"So why are you upset?" Draco is lounging at his desk chair, looking thoroughly unconcerned with life in general and the transfiguration classroom in particular. The chair Seamus usually sits in is bearing the brunt of his displeasure. "I'm sure you can guess why I am."

Harry doesn't bother to respond as he throws himself into his own chair. He hates this kind of detention. At least when they're outside, Harry can let himself relax for a few precious moments, enjoying the fresh air and the comfort of nature around him. But those are Snape's detentions, and for Professor McGonagall they are confined to her classroom. Harry wishes he could transfigure the hard wooden desk he sits at into something squishy and comfortable, but he doesn't. Professor McGonagall believes in mortification of the flesh, or at least says she does whenever students request chairs that aren't quite so hard and unforgiving; she wouldn't approve of such a silly transfiguration, regardless. "Who said I'm upset?" he asks, his bag thunking beside his feet, heavy enough that he winces when a toe is accidentally caught.

"Well, let's see. It could be the scowl dark enough to make a thundercloud blush with envy. Or perhaps it's the way you walk, as if your limbs were held on only by spellotape and no longer truly part of your body. Or maybe, and I do believe this is the most likely, it's the frown you're sporting. You could probably strike a Hufflepuff dead with that." Draco's grin is immediate and stunning. "Let's skive off and try it."

Harry is careful not to go glass-eyed or make his staring too obvious: Draco's smiles are as fragile as a strip of burning magnesium, momentarily blinding and then gone in an instant, and staring, Harry has learned the hard way, shortens their half-life even more. He's become a master at keeping Draco in his peripheral vision, reveling in the smiles he loves so much. Pink lips, full for a boy's, curve into the most startling of grins, containing none of the sneering disdain that the other students have come to associate with Draco Malfoy's pleasure. None of them see enthusiasm and happiness—real happiness, not manufactured or manipulating—or the way Draco's eyes light up until the grey is almost clear. Draco looks the way Ron does, or Dean, after a particularly funny joke. He looks normal.

He looks beautiful.

Harry doesn't mention that, though, or let his wonder effect his expression. He wants to keep Draco's smiles as long as he possibly can, locking them up in boxes for only his personal enjoyment. One day he'll try, too—but for now Harry smiles back as genuinely, still without looking at Draco directly, then rests his forehead on folded forearms. He can't see Draco anymore, but he can still feel his happiness. It's a poor compromise, but enough to keep Harry content.

"Sorry," he says, knowing the desk muffles most of his tone, obscuring it so the strain is more hidden. Draco is too good at reading Harry, lately. "Am I less threatening this way?"

"Oh yes. That's much better. Now you're merely pathetic whereas before, at least, you managed to pull of that smoldering, sexy look models have when they sneer at the camera. Here I thought you were showing off for me, doing your little turn on the catwalk."

A slightly hysterical giggle rises up to lodge in Harry's throat, unvoiced. This isn't the first time Draco's made unwitting references to something Harry knows from the muggle world, and probably not the last. He doesn't bother to try and explain—Draco would only be horribly offended at sharing even a passing turn of phrase with magicless inferiors. Particularly this turn of phrase. His shoulders tremble slightly, remembering the terribly cheesy commercial that had featured the song, and has to work hard not to pique Draco's curiosity. Not that Draco will ask, though. Harry doesn't know how to explain it, he just knows that Draco will let it pass—because Harry wants him to.

That kind of understanding frightens Harry, when he tries to parse it down into something logical. He's never known someone the way he appears to know Draco, or vice versa. He doesn't understand why it's happening, either—when it fails, as it sometimes does, it scares him how quickly he forgets anything but his hate and resentment towards Draco. It's not a spell, he's fairly certain. Just... a something. A synergy that has them on the same wavelength, to borrow a muggle phrase.

