SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1Halloween is one of Harry's favorite holidays. Better than Christmas, because no matter how much he enjoys the gifts and the love of the Weasley's and Hermione, Halloween is a holiday that's for wizards. Muggles have, over the years, discovered some of the details—like carving pumpkins—but for the most part, muggles view the holiday as something fairly silly and frivolous.
To wizards, Halloween is a celebration of magic itself. Halloween is when the best parties are, when people are most festive, even without the promise of presents. Harry loves this holiday, looking forward to it eagerly every year: which decorations will be kept from previous years and which new creations will awe them, the spectacular feast, and the fun of sharing something that Harry cannot fathom being tainted. It's as pure a moment as Harry has left and as the weeks grow colder and darker, Harry hangs onto the promise of Halloween to get him through his days.
He should have known better.
The hallways are deserted despite the remaining echoes of students running to classes. He knows Draco is waiting for him—lurking or stalking him, according to Harry's friends, and it's increasingly difficult not to correct them—but Harry cannot move. "We have to what?"
"I'm very sorry, Harry." Dumbledore looks sorry, too, his mustache and beard droopier than usual, the twinkle gone from his eyes. His skin has lost the pleasantly pink look that had sustained Harry for five years, now almost grey with weariness and upset. "There is too much significance in the holiday for Voldemort to overlook it."
"So I have to go," Harry repeats dumbly. "And miss the party."
"I do hope that we may return beforehand. The house elves have promised a special treat this year."
It's a paltry stab at Dumbledore's usual whimsy, but instead of reassuring Harry—as it's clearly designed to—it makes him look up sharply, eyes meeting Dumbledore's without any hesitation. It's the first time he's done so in weeks and it hurts. "Don't," Harry says, voice flat and hard. "Don't treat me like I'm just a sixteen year old boy after telling me I've got to do what even you can't. Pick one, Professor."
Dumbledore inclines his head gravely. He's nothing but an old man, anymore, and Harry hates that. Not him, still, thankfully—but no one enjoys having their illusions destroyed, their statues on pedestals come to disappointing life. Harry at least understands what is happening and knows better than to blame Dumbledore for it. Or at least reminds himself that he does. But he can't help but see how tired Dumbledore is. Being a general agrees with him about as well as being a soldier agrees with Harry: the same cracks and worn places are easy enough for Harry to see. It's enough to keep some kind of solidarity between them, the only two of the Order who understand just how painful this will really be. Harry clings to that as he receives his marching orders:
"Please meet me at the front doors, Saturday morning, nine o'clock sharp. And bring your cloak."
There are no admonishments to go to class, something Harry is grateful for. He doesn't want to go to class. He remembers the first month of school with desperate longing, when he'd been able to just turn everything off. To lock himself inside his own mind, floating through his days as an uncaring observer, allowing life to pull him as it wanted, Harry silent and still. All that wonderful, mind-saving ability to just let himself go—is gone.
Oh, he's still not angry the same way he was last year; he knows how futile that rage is, and how dangerous it can be. But he's still angry. All the looks and whispers from the past few weeks have already set him to boiling, and this—this is the final straw. Even Dumbledore, who knows he is just a stupid little boy, is trusting him with things Harry can't fathom.
It makes him furious, anger swirling into a rage that leaves him panting in the middle of the hallway. His fists clench, digging nails into half-healed scars until they bleed again. He's trembling, face flushed and growing damp as he struggles not to give in to the urge beating against his insides. He wants to throw things, kick walls, shout and scream—and hurt things. People. Not just specific people, that at least he could understand. No, Harry just wants to hurt. It doesn't matter who—Ron is just as much a target as some random student that asks him to pass the butter over supper—so long as there's that sharp cry of pain, the tang of sweat turning acrid as fear saturates it ...
Harry remains exactly where he is, shivering. This isn't the first time he's had these rages, although this is the worst of them. He has to get control over himself, he thinks. The saner part of him grateful that this is a relatively unused part of the castle. But relatively unused doesn't mean 'empty' and if anyone comes near him before he gets some control—it'll be bad, he knows. Very bad.
He whirls when something touches his shoulder, fists up, face drawn into an ugly snarl—which immediately melts—and reforms into a feral grin. "Draco. Sorry."
"Yes. You really are, aren't you."
