up and smiled weakly.

"I'm still your friend, though I pretty much hate you myself right now. Forgive me, Harry."

-o–#–O–#–o-

The Voice insinuated slowly into his sleep.

::They obviously can't help you, my Chosen.::

Something less than a whisper, yet Harry heard it as clearly as he could hear his heartbeats.

::Oh, it's you again...:: The thought had formulated itself with surprising promptitude in Harry's mind, although he was only semi-awake now.

::You heard them today...:: It persisted.

I don't care if you experiment a little with boys... Hermione's clear voice rang through his head, cold and distant.

::She wasn't taking you seriously.::

Well, that's not my business anyway, Potter... Mr. Pembrook was saying again, hurriedly and somewhat apprehensive.

::It's never their business.::

...and I'm positively freaked out... Ron's angry words announced him.

::That's how it will ever be, no matter how vehemently they deny it.::

I pretty much hate you myself... his friend's goodbye words were replaying in his mind.

::You don't have to be alone.::

I can't help wondering, Ron—what would have happened if he'd lived through that night... Harry's own tormented voice was saying.

::You don't have to just wonder anymore. It's ssso easssy.::

You don't think Malfoy... he'd fallen for you?

He was tired, so tired of all this. And then, why not?

It was so easy, after all. And what use for an Evil Book, if not to make true one's darkest desires?

::You won,:: was Harry's final thought before drifting back to his uneasy sleep. ::I will have him back and you're gonna help me, Book.::

::It was bound to happen, my Massster,:: the Voice hissed into his hazy mind. ::Eventually.::

End of Chapter Two