Sometimes it's hard to maintain it: Draco takes one step too far, one day, or Harry defends his friends just a little too vehemently. Whatever the method, their fights stop being play-acting to relieve tension but true brawls meant to hurt. Harry forgets everything but that this is Draco Malfoy, his rival and enemy since the first train ride, who has spent five years trying to make Harry's life miserable. He doesn't know what Draco sees during those awful times, but the obsidian-sharp hate Draco glares at him isn't difficult to read. While neither of them know what it is that makes their understanding fail, Harry, at least, knows exactly what brings it back. Once it was Draco's eyes while they fought, a hint of true fear lost in rain-cloud grey; Harry remembers thinking that Draco should never be frightened of him, ever. Once it was a tremor of laughter hidden behind Malfoy's sneer, shared enjoyment instead of derision. Once it was a comment from Ron, Harry instinctively wanting to defend Draco instead of joining in. Once it was a comment from Snape, surprisingly, sending both boys into snickers instead of glares.

"Potter. Potter! Please don't tell me you've fallen asleep already. I refuse to be left to face McGonagall on my own. The old bat hates me, but she's positively putty-like when you're conscious and distracting her away from my charms."

Harry tries, almost desperately, to think of something witty to say. This is the most playful Draco's been in days. The Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry is growing exponentially worse and Draco bears the brunt of it—Harry doesn't want to risk sending Draco into a funk again. Learning about that aspect of Draco's personality isn't something that Harry wants to relive frequently; while Draco doesn't brood quite as much as Harry, his descents into depression are dark and frighteningly violent. It's only how quickly Draco gets over them that keeps them tolerable.

Draco is raising an eyebrow at him, Harry knows it. He again tries to think of something—but his mind remains stubbornly blank, the way it has for days now. Half the reason for the upswing in hostilities is that Harry is unable to do his part to mitigate people's anger. He knows what to do, now: Draco has explained everything in detail and often their detention sessions are a run down of those most in need of Draco's brand of stress relief and how to accomplish it. But as Dumbledore's lessons continue and Harry grows more despondent after each one, he is less and less able to play the foil Draco needs.

It hurts, not to be able to help. He knows that Draco can handle it—they have that conversation often enough. It's just that Harry is losing touch with a lot of things, lately, and he hates that he can't seem to hold on. His lessons drain something vital and pure out of him each, leaving him distant and cold and ... empty. He hates it, but he can't seep to stop it, either. He's frightened of himself in a way he never has been before, not even when strange things happened for inexplicable reasons, and he hates that, too.

He waits for the day when he starts hating Dumbledore. It's not there yet, but by Christmas holidays, Harry thinks he will. He dreads it.

The soft swish of cloth distracts him from his thoughts. "Sorry," Harry says as lightly as he can. "I'm in a bit of a—"

Hands touch his shoulders. They're surprisingly large hands, curling around the slope of Harry's shoulders easily, fingers almost reaching Harry's collar bone. The heat from them burns through layers of robe and shirt to warm his skin the way no fire ever can. The pressure is exquisite, perfectly placed. When those large, hot hands start to move, Harry has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. The muscles ache beneath the slow touch, and when a thumb presses something knotted and painful in Harry's shoulder, his entire right side goes limp and a little numb.

"Oh," Harry says softly. It's so good he could cry. His breath feathers against the wood of the desk, the wetness bouncing back to fog up his glasses. The painful knot in Harry's shoulder is kneaded again, and this time he can't stop the moan that travels up from his gut. He doesn't really want to. "Oh, god," he whispers.

"I've wanted to do this for days." Sarcasm and arrogance are now a source of shared amusement between them, but several minutes in Harry's presence always strips both from Draco's voice. The pithy one liners that are the terror of Hogwarts vanish. The mocking drawl smooths, timbre rising as manufactured maturity lifts. A shy diffidence—something inconceivable a few weeks before—fills Draco's voice and an innocent wonder that Harry has never been able to really understand. It's almost awe in Draco's voice and when that isn't making Harry feel very good about himself, it bothers him a little. He doesn't want Draco to be in awe of him.

Now, though, Draco's voice is low and soft, with a note of soothing that he's only heard in Mrs. Weasley's voice, or Ginny's when she plays with Pig. The comparison makes him uncomfortable but Draco's hands haven't stopped moving, working at his neck and the base of his skull. It's hard to think when his body is being turned into a puddle of goo, so Harry stops trying.

"Am I hurting you?" Draco asks.

Hurting? Harry doesn't have breath enough to laugh, which is good. Laughter might make Draco stop, and Harry's perfectly willing to kill—er, hurt something very badly to prevent that. "No," he says.