The drawled words are suffused with contempt. There's no audience around them, but Draco's knowing eyes warn that there are some close by, and they need to pretend. Or maybe it's just that he understands Harry needs the mock argument. Harry still doesn't know all the twists and turns in Draco's brain—he certainly can't account for the hint of pleased pride in muted grey eyes. He just knows it's there and thrills under it.
"Fortunately for you," Draco continues, "I'm going to offer you a free pass."
"Yeah?" Harry shoves his anger into the roles they've worked on, the moves they've practiced until they're instinctive. It's messy, hate and the need to break spilling over the edges so that Harry has to force himself not to move. Not yet, anyway—because it may be messy, but it's working. Draco is a target Harry can rage it, because Draco understands. And Draco will fight back. "And why the hell should I take anything from a sycophant like you, Malfoy? "
Draco's sneer is the picture of scorn, but Harry can see dancing grey eyes shade towards blue and the way Draco's body is tense with anticipation. "Racing," Draco pronounces. "The pitch is empty, this time of day."
Harry smirks, and takes the tiniest of steps forward. Draco holds his ground, but his body still manages to shrink just the tiniest amounts—enough that Harry feels even more the predator without waving a red flag before his face. Almost, Harry wants to laugh at how well they mesh together. "You just don't want anyone to see when I kick your arse, Malfoy. So what do I get, when I win?"
"When you win, Potter? Your ego is the size of Hagrid's precious pumpkins and I'm going to take a great deal of pleasure in cutting it into itty, squashable bits."
Harry snarls. "You've never beaten me on the pitch, Malfoy, not in six bloody years of you using every dirty trick you know of." His grin is feral and dark, stretching across his face uncomfortably; Harry relishes ever millimeter of it. "This won't be any different, you arrogant prat. Now state the sodding terms."
"Winner chooses a forfeit. Any forfeit." Draco's voice is arch and coy, perfectly comfortable in the face of Harry's anger. "First race," Draco says, "starts now."
Draco laughs as he wheels, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he dashes down the hall. For a precious few seconds, Harry remains still. He's afraid he'll try to tackle Draco instead of just race him to the shed—and anyway, it's an amazing thing to watch Draco run with happiness lighting his steps. A beautiful thing. If Harry were in a better frame of mind... but he isn't, body thrumming to go, to not let the arrogant git get too far away from him, to give in to the driving storm underneath his breastbone. So he leans forward and just lets himself go. Adrenaline adds extra speed as he gives chase, the anger throbbing in time with his foot-falls as he dodges a stray student and a hissingly startled Mrs. Norris. Harry ignores all of that, focusing on the fluttering black robes that fill his vision.
He's grateful—or at least, part of him is—that Draco's gotten so very good at reading Harry's moods, lately. Harry doesn't know how, but Draco always appears right when Harry needs a distraction the most, often brushing Hermione's and Ron's concern off with a well-placed jab that leaves Harry too angry—or too amused—to continue sulking. If they're alone, Draco uses words with devastating accuracy, tearing Harry into little strips before inevitably going for more physical methods of beguilement. Sometimes that means fighting, or racing.
Mostly, though, it means kissing. Lots, and lots of kissing. Whenever they can spare a moment, sometimes Draco manufacturing them, if they haven't found the time otherwise. Harry never complains: Draco tastes like moonlight and ocean and he can never, ever get enough of it.
It's no surprise when Harry realizes he wants to do more than just beat Draco. He wants to shove him up against that wall and channel his aggression into something else besides. Something full of soft skin and gasping, aching cries...
Sunlight slaps into his face, Draco's body thirty yards ahead reminding him that there is a race to win. When the Quidditch shed is in sight, Harry angles himself towards the slightly muddier edges of the path they run down, purposefully skidding and using the slide to gain a few precious moments. He's level with Draco now, both of them grinning as they give each other fiercely determined looks. Harry knows that calling the two of them competitive is similar to calling Hermione 'smart', and he's grateful that they can still be competitive without endangering their new relationship. He never feels disappointment or upset when Draco wins—and he does, as often as Harry does—just determination to do better the next time.
He doesn't know what Draco thinks about their competitions, oddly. There's too much fierceness for Harry to tell what's really going on in Draco's mind.
Draco reaches the shed first, slamming the doors open as he grabs them to slow his momentum. "Ha! First race to me," Draco gloats, yanking one of the school brooms off its peg and waving it at Harry's face as Harry windmills to a stop. "I suppose you'll want best two out of three?"
