A/N
Here's chapter EIGHT! Yay! The chapter ending is sort of abrupt, do to the fact that I had to cut it off there in order for it to stay a reasonable length. I'll upload the rest of it as Chapter Nine as soon as I can, but for now, enjoy this!

Also, thank you for the many wonderful reviews. I loved them all and was so incredibly happy when I read them! They really inspire me to keep writing! So thank you and keep those reviews coming!

Special note to:
Ahja Reyn - Ahh, you've spotted a clever point in my story, but it's too early to reveal that yet. I assure you however, that I have not messed with the sorting hat's reason to put Harry in Gryffindor. (Well, perhaps a tiny bit, but you'll see later on). :)

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Chapter Eight
Of Secret Admirers and Bubblebaths

Harry was enjoying a rather lonely lunch that noon, and he would have liked it perhaps, if the air surrounding him wasn't so uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable. That seemed to be a word that he thought often, ever since he'd found himself in this new life. It was, of course and without a doubt because he was in Slytherin. And because he was friends with a prat like Malfoy. Who in their right mind would want to be friends with him in the first place? Only people who were either too daft to take responsibility of their choices, or people who were insufferably prattish themselves. Harry told himself quite firmly, that he was neither.

Yet, for some reason, he couldn't help but feel conscious about the fact that Malfoy was sitting across from him at the long table, between Pansy and Blaise, completely ignoring Harry. Acting as if the place between Crabbe and Nott was a mere gap that was tiny enough to fit a fly.

He didn't know whether he wanted to continue on with this (after all, shouldn't it be better this way?), or if he wanted to dump his brimming goblet of pumpkin juice over that perfectly combed blonde head before him. He supposed Malfoy would kill him if he did the latter, and truth be told, Harry wasn't quite ready to kick the bucket yet.

For the first twenty minutes of lunch, he'd done well ignoring Malfoy back by searching eagerly through the crowded Great Hall for any sign of either Sirius or Padfoot, but to his great disappointment, neither had shown hide or hair. Then, he focused his attention on the Gryffindor table, watching enviously as a certain redhead and a certain bushy brownhead and a certain plump toothy-grin-wearing boy ate their own lunch way across the hall.

This earned him another foul look from Blaise and so he reluctantly tore his gaze away from the Gryffindors and returned it to Malfoy who was picking at his food moodily and staring down at his full plate.

Somehow, to Harry's eyes, it seemed that he wasn't the only one that was feeling uncomfortable about being there. He couldn't really understand why Malfoy would feel uncomfortable, but he supposed that it was because he was furious at Harry for mingling with students from other houses. Maybe in Slytherin, they called those sort of people that did things like that, Traitors. It definitely sounded crude enough to be worthy of the Slytherin mouth.

Harry sighed audibly and tossed down his fork. He wasn't hungry anymore, thanks to Malfoy. He was still feeling a bit nauseous about the exclamation from his 'friend' down in the dungeons. Why oh why did Malfoy have to be such a sick-minded, dunce-headed jerk? Just because he decided to talk to Ron (who, in fact was a far better friend to Harry than Malfoy would ever be), it didn't automatically mean that he liked him in that way. Or maybe Slytherins were so inferior to the rest of the school that they had their own sexual system, where gender didn't really matter. A uni-sex circle or something of the sort.

Harry smiled at the idea out of pure amusement and took a long sip of his pumpkin juice.

This entertaining image however, was cleaned away brusquely when his mind began drifting toward the fact that one way or another, he'd eventually ditch Malfoy and the rest of the uni-sex gods and goddesses to reunite with his own people. The very thought of remaining in Slytherin was jokeable to Harry and he was determined to go to the extremest of extremes to be known once more as 'The Golden Trio'. Not that he liked the name (it was actually quite annoying), but it was much better than whatever clique he was in now.

As he stared hazily at Malfoy, he then began to wonder... Why were he and Malfoy friends? The question was inevitable, and Harry hated to admit the fact that it had been bothering him since the minute he'd known he was friends with Malfoy.

