Title: The Spinning World: Silhouette of the Sun
Author: hans bekhart
Rating: R
Summary: In the sequel to Casualties of War, Harry and Draco's fifth year at Hogwarts has begun, and they must try to rebuild the lives they used to lead. In which Hufflepuffs pick fights, Snape finds comfort in the memories of others, and Harry makes a big mistake. (Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius, others)
Notes: Always thanks to my betas, thedelphi, lildove42, seaoftethys and especially lilchickadee who continues to beat me mercilessly into making this story better. This chapter has been edited to comply with rating policy. The original chapter was rated NC-17 for explict sexual content. If anybody's interested, it can be found here: ( http / hansbekhart . livejournal . com / 156671 . html , just take out the spaces).

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It began, innocently enough, with a pair of gloves. It was snowing, and the fifth year Slytherins had Divination right after breakfast. Although Professor Trelawney kept the classroom warmer than was really comfortable, the corridors leading up to her tower were draughty and cold. Her students had begun to look like moulting birds once they stepped into the perfumed chambers, shedding layers and scarves even before they sat down at their tables.

Draco had been looking for his gloves since getting dressed. He had foregone a shower but had been fussing about his gloves for some time, without heeding the ridicule of his roommates. Blaise, never one to bother with the crises of others, was the first to head up to breakfast, and the rest followed at their own paces, leaving Draco mostly wedged beneath the bed, searching among the dust bunnies for the lost items.

It was Gregory who found him, running back to the dorms before class began for his forgotten Divination homework. He hesitated when he heard a muted, panicked rush of breath. "Hello?" he called, looking around nervously. He trusted the boys of his year well enough not to leave some sort of creature loose that could bite his toes off, but he never knew about the seventh years – who could get away with nearly anything – or the first years – who hadn't quite learned their places yet.

A blond head surfaced behind Draco's bed, glared at him and then turned away. Gregory followed, padding around the bed to find Draco sitting very still on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest. He didn't look at Gregory as he sat down on the bed.

"Draco?" Greg asked, tentatively. "You're missing breakfast. Class is gonna start really soon, too." Draco shook his head but made no other comment. There was a mark high up on his neck, beneath his ear, and Gregory wanted to ask what had happened before he remembered how late it had been before he had heard Draco return to the dorms last night. "Are you alright?"

"I can't find my gloves," Draco muttered.

Gregory scratched at his throat, puzzled. "Yeah, I saw you looking for 'em earlier … but why weren't you at breakfast? Aren't you hungry?"

Draco shook his head again and drew his knees closer to his body. "No," he said. "I can't find my gloves."

"Oh," Gregory said, mystified. "Do you really need them?"

Draco nodded, his face a picture of misery. He held his hands out in front of himself, peering at the scars that decorated them, his lips closed tight around all of the things that Greg wasn't quite bright enough to guess at. Even with Remus, who had been there during those first few days out of St. Mungo's, it had been hard for Draco to put a name to what had happened to him, or the emotions that had struggled their way through his brain.

It had been getting harder and harder for Draco to pretend, even to himself, that he was fine. Since the start of term, he had been trying to bully himself into mental health, frustrated when he wasn't able to stop memories surfacing during class, wasn't able to shovel food in his mouth and ignore the noise in the Great Hall, wasn't able to ignore the push of students through the halls. Since arriving at Hogwarts, he had been unable to remember how he was expected to behave around his friends and he had taken to guessing, carefully watching those around him for cues.

Everyone else had taken gloves. Even Gregory's ham-like fists were covered with threadbare brown wool. The tips of one of his fingers, the nail bitten down to the quick, showed through the finger of the glove, a bright contrast to the black robes underneath it. And so Draco's panic had grown.

Sitting on the floor, the stone cold underneath his trousers without his winter robes to shield him, Draco had forgotten the actual reasons for the horror and shame that kept his limbs locked tight. The thought of his gloves had rolled through his head and vanished, leaving the vague sense of frustration that if he knew what he was upset about, he'd be able to solve it. Unable to remember, he was unable to explain, and so they sat in contemplative silence.

Greg picked at the loose threads of his gloves and watched Draco's head shift from side to side. He wondered if maybe it would help if he hugged Draco or something, or maybe if Vincent would know better. He was glad that it had been him rather than Theo -- who had been acting strangely towards Draco lately -- or Blaise who had found Draco. Gregory couldn't articulate his thoughts as clearly as his friends, but he knew one thing: it was up to him and Vincent to take care of Draco. More than that, it was what was right. They'd been Draco's friends longer than anyone, and he'd always relied on them to help carry out whatever weird plan came into his head. They had cackled underneath those huge cloaks he'd dug out, carrying him on their shoulders as they'd pretended to be Dementors; they'd listened to him scheme against Potter for hours.

It was only right that it should be them who took care of Draco now, when he needed real friends, not stupid Gryffindors like Potter, who hadn't even liked Draco last term.

"Want me to bring you some food, Draco?" Gregory asked. Draco shook his head. Gregory hesitated, and then asked, "Want me to stay with you for a while?"

Draco nodded, and Gregory nodded as well, even though Draco wasn't looking at him. Draco wanted him to stay, so he'd stay.

-

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As days wore on, it wasn't simply Draco's mind that was giving him trouble. Hogwarts hadn't heard much more than the scant details of the death of a Slytherin girl; they knew that Pansy Parkinson had been burned to death by You-Know-Who, and that he had put some sort of hex on Draco Malfoy that resulted in his new appearance, but the true story was slow to filter out of Slytherin. Rumors trickled down from Slytherin to Ravenclaw, from Ravenclaw to Hufflepuff and Gryffindor; chief among the concern of the student body was the remarkable number of absences from the fifth year Slytherin class, and the notable lack of detentions handed out on their behalf.

Harry, as oblivious as he normally was to the feelings of people around him, didn't see the angry pride on the faces of the Slytherins. He missed the mutinous glares they got in return. When he met with Draco in deserted classrooms in the dead of night, the other boy never mentioned that angry jeers were exchanged in the halls or that sometimes all he could smell or see was wet leaves in an