"You said racing brooms, Draco."
"Actually, I just said racing. You assumed." Draco grins, tossing him the broom he'd lifted off before taking one of his own. "School brooms, this time. I don't want another argument about who's broom is better."
"Because my Firebolt clearly is," Harry immediately responds, hoping his grin isn't quite so savage. His chest is heaving from exertion, vision full of black spots, but he doesn't think he's nearly as angry as he was before. Or at least, he's less likely to want to hurt something now and Harry's very grateful to realize that.
"Rubbish. My Nimbus can do circles around your inferior Firebolt, Potter." Who's broom is better is an argument that started after their very first race, spilling off the pitch and into their detention, stopping only when Professor Snape shouted at them loudly enough that he woke half of Slytherin. Harry grins at the memory, then dives out of the shed first, kicking off and hovering in the air before Draco finishes closing the door. He needs this. "First one to the goal and back," he shouts and leans forward against his broom.
Wind howls around him, tearing at his robes, snatching gleefully at his glasses and messing his hair even more than usual. He never feels as free as he does when he's on a broom, loosed from earthly concerns to go wherever he points the shining handle. Even with the old, clunky school brooms that have a distressing habit of sputtering or jerking suddenly, Harry has total confidence in his skills. There's nothing he can't face when he's in the air, nothing unexpected that he can't compensate for. The broom beneath him is an extension of his body, controlled with instinctive need. Flying is intoxicating, the one pure pleasure he has left—made even more intense by knowing that Draco is matching him twist for turn for dive for feint, laughing as gleefully as he is.
It's perfect, or as much as Harry ever wants. The only dance he knows he'll ever truly enjoy with the only partner who's ever been able to come close to challenging him this way. They curve around the goal posts, far closer than any watcher would find comfortable, but that's okay too. There are no professors to watch and yell at him—not since after McGonagall's chat with Madam Hooch—and for a few hours, they can do the things neither of them ever did as children: play.
They race three times—Draco wins only once, bringing their score, he claims, to even—but they're too busy darting around, teasing each other with words and games, to try for a tie-breaker. As the shadows grows longer, Harry finally relaxes into that place he can only reach with Draco's aid, the place where he doesn't care. Not about what is happening, or might happen. He's far too busy grinning as Draco tries a feint that nearly ends up dumping him from his broom, and then mock-glaring as he checks Draco's body over for injuries.
Harry loves to do this, especially. He's not fond of the surge of worry and fear—but feeling Draco go utterly limp while Harry runs his hands wherever he wants, Draco's head lowered meekly as he's lectured about hurting himself... It makes Harry's belly tighten and his mouth go dry. Sometimes he thinks Draco tries the more death-defying moves just so Harry will touch him like that—though Draco is careful to never repeat a move Harry's expressly forbidden.
The bell for supper comes as a shock to both of them. "Blast!" Draco says. "We need to have one final race."
A low, rumbling sound immediately follows the pronouncement.
Harry laughs, grateful that he can do so without the feeling of ground glass tearing his throat. "Your stomach says we better not!" he teases. Draco is far skinnier than Harry has ever imagined and reacts to missing meals very poorly. And loudly.
"One more race, and we'll still have time for supper," Draco wheedles. He circles around Harry, pouting as much as his pointed face allows—it's surprisingly effective, but then, Harry knows that he's biased. "Pleeeeease?"
"You're very pretty when you pretend to beg like that." They're so close that their knees bump together and Harry can't resist leaning forward for a short, sweet kiss. Draco submits, as he always does, eagerly turning his face up and opening his mouth so that Harry can touch and taste as he wills.
It occurs to Harry, sometimes, that Draco has never once initiated their kisses. He asks, with touches, or subtle movements of his body that indicate his willingness, or sometimes even verbally demands it—but it's always Harry who makes the first move. The arrangement strikes Harry as being off somehow, but he never stops to wonder about it for long. He knows Draco enjoys this as much as he does, and that's all that really matters to him.
Draco's cheeks are pink when they separate, and not because of the wind that still puckishly taunts them. "From here to the end of the pitch, a straight shot. C'mon, Potter. Surely you can't stand to be tied with me."