"It's because of Dumbledore, isn't it?" The words are barely audible, but Harry hears them. Harry can feel them, worry and concern painting pictures on his skin. "You always look like porridge after a food-fight when he finally lets you go. And you're practically mute, lately. Where's that famous Harry Potter stubbornness, hm? My Slytherins are floundering without you to argue with. Even Pansy's noticed, and she's the most self-absorbed creature I've ever met. Myself included."

The stab at humor is forced and both of them let it die, rather than answer.

"Yes." It hurts, saying that, metal drawing up his throat along with the syllable. He's not told anyone, not Ron or Hermione or even Hedwig, what his lessons are about. He'll never tell. He tries not to even think about it, afraid that shaping the words in his mind—even examining the tangential repercussions—will make it real. He doesn't know what he'll do if someone finds out, and he prays with all the fervor he has left that Snape doesn't know what his lessons are specifically about. Dumbledore, perhaps surprised by Harry's reaction, has assured him that he's told no one the details. Harry doesn't know if he believes the old man anymore, but he doesn't have a choice and they both know it.

Sometimes, Harry dreams of running away. Hopping onto his broom and escaping into the night air, or maybe sneaking down to the kitchens and begging the so-helpful house elves for a very sharp knife, or obliviating himself so if he doesn't remember, then he'll just do as he's told without having to think about it—the means and methods always change. Harry knows he's not really ready to run and definitely not suicidal. He's just tired. Fate has a strangle hold on him, and his subconscious mind is as aware of that as his conscious, since his dreams always end the same way:

Everyone dying.

If Harry is gone, then everyone dies. Not just some people, the way the Order is preparing for. Everyone. Voldemort is a mad man. Harry's started studying mad men throughout history and the pattern he sees is clearer than any of Trelawny's foggy crystal balls. Once Voldemort starts killing, he won't stop. He won't be satisfied with Harry's death or Dumbledore's, or every mudblood and muggle, because there will always be some threat to his power, some paranoia he has to indulge. Nothing will satisfy him. Not until he's the only creature left standing and maybe not even then.

So Harry doesn't run. He goes to his lessons on time, and he practices whenever he can.

Harry realizes that he's still waiting for Draco to ask him the rest of it. For someone to ask him. But as the seconds tick by and the only sounds are of two boys breathing and hands moving over thin robes and stubbornly tense muscle, he starts to relax. It isn't a surprise that Draco doesn't ask for more detail, really—Harry's mouth purses, annoyed that he has to be grateful to a lesson that Lucius taught his son. But he is grateful, so he stays quiet and lets Draco rub his shoulders and neck, pressing on the soft places at the base of his skull before using his knuckles to work each separate vertebrae in his back. It feels amazingly good. So much so that Harry wonders if he might fall asleep like this. That maybe he won't dream with Draco's hands delivering him into rest.

He's almost fully into a doze when the door finally opens and he hears, "What is going on here?"

Draco's hands press down hard, hard enough that Harry can't jump upright and away, fingers digging little divots into Harry's back that should probably hurt instead of feel really, really good. "He's exhausted," Draco says. "I'm merely assisting him to relax."

Harry can almost hear Professor McGonagall's dumbfounded expression. As he's caused a few in his time, he knows how short a time they last and how much worse things are afterwards, despite the seeming reprieve. He tries to get up again, but Draco keeps him in position, attacking a particularly sore muscle in Harry's lower back until he's too busy gasping and trying not to wince to argue about anything.

"I beg your pardon?"

Draco's sigh is long-suffering, although Harry knows without turning that his expression will remain perfectly neutral. It's a skill of his that Harry envies but can't mimic no matter how often he practices. Draco's hands start kneading unnecessarily hard, a sure sign that he's becoming annoyed. "I'm rubbing his back, Professor."

"I can see that, yes, Mister Malfoy. What I'm uncertain of is why you are doing so," McGongall says, accented voice lightly trembling with repressed emotion.