He and Malfoy were from very opposite families. The Malfoys were purely pureblooded, aristocratic, evil, and heartless. The Potters were everything else. The Malfoys lived for power and for wealth; they would without a doubt, do anything for the both, including queuing up to join into Voldemort's rank. The Potters detested the dark arts and all that touched it. They lived for good, and for love.

That's why his mum and dad had been murdered in the first place. Well, not directly of course, because the reason they'd died was because of Harry himself, but hadn't Voldemort tried to kill him because he was the one that could vanquish the Dark Lord? And so wouldn't that mean that Harry, and his parents that tried to protect him, were not supporters of the dark?

So now, it all narrowed down to his past. His past that he knew nothing about. What in the world had happened before his arrival, that had created such a friendship between him and Malfoy? It was all so confusing.

"You should have been in Gryffindor like the rest of the Marauders, if you ask me. Dunno where it went wrong."

Those had been Sirius's words.

Where did it go wrong? Harry wondered in frustration. If his parents were in Gryffindor, shouldn't HE be in Gryffindor too? There wasn't a single, not a single reason that he would elect Slytherin to reside seven years of his life in... was there?

Maybe... maybe my friendship with Malfoy had to do with it...

NAH. Harry frowned. That didn't seem like a thing that was likely to have gone through Harry's mind... he wasn't that stupid, was he? Or was he?

When he glanced back at Malfoy, he found the formerly occupied seat empty of him. Slightly surprised, he turned his head quickly just in time to see Malfoy's retreating back, disappearing through the double doors of the Great Hall. Harry bit his lip, contemplating what his next move should be.

He could go on acting as if he hadn't noticed a thing... or he could use this time to corner Malfoy and bombard him with questions about his past... but Malfoy was obviously still upset, and it wasn't likely that he would be willing to deal with him. Especially not when the questions were ones that Harry should be able to answer for himself.

But then again, if he was planning on keeping his 'real' identity a secret, he would have to learn as much as he could about himself in this life so that he could go on unsuspected by anyone.

AND. He thought as he scrambled off his bench, grabbing his bookbag and swinging it over his shoulder. I've got to prove that I'm NOT gay OR unisex.

With that, he dashed in the trail of Malfoy and out the doors into the chilly main entrance hall. He turned this way and that, trying to catch where the blonde had gone off too, and he picked up his pace again when he saw a black robe hem whip around the corner.

"Malfoy! I mean - Draco!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the empty corridors. "Draco! Wait up!"

Malfoy stopped after a few more steps but didn't turn around. It was clear to see that he had stiffened and crossed his arms at the sound of Harry's voice.

"Draco - wait - up." Panting heavily, he caught up with Malfoy and bent over, hands on his knees.

"What do you want?" asked Malfoy, his voice colder than the air. He wasn't looking at Harry though, he was picking at his nail with a bored expression on his face.

Harry supposed that that action was not unlike his own nervous habit of running his hand through his hair. Except for Malfoy, it wasn't a nervous habit, it was an angry habit.

"Er - could we - talk?" he said carefully, standing up straight once more and readjusting his bag.

Malfoy snorted. "There's nothing to talk about." He made to walk away, so Harry took hold of his forearm. Malfoy's eyes flashed at him and Harry thought he might pull out his wand, but Malfoy only stared at the hand clamped onto his own arm and then pursed his lips.

Harry hastily let go and stuffed his hands in his robe pockets. Trying to feign a look of casualness, he managed a half smile, half frown.

"Uh -" he started, scratching his neck. "I dunno really, but uh - I think I didn't quite hear you well down in the dungeons..." he faltered and tried to read the expression on Malfoy's face. It was neutral.

"You heard me perfectly well." Malfoy replied and yanked his arm away.

Harry searched for the right words, if there were any. "So... so you think I - I have a thing for Ron?"