Actually, Harry thinks a tie is the perfect way to end their afternoon, but his response is cut off by a shout from the stands. "Harry! Hey, Harry! Where've you been?"
Ron. And, as Harry looks down, Seamus and Zacharias Smith. It's a very odd threesome as Harry knows that neither Gryffindor likes Smith very much—most Gryffindor's don't, not after last year's D.A. classes. Harry wants ask Draco about it, since he understands people and their interactions far better than Harry ever will, but Draco's already brushing his fingers against Harry's in silent apology and shooting off towards the shed to put his broom away.
"What on earth were you doing with him?" Ron demands as soon as Harry comes to a hover near them. "I mean, I know McGonagall said that you were to be left alone, but why does he get special privileges, too?"
Ron's jealousy of Harry changed over the summer, resentment and relief mixing fairly evenly until they canceled each other out. Harry is extremely grateful for that, but it doesn't stop Ron from being jealous of other people and how they relate to Harry—and Draco's always been a very sore spot. Harry's convinced Draco to stop targeting Ron unless he really needs the kind of explosion Ron's so good at, but the two of them do not like each other and Harry has no illusions of them ever declaring bosom friendship, for his sake or any other.
Harry's bad mood returns, a headache forming at the base of his skull that leaves him irritable and waspish . He wishes he could find Draco and beg another massage. Or just find Draco, period. At least he doesn't feel like hurting anything any longer, and relief keeps him from snapping. Well, snapping too much. "Who says he isn't going to get into trouble?"
"Not if Snape catches him, he won't," Zacharias predicts darkly. "What were you doing out here with him? And why'd you disappear like that, anyway? I thought you were going to help me with Charms today."
"Sorry," Harry winces. He hates sharing advanced charms with Ravenclaws, because Flitwick believes that having students teach other students is a good way to really learn. Harry's partner is inevitably Zacharias. Probably because Zacharias survives by the skin of his teeth and Harry is actually pretty good at charms. "Something came up."
Three faces immediately look grave. "Not another attack?" Seamus asks.
"No. Just bad news." He can't stand to see the speculation in their eyes or the way they look at him as if he is the sun just waiting to rise. Even Ron, who bloody well knows better. "Needed to get away for a while, that's all. Who'd you get paired up with, Zach?"
"Never mind that," Ron tells him impatiently. "What was Malfoy doing here?"
It's not an attack on Draco. Harry knows that—but he still bristles defensively, his voice growing sharp and cold. "No idea. He was already flying when I got here." The lies come easily now. Both of them are practiced enough to build on what the other says with few cues; Harry wishes Draco were still here to help build the story he wants nothing more than to vehemently deny.
"And our Harry can't resist a challenge when Malfoy's about." Happy, affable Seamus is always good at deflecting tensions, slinging an arm around Harry's shoulder as he dismounts from his broom and starts walking back to the shed. "What was it this time, hey? Mid-air wrestling?"
Harry spares a single thought to worry what they might or might not have seen, then ignores it. He can't do anything about it and worrying will only make him more nervous. "Racing. He thinks that I'm cheating just because I'm a better flyer than he is."
"Ah, so that's why you were on school brooms! The little snot." Seamus grins, proud of his deduction and gives Harry a one-armed hug around the neck. "And you beat him, didn't you?"
"Course I did. Twice, even." His face hurts when he grins, throat closing so it's an effort to make himself speak. "Git challenged me to best two out of three. Like that'd help him."
"You won twice, so that means he won once." Zacharias takes the broom from Harry when they reach the shed, shelving it neatly. Zacharias is a strange person. He likes to spend time with Harry as much as he possibly can, often turning up at odd moments with a greeting that isn't quite casual enough to be truly cheerful, tagging along despite the cold fronts drifting his way. It's all very much like Peter Pettigrew, which is why Harry is trying to smile, to be nice and not say something awful, when Zacharias says, "He cheated, didn't he?"
The accusation is so unexpected that Harry reacts without thinking. "D—Malfoy really can fly," he snaps, choking back the phrase you land-bound arse, "and no one's so bloody good they can't be beaten, not even—."
Not even the Great Harry Potter, whom Harry has yet to meet and really doesn't want to, he thinks. He doesn't say it, though. Three astonished faces are staring at him, and Harry doesn't want that astonishment to turn into something else.