Harry can't tell if she's upset about Draco touching him this way, or the easy intimacy Harry is permitting, or maybe something else again he can't identify. He doubts it's good, whatever it is—Draco rubbing his back is the best thing that's happened to him in days, which makes it a statistical certainty that something is going to prevent it. That's just the way his life works, he thinks pessimistically. He's about to mumble something to try and direct McGonagall's attention towards himself, when Draco sharply inhales. Harry knows that sound. He knows what follows that sound, and as gratifying it is to have that kind of vitriol wielded in his defense, McGonagall can take away their shared detentions! He immediately tries to sit up—

"I was just commenting, Professor, respectfully of course," Draco's tone is anything but respectful, "that you and your bloody Order have been treating Harry like a house elf. He was almost asleep when you came in here. Have you any idea just how difficult it is to make someone this tense and unhappy finally relax enough to sleep? Oh, but wait, of course you do. I recommend cucumber slices for those bags under your eyes, Mother swears by them."

It's too far. Furious, Harry arches up into Draco's hands in a firm command to let him go, and let him go now. Immediately, Draco stops the massage and with the propriety of a trained valet, helps Harry sit up straight and brush his robes in order. Harry glares at him, not caring that McGonagall is spluttering with fury, because Draco won't care about that. He does care about Harry's anger—there's an embarrassed flush high on his cheek bones and his are lips compressed into a tight frown anyone but Harry would take as a sneer. Harry ignores all of that; Draco doesn't like it when Harry's truly angry at him. It's only happened once before, but it's like Harry's anger—and especially disappointment—cuts at Draco in some fundamental way that Harry doesn't understand but is perfectly willing to use. So he continues glaring, cultivating as many silent signals of not happy as he can until Draco finally settles into his own desk, head down and expression—to Harry—humble. Harry knows full well that everyone else will see nothing but sullen anger at having been reprimanded, but he knows this look for what it is.

It's so amazingly easy to read Draco, once he's handed you the primer.

After a moment, Draco lifts his head. "I'm sorry, Professor," he says. It's not completely sincere, but it's better than Draco's usual apology: insulting, when it's not patently unrepentant.

"Accepted, Mister Malfoy," Professor McGonagall says.

Harry studies her even as he reaches out to grasp Draco's wrist, forefinger and thumb resting right over the angrily fluttering pulse-point and squeezes lightly—a reminder to behave. Professor McGonagall catches the movement and purses her mouth as if she's just swallowed a lemon. That's an expected enough reaction: public affections are only barely tolerated by a staff who knows they can't truly prevent them. What's unexpected is the glint of satisfaction Harry thinks he sees in her eyes. Satisfied that Harry is controlling Draco? That they've gotten past their differences, which is what both he and Draco suspect is behind the professorial manipulations to share detentions together? Neither reasons makes sense, but Harry doesn't think he's reading Professor McGonagall wrong.

"Perhaps you are right, Mister Malfoy," she says eventually. "However, I must remind you that I am a professor in this institution and you will address me with respect. Is that understood?"

It's gentle, as reprimands go, but Draco has recovered from Harry's anger—he shakes things off very quickly—and it's clear the instant he opens his mouth that he's going to say something insulting. Harry doesn't let him get a single syllable out, squeezing around Draco's wrist. It doesn't hurt, really. Harry knows how far he can go before it's truly painful, but it's a very effective way to communicate that Harry will be quite displeased if Draco makes her angry. Again. Particularly as she and Professor Snape seem to control their shared detentions, something Harry has no intention of losing, and he finds himself gripping just a touch harder.

Draco swallows his words so quickly that he chokes.

"We're sorry, Professor," Harry says into the silence. McGonagall is staring at them, eyes narrowed; Harry has made no attempt to disguise his actions, and Draco is staring at the floor, the flush slowly spreading over his cheeks like pooling syrup. "Draco was just trying to help me, that's all."

"Yes, Mister Potter, that much was clear. Very well. It appears I owe Professor Snape an apology. Lines tonight, I believe, in recognition that you are indeed exhausted, Mister Potter, as was so rudely pointed out to me. Fifty lines each," she stresses, staring particularly at Draco—and then suddenly smiles, "and you may take as long as you need to complete them."

She waves her wand, chalk floating up from its ledge to write I will behave with decorum and treat others with respect at all times on the blackboard. It's as easy a punishment as all the others have been, although slightly more pointed. "Thank you, Professor," Harry says, absently rubbing his thumb over Draco's wrist.