Malfoy sneered. "Well you're obviously close enough to call each other by first name, something you seem to have trouble doing with me, so I wouldn't doubt it."

Damn it. Another mistake.

"He still calls me Potter," he said hopefully, thinking that it might do some good. "I only call him 'Ron' because er - I don't... like his surname." Sorry Ron.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "A likely story, Harry. You'll have to do better next time." And he turned around, but Harry caught his arm for the second time. Malfoy whirled around with an exasperated glare.

"WHAT?" he snapped nastily.

Harry felt himself blush slightly as he thought of what he was going to say next.

"I'm - I'm not GAY," he blurted out perhaps a notch too loudly. "I mean... I don't fancy men." He clamped his mouth shut and blushed even more.

Malfoy, to his surprise didn't look relieved at the news. In fact, he didn't look anything upon hearing his bold pronouncement. His lips just formed a tiny 'Oh'.

"Well, good for you, so will you let go of me now?"

Harry didn't know what else to do, so he simply nodded and released Malfoy's arm.

"So you don't think I like Ron now, do you?" he asked hastily.

Malfoy studied him for a long moment before turning around and walking away, not a word of reply coming out of his mouth. Harry felt very upset at that and called Malfoy's name sharply, but the blonde didn't stop this time. And Harry was once more left alone in the middle of the corridor.

Damn it, damn it, damn it. Harry cursed furiously to himself, punching his bookbag and hearing a crunch. He groaned and peeped into his bag; he'd cracked his ink bottle in half and the black ink was now seeping through all of his books and parchment. DAMMIT!

Things were definitely not looking good for him. Not at all.

Well, Harry sighed as his attempted a half-successful cleaning charm on his possessions. I'll just have to prove it to his face then.

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On Friday, Harry spent all of his classes and eating breaks, not to mention after-dinner-common-room sessions going around and talking to as many girls as he could. He didn't openly flirt with them really, as he thought he might be sick considering the fact that they were all Slytherin girls, but he struck up enough conversation that he got them laughing and smiling widely. He avoided Pansy and Millicent because he knew that Pansy adored Malfoy, and Millicent... well Millicent was a whole different story. She wasn't anything close to his type anyway.

He made sure that Malfoy was in sight and within hearing distance when he walked up to a girl. He'd then proceed to ask about some homework, or talk about the weather, and even though he knew that they were pretty dull topics of conversation, they seemed to work well enough on the girls.

Malfoy wasn't showing any signs of having noticed Harry's hard work though. Not even by the end of the day, and it was getting more and more on Harry's already on-the-edge nerves. He would have to do this, or think of something new until he had firmly convinced Malfoy that he was a straight as straight could be.

It wasn't that he was homophobic or anything, but it was still quite nettling to be mistaken as gay, when he wasn't. Looking around at the quiet Slytherin common room, he wondered briefly, how many of the people here were actually homosexual. Then, realizing the atrociousness of his wandering mind, he snapped out of his reverie and busied himself with his homework.

The one happy thought that accompanied him into his sleep hours later, was the one about going to Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione tomorrow. At last, he would be able to spend some time with real people who had real minds, and didn't have problems with trust, and more importantly, didn't accuse you of being gay just because you had male friends.

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The next morning, Harry was awoken by a searing pain on his forehead, like a knife cutting through his skin and deep into his skull. He shot up in bed, breathing as if he'd just run a mile and sweat dripping down his face and clinging to his bed clothes.

He'd dreamt of a tall hooded figure. A tall hooded figure with a skeletal hand, holding a long wand and pointing it at something in the dark distance. The air surrounding this figure was grey, a sickly grey, and swirling like a soundless tornado.

Then a second figure had come crawling into the scene. It was a man, from the burliness of the shoulders, shrouded in the Death Eater's cloak and mask. He was bowing his head down on one knee and kissing the hems of the robes of the one standing.

He was whispering something... his voice fast and urgent... he was informing the first about something important... what it was, Harry could not hear.

The standing figure let out a cackling laugh that split the air and made goosepimples rise on Harry's skin. The wind began to roar louder, the robes flapping wildly; happy, wouldn't have been a word too fitting for the dark, evilness of the figure, but he was definitely pleased about whatever the kneeling man had said to him.

The tall figure, still laughing maniacally, raised his wand and pointed it at the man before him.

"Avada Kedavra," and the man was dead.

That was when Harry had woken up.

His chest was still heaving a bit heavily, but his heart had somewhat stopped his furious beating against his ribcage.

He knew who that figure had been. There was no mistaking that voice... and that cackle of pleasure... and the way that unforgivable curse had easily slipping from his lips as if it were merely a greeting...

But why was he dreaming of Voldemort? Voldemort didn't exist in this world, at least from what he knew so far. Or had he been wrong in assuming that all darkness was simply inexistent in this life? Was Tom Marvollo Riddle still alive? And if he was, was he just a normal half-blooded wizard, living his old age? Or was he something else?

Harry rubbed madly at the now fading pain in his forehead and buried his face in his hands. This was much too confusing. He'd expected this life to be easy to deal with; it was everything he wanted after all.

He wearily climbed quietly out of his bed, so as not to wake his sleeping dorm mates, and walked over to the mirror on the wall beside Malfoy's bed. He lowered his hand when he stepped before his reflection, and sighed. His confusion was only building.

His forehead was still free of any scar, yet it had hurt when he'd dreamed of Voldemort. Why was that?

He jumped when a soft rustling sounded from next to him and he turned his head in alarm, but it was only Malfoy, shifting in his sleep. Harry could still hear steady breathing, which meant he hadn't woken up.

A thousand questions were throbbing inside his head, all in terrible need of answering, but there was no one he could ask. Not if he wanted to keep anyone from figuring out the truth. In this life, not even Sirius could help him much, except to simply be there for Harry as a godfather. Nothing more.

He tried to push away the loneliness in his chest, because he knew that it wouldn't do to dwell on things that were pointless to dwell on about. He'd chosen this life over the other, and so there would obviously be those consequences he'd have to deal with. This was just all something he had to ignore and get over. All this Voldemort stuff was probably just part of the old plague from his old life. With time, it would come to disappear, just like his scar.

Feeling slightly more relaxed, he sank down onto his mattress, thoughts of sleep chased out him completely. The floating clock told him that it was still six thirty and the sun wouldn't be rising until well after seven.

He decided to examine the contents of his trunk more closely. He hadn't been able to do that the past two days because he thought it might look suspicious with the rest of them watching.

He noiselessly crept down onto the cold wooden floor and tiptoed over to his trunk, trying to avoid as much creaking as possible when he lifted the heavy lid and propped it onto the footboard of his bed.

He grabbed his wand from his nightsand and lit a ball of light, making sure that the light was dim enough to keep his dorm mates sleeping, but light enough to see what he was looking at.

He'd gone through the clothing he had previously, but deeper down, he knew that there must be other things besides school robes and size-accurate shirt and jeans. He sifted through the messy pile carefully, looking at each and every item he found.

A smile crossed his face when he came across a cloak made of a silvery material that flowed over his hands as if it were water. So he'd found something that was the same in both lives. The invisibility cloak had been his father's and he supposed that he'd gotten it straight from him instead of Dumbledore.

Things that were missing included the pocket sneak-o-scope (a present from Ron, so obviously absent), mismatching socks from Dobby (he probably didn't even know Dobby now), and the Marauder's Map. The last item was a bit of a disappointment to Harry, as the timeworn piece of parchment had been one of his most prized possessions next to his father's cloak and his Firebolt. He wondered why he didn't have the map in this life. Shouldn't he? Since it was partly his father's too?

But I got it from Fred and George. And Fred and George knicked it from Filch's office. And Filch confiscated it from dad and his friends when they were at school, so of course I wouldn't have it.

He went back to digging through his stuff.

By the time he'd checked through all that looked even slightly significant, which wasn't much, he was getting a bit bored and was about to shut his trunk when he noticed a very inconspicuous pocket on the inner lid of the trunk. It was bulging slightly as if there was something in it.

Curious, he slipping his hand into the pocket and pulled out a handful of envelopes; all the same size and all the same creamy color.

He furrowed his brows and brought his wandlight closer to the bundle, trying to read the curving scripture on the front of one of the envelopes.

To Harry, was all it had written on it. Expecting them to be letters from his friends and family, he opened it and extracted a neatly folded piece of matching parchment.

Dear Harry, the first line read.
Happy Birthday. I hope you are having a wonderful birthday this year as it's your becoming-of-age birthday. I've sent a small present with this letter, and even though it's not very big, it's from my heart and I want you to have it.
It's sad to have to think that this year will be the last year of being in school together, and also the last year that I can continue to send these letters to you. It breaks me to know that by next fall, you'll have gone on with your life, and I with mine. Although, for me, you will never leave my heart, no matter how much time comes to pass. I will always love you even while knowing it will be useless in the end.
You are the blood in my veins that keep me alive, and the beating of my heart that pumps that blood. Don't ever forget that.

Harry gaped silently at the letter. He turned it over to see if there was a name or anything that might hint the sender, but there was nothing. It sounded more like a love letter than anything, any it most definitely wasn't from his parents or Sirius. It had to be from a student at Hogwarts, from what this person had written. And what was this about this being useless in the end? It was almost as if this person had long since confessed their love to Harry, who refused, but kept on writing him these letters. It seemed very messed up.

Shaking his head, he put the letter back into it's envelope and looked at the one beneath that.

It was from the same person. It was addressed to him in the same neat writing.

He opened that one up too.

Dear Harry,
Today I watched you while you studied in the Library. You were alone at the table in the far corner. You were working on your Potions homework and struggling with one of the questions because you kept checking the book to look for the right answer.
And then, you fell asleep, right on top of that book.
You looked so peaceful, so beautiful, that I wanted to wrap my arms around you and hold you close. I wanted to whisper your name in your ear and see you smile. I wanted to kiss you. But I didn't. I kept my distance, and I will, until it'll be too late.
And by then, you'll be far away and I'll be all alone.

Harry's stomach did a fluttery flip-flop after reading that one. He wasn't sure if he should be flattered, or if he should be angry about being spied on. Whoever this person was, they seemed to be serious about Harry. Too serious maybe. He opened the next one, also from the same person. It was slightly shorter.

Dear Harry,
You were amazing during the Quidditch match this afternoon, like you always are. I wish I could have taken pictures, that way, I could watch you play on forever. I love you most when you are flying. You look so natural, so intense, so incredible. And then, after the games, your face is always beaming because you've caught the Snitch again, and your hair is windswept and so delicious looking.
If only you could know who I was... then I wouldn't have to watch you in secret. It's painful, but I've come to accept it.

Harry's throat felt very dry at this point, he refolded the letter and stuck it back into the empty envelope. One glance at the pile told him that there were about fifty letters, if not more, but he didn't need to read them all. He knew more or less what they would contain.

He also knew at this point, that he actually didn't know the sender anyway, whether or not he'd come from a different life. They were all anonymous and in the last letter, the sender had said that he didn't know their identity. It was sort of eerie and unnerving now that Harry thought about it. This mystery person was sounding more and more like a stalker, than a secret admirer.

Maybe if had time later, he would try to solve the puzzle and crack out who the writer was. He had too much on his mind at the moment anyway.

Stuffing the letters unneatly back into the pocket, he shut his lid quietly and climbed back into his bed.

He was surprised to see that the sun was already beginning to rise in the eastern horizon, and for a moment, he sat thinking that this was odd, as the Slytherin dormitories were supposed to be underground. Then he remembered the charmed windows at the Ministry of Magic, and the ceiling in the great hall. These windows were probably charmed as well to show the outside scenery.

The clock now read seven-thirty. It was hard to believe that an hour had already passed just by reading those letters. He must have been considering them for longer than he thought.

Yawning and stretching, he stood up and scanned the room once more. Everyone was still sleeping soundly, as it was a Saturday. So he decided to take a shower, or maybe even a long bath. He had plenty of time.

Walking with light footsteps, he exited the dormitory and into the seventh year's bathrooms across the landing.

One thing he'd been surprised about, upon his first trip to the bathroom, was that it wasn't a communal bathroom, like what the Gryffindors had. There were about six different bathrooms connected to the main room with the wash basin, and they all had lockable doors. Harry considered the Slytherins to be very spoiled. It was not quite fair.

He chose the bathroom farthest from the main door and slipped inside. It was like a smaller version of the prefects bathroom; in the middle of the room, there was a circular tub with at least five golden knobs, and closer along the wall, there was a shower stall encircled by foggy glass. There was a stack of fresh green towels on the counter and numerous bottles of body potions, shampoos, and conditioners on the shelf above that.

The Gryffindor baths hadn't been all that private, or pretty to look at, and so most of the time, Harry had stuck to showers. Of course there were those occasional times when he'd sneak into the prefects bathroom with Ron's help, but it wasn't like he could do that often anyway.

A few minutes later, the bath was filled with bubbly water and foam and the whole room was steamy and thick with the smell of vanilla. It made Harry's stomach growl.

Taking a deep breath and plugging his nose, he jumped into the tub and sunk to the very bottom, which was much farther than he'd expected. He kicked back to the surface and gasped for breath, swallowing in a mouthful of bubbles. Astonishingly, they tasted very good.

He tread water for a bit, doing small laps around the edge and then finally coming to a rest on his fifth lap. He threw his arms onto the side of the tub and let himself half float, half hang there for a while.

Washing himself was a bit of a difficulty, he discovered later, as he tried to lather some purple soapy lotion onto his body. The tub was too deep to stand in and so he couldn't very well use both hands to wash.

In the end, he chose to do the washing in the shower and then hop into the tub afterwards.

Just as he had finished up with the shower and was about to get back into the water, a soft creak sounded from behind him, followed by a small breeze of cold air on his skin. Startled, he turned around to find Malfoy standing in the doorway of the bathroom, one hand frozen on the door and the other on the drawstrings of his black pajama bottoms. His eyes were wide and unblinking as he stood motionless and staring at Harry as if were just as shocked to see Harry there, as Harry was about seeing Malfoy.

With a yelp, Harry tumbled into the bathtub, gulping in a lot of water and making a terrible splash. He resurfaced, spluttering and coughing.

"Malf- Draco!" he exclaimed in a choked voice, sinking as far as he could into the water. "Ever heard of knocking??"

Malfoy seemed to have gotten over his initial shock and was hastily doing up the drawstrings on his pants again.

"Well, you should've locked the door, smart one," he muttered, not looking up. "Anyone could come in here."

"Well, I... forgot!" Harry replied lamely, glaring.

"Convenient," snapped Malfoy and he disappeared, slamming the door shut behind him.

Harry waited for a few seconds, to make sure that the coast was definitely clear before he got back out. He was no longer in the mood for a bath, thanks again, to Malfoy. Everything was always Malfoy's bloody fault.

Flushing in anger and slight embarrassment, he violently scrubbed himself dry and yanked on his pajamas once more. He'd not only forgotten to lock the door, he'd also forgotten to bring a change of clothes. How much more stupid could he get? Hopefully, not much, was the only thing Harry could think to himself as he stormed back to the dormitory. He didn't want to imagine what might happen next, if this wasn't the worst.

TBC...

Coming up! Harry, Ron, and Hermione's visit to Hogsmeade! And there'll be plenty of Malfoy too... har har har.

Please review! Thank you!