So he takes a deep breath, walking into the thin sunshine and forcing his mouth into a smirk. "Anyway, I let him win. I like seeing him think he's got a chance before I show him who's really the best flyer at Hogwarts."
"And beyond!" Seamus crows. Arm once again around Harry's shoulders, he steers them into the Great Hall where dinner is just about to start.
Harry intends to grab a little food and sneak back to his room, but Seamus isn't letting him go. So he sits, and curses the fact that Seamus is left-handed and can eat while gripping Harry's arm. The few times Seamus is forced to let him go, Hermione is there, chattering about today's lessons and all the things Harry has to know, glaring so strongly whenever Harry tries to twitch away that he gives up. If she and Seamus are distracted, then it's Neville who demands Harry's attention with quiet, earnest questions: about the curses they just learned, or something that's happened that morning. Harry has to answer Neville, compelled by a curious mixture of pity and jealousy and true fondness that he hasn't been able to shake all term. He knows Neville doesn't understand why Harry acts so differently, but apparently Neville's not above using it to get what he wants. After him is Ginny, grabbing onto his arm when Harry finally gets sick of it all, holding him the way she never would have back when she had a crush on him, talking so quickly that individual words are impossible to understand.
Any movement Harry makes is matched and bested by whichever Gryffindor is closest, pinning him back into his seat. The barrage of questions and demanded answers is constant, hands far too familiar on his body to actually pull him back the one time he makes a physical break for it. Food is shoveled onto his plate until it's nearly overflowing. Even Lavender joins in long enough to frown and mention that he hasn't been eating well, lately, and he'll finish every bit of food on his plate or she'll hex him to the table. She sounds exactly like Mrs. Weasley and Harry finds himself immediately loading up a fork, surprised when his shepherd's pie doesn't curdle in his stomach, the way he'd expected it to.
Harry waits for the anger to surface again, prompting him to do something mean and hurtful just so he can stomp back to his dorm—but it never happens. He can feel it simmering inside him, waiting, but not affecting him. There's too much genuine concern tempered with affection on the faces of his friends for him to be angry... and really, it feels good to be focused on like this, even though Hermione looks fierce enough to make an eagle whimper with jealousy.
He's not sure what's happened today, particularly, for them to act like this. Oh, he was angry and upset, but that's becoming less unusual as the weeks go by. Whatever the reason, as Harry's affectionately bullied and taunted into finally relaxing, he can't really mind it, much. It's nice. It's normal, just relaxing with his friends, and he hasn't had that in a while.
He can't help glancing over at Draco as dessert appears, everyone distracted just long enough as they search for their preferred dishes. Draco meets his gaze. He's sneering, of course, mouthing out promises of retribution the next time they meet—but his eyes are a soft kitten-grey, full of a contented pleasure. Draco knows what Harry's mates doing, of course. He probably figured it out back on the pitch, ages before Harry did—but there's no trace of anything but approval for his housemates' actions. Well, approval and maybe a little bit of jealousy. He seems to be throwing Seamus, who doesn't let go of Harry for long, diamond hard glares that fairly scream of possessiveness.
Not that anyone besides Harry is going to know it for what it is, of course.
When Harry's favorite type of custard is plunked down in front of him, the entire bowl with its contents untouched, Harry smiles without reservation.
A short, whispered conversation to Harry's left results in Seamus switching seats with Ron so that Harry is sandwiched between him and Hermione. "It's really no fair," Hermione says plainly, though very quietly. The art of private conversations while in public is a skill all boarding school students learn quickly. "You being part of the Order without us, I mean. You know all sorts of things that we don't."
Harry's rage resurfaces in a flash of red, infuriated to think that she means she wants to risk her life and her academic career the way he is, that she wants to be forced into things she isn't ready for—but her gaze is sad and Ron's hand is large and heavy against his forearm, and Harry reminds himself that he's being an idiot.
Of course they want to know what's going on; they're young and inquisitive and they've both been involved since the very beginning. Pushing them away now is insulting, and anyway, that's not what Hermione is talking about. She doesn't want to know because she is being inquisitive, like this elaborate school problem. She wants to know because she's his friend. Because ...
Harry flushes, ducking his head as the real reason occurs to him. He's ashamed that he even for a moment considered she meant that. It's unworthy of her and Ron, and awful of him.
He bites his lip, looking down at his plate. "I'm sorry."