Beside him, Draco makes a face, but Harry shushes him before he can say anything. Draco doesn't know how to do nice or gratitude to anyone other than Harry, so Harry has learned to run interference rather than let Draco botch their good fortune. It's almost a tag-team in many ways; Harry handling anything that requires emotion while Draco handles just about everything else. Draco loves the politicking that leaves Harry's head spinning and increasingly Harry tells him about Order of the Phoenix meetings, gathering insights in how to handle the next one.

Once McGonagall has gone, Harry has barely opened his mouth to ask for Draco's opinions when Draco himself stands up and positions himself behind Harry. "Put your head forward," he demands, the hint of lordliness more amusing than annoying.

"Er. But that was—"

"Now, Potter."

Very well. Draco isn't going to be swayed, and Harry isn't interested in fighting with him. "We have to do our lines," he says. He isn't interested in being studious, either, but his conscious nags at him until he at least pays lips service.

"I'll take care of them later, now put your head down. Or better yet, take off your robe first."

He freezes. He can't help it—tell any sixteen year old they're supposed to disrobe in front of the object of their attraction and every one will experience the same fluttery terror. "Er."

Draco seems to catch his discomfort, backing up so that his body heat ceases warming the back of Harry's neck. "Really, Potter, must you argue with everything? It's a simple request. Take off your robe. It's for your benefit, anyway." Draco is talking too fast, the indifference slapped haphazardly over his words. "You've told me numerous times that I always get what I want, haven't you? Well, this is something I want. Remove your robes and if you're wearing a jumper, that too. It's more than warm enough here, so don't bother bringing up that excuse, either. Oh, very well, stop looking at me like that. Will you please remove your robes and jumper?"

Draco can never really be Malfoy around Harry. Any attempts fizzle away into nervousness, leaving Draco grasping at mannerisms and patterns, growing more and more nervous about whatever it was that made him retreat into Malfoy in the first place. It's adorable, really, and usually calms whatever uncertainties Harry has—Draco's nervousness isn't something to be shared, not the way his fear is. Draco's nervousness is something to calm and soothe.

Still seated, Harry turns and stretches out his arm, looping it around Draco's waist and pulling him flush against the back of his chair, shoulder pressing reassuringly against Draco's torso. The babbling vanishes immediately, replaced with the red flush that Harry can't help but reach up and brush his fingers against. He wants to stand up to taste that redness, the desire abrupt and powerful—Harry ignores it as much as possible. "All right. I've only got a shirt on underneath. Is that okay?"

Red and mute, Draco nods against Harry's palm.

"We really should do our lines first," Harry says as he releases Draco, stands, and unbuttons his robe. "Fifty isn't that many."

"Will you just get it off?" Draco demands, responding predictably by lifting his head and glaring with all the aristocratic fervor he can manage. "I'll do the bloody lines for both of us, all right? She doesn't care, you must've understood that without me to translate."

"Of course I did. I'm not a complete idiot."

"Says the Gryffindor," Draco fires back. By now, though, Harry's got his robe off and Draco is staring fixedly at the little exposed V at his neck.

Harry tries very hard not to preen. He likes the attention, particularly as Draco seems unaware he's giving it, but more than that, Harry very much likes the confirmation. Attraction, both the being and the having, is not something he understands. Oh, he's fairly certain he's attracted to Draco—a succession of dreams have convinced him of that, especially when he wakes up sticky. It's Draco's attraction he's most unsure of, though. The manhandling of Draco's body that Harry now freely indulges himself in isn't innocent in his mind—but it could be in Draco's. And given how little resistence Draco puts up, Harry could very easily push things too far. So when Draco stares at him, fixed and hungry and not the least bit innocent, Harry can't help but puff up in happy relief.

"Gryffindor's aren't stupid," Harry says mildly. He kicks off his shoes, shoving them on top the crumpled robe, and looks at Draco. "So?"

"Er," Draco says. "Sit down. Or, no, perhaps it's better if you lie down? I'll have to sit on your legs, of course, and the floor is hard, but I'll be able to do a better job of it and if you're lying down you might actually fall asleep and ... "
"Draco." One word and Draco's miserable again, staring at the floor dejectedly. Harry can't possibly resist that and doesn't even try. Wrapping both arms around Draco's waist, he waits until habit takes over and Draco relaxes against him, head tucked in the crook of Harry's neck, one arm hooked over Harry's shoulder, the other braced against Harry's back. It's their favorite position, either standing or lying down, and Harry knows he's spent far too much time during each detention session planning on how to get his arms around Draco just like this. "What's wrong?"