"No, you aren't," Ron says, his grin lopsided and charming. He starts attacking his treacle again, adding, "But that's okay. We forgive you."
"Will you please let us help?" Hermione continues. It's obvious they've planned this, or at least discussed it, and it leaves Harry feeling very queer to realize they have the same kinds of discussions that he and Draco have. Harry is not the collective student body of Hogwarts, and he doesn't need the kind of games he and Draco play, part manipulation, part confrontation. He knows what's going on, so he doesn't need it.
Except, maybe he does.
Hermione takes his hand, curling her fingers against his. "I know there are things you can't tell us, and we're, well not happy about it, but we understand and we want to help, Harry. We want to help you."
The memory of Draco's voice instantly rises up: "I just hate that I can't do anything to help you!"
Harry's anger is gone, now. It can't stand up to friends he pushes away again and again—who keep coming back to him. Friends who don't expect the world from him. Who just want Harry. Heat pricks his eyes and Harry shoves his glasses up his nose roughly. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I don't want to act like this."
"We get that, mate. But you're hurting yourself most by ignoring us." Ron's clearly been coached by Hermione, but he's not just repeating what she's told him by rote. Ron believes this, or he wouldn't be able to say it with such conviction. "You don't have give us details, but you could maybe let us know something's up instead of running off to brood and getting yourself all worked up, yeah? Or going to pick fights with Malfoy."
"What?" Oh, hell. He freezes, torn between the overwhelming desire to stop lying. To tell them everything and how important Draco is to Harry—but he can't. He can't do that until after January, when Draco is legal and supposedly safe. It's too many months away. "I don't—"
Ron's snort ruffles his napkin. "Please, Harry. Every time you're upset you always go after Malfoy like he's the bloody snitch."
"Or he goes after you," Hermione mutters, but quietly enough that Harry's not sure he hears her correctly. "Ron's right, Harry," she says, raising her voice and distracting him with her earnest expression. "You really need to stop fighting with Malfoy. It only gives you more detentions with him and that's the last thing you need right now. And Harry, please remember to talk to us? Even if it's just to say how horrible all of this is."
Ron taps his chin thoughtfully. He's focused on the table, but there's a glint of humor tugging along Ron's facile mouth. "Or maybe," he says deliberately, "it's the way Goyle goes after the last piece of toast in the mornings. He nearly shreds it, you know, before he grabs the butter knife, and it's pulp by the time he finally eats it. Or maybe Hermione after the last copy of a book needed for homework. Or—"
"All right," Harry laughs. He's not happy, really, but between Draco this afternoon and his friends this evening, he's feeling almost good. Better, at least, which counts for a lot. "All right, I get it. No more hiding when I'm upset, okay? Or at least not much."
Hermione's nod is prim. "Good. I don't like having to blackmail Professor McGonagall."
Harry's jaw drops. "You what?"
"Well, you'd run off," she shrugs, her tiny little smile extremely pleased, "and I was worried you'd get in trouble."
Even Ron looks slightly amazed. "I didn't know you blackmailed her into talking to us, Hermione, wow! What'd you—" Hermione gives him a look and he instantly sighs heavily. Nothing gets past that look, as Harry and Ron well know. "Oh, all right," Ron says. "Anyway, Harry—up for some wizard's chess after dinner?"
"After you two finish your homework!"
Ron grimaces, but doesn't miss a beat. "Right, I mean, after we're done with our homework?"
Harry laughs again, and can't remember the last time he's laughed quite this much. "Sure. But how about exploding snap, instead? Neville, you got a new set—wanna let us try it out?"
Drawing the other Gryffindors into the conversation works and Harry lets them organize his evening with a smile. It's loud and boisterous and half of him misses the quiet of his solitary-but-for-Draco existence, while the rest of him rejoices at the lack of strain or tension as he interacts with the others. There's no hidden need for the Boy Savior. Just Harry, Gryffindor sixth year. It's been so easy to lock himself into a world where only Draco understands him, because Draco really does understand him best. But that doesn't mean his friends are clueless idiots, either. As bottles of butterbeer are handed out, one game of exploding snap turning into many more, Harry lets go. For a precious evening, he forgets about what's to come and realizes that he can be soldier and boy also, so long as he has friends like these to help him.
That thought and the remembered softness in Draco's eyes become talismans to help him sleep at night and keep him going as it grows ever closer to Halloween.