"Other than your House declaring me public enemy number one?"

"Yes. Other than my House doing exactly what you want them to do."

Draco huffs a breath but doesn't say anything for a long moment. Long enough that Harry thinks he isn't going to answer at all. "I'm scared."

His arms tighten without thought. "Of what? You haven't—your father hasn't owled you anything, has he?"

"Since the last message I told you about his plans for Christmas? No. It's nothing to do with him." Draco quiets again. Harry realizes they're swaying slightly, the mingled beating of their hearts setting a rhythm he hasn't noticed before now, but is irresistibly compelling. Draco's breathing is warm against his open collar and he loves how he can feel Draco relax until almost his entire weight is pressed against Harry's body. "It's your lessons," he says eventually. "Whatever Dumbledore's teaching you. I'm not asking what it is, don't tense up on me like that. I won't ask anything, all right? But ... it scares me. I don't like it."

Draco told him, once, every single step of his hair regime. Harry doesn't remember anything except that it smells like sandalwood whenever he buries his face into it. "I'm sorry." He's not sure what else he should say, or how he can reassure Draco—

Who's busily shaking his head, dismissing the apology. "No. It's hurting you, Harry. Whatever he's doing is hurting you."

"It's necessary."

Draco pulls out of his arms so quickly that he leaves friction burns in his wake. Hands grip his shoulders, stormy grey eyes boring into Harry's with a fire that he has enough presence of mind to be frightened of. "I know that, you selfish bastard," Draco spits out, raw passion and remembered arrogance mingling into something that sears Harry to the bone. "I know that you do whatever you're told not because you want to, but because you don't have any choice. I'm finally starting to understand the way your labyrinthine brain works, and I get that, Harry. I just hate that I can't do anything to help you!"

Harry can't look away, no matter how much he doesn't want to see those thin red lines against the white of Draco's eyes. The pain and fear as bright as tears Draco won't ever shed and—and something else that Harry is terrified of putting a name to. The something that keeps him up some nights, a comfort against the nightmares, no matter how confused it leaves Harry feeling as he turns it over and over in his mind. But none of that matters now because his arms are around Draco's waist again, pulling their bodies together inexorably, hips and bellies, and chests and finally lips, all brushing so lightly that the pressure is almost delicate enough to be written off as imagination. Almost.

It's not a very good kiss. Their mouths are too tight, breath bouncing off each other's skin until Harry's glasses fog and he starts feeling lightheaded. He knows his lips are slightly chapped and he thinks Draco's are, too.

It's still perfect.

When Harry finally releases Draco's mouth, he isn't surprised when Draco buries his face in Harry's neck. He holds Draco gently, ignoring the heated flush that scalds his skin. They're swaying again, but this time Harry thinks it's more like rocking and cradles Draco even closer. "You do help," he says into Draco's ear. "You always help me."

Draco makes a noise that could be disagreement but probably isn't. Neither of them seem willing to move, but eventually Draco remembers that Professor McGonagall keeps blankets in the bottomless bottom drawer in her desk. Harry uses the knife Sirius gave him—for the first time, Harry can simply be grateful it works instead of mourning his godfather—discovering a pillow as well as several thick, comfortable looking blue blankets. Draco wordlessly spreads them out on the floor, fussily making sure they're exactly right before positioning Harry with the same focused determination.

His weight is heavy against the backs of Harry's thighs, and even without the warmth of him, Harry thinks he could sleep from that reassuring pressure alone. His mind feels heavy and full and he doesn't object as his glasses are removed. When Draco starts rubbing his back, familiar and different from the change in angle, murmuring soft stories that he claims his mother used to tell him when he was very small, Harry lets his eyes close and drifts. He doesn't want to really fall asleep down here, because he'll just have to get up again in a few hours. Draco tells him to hush and relax and rubs Harry's back and shoulders and neck until Harry feels like he's floating and it's too much effort to bother saying he won't.

He doesn't know how he gets back to his own bed that night, only that when he wakes, he feels refreshed for the first time in nearly a week. And he doesn't remember a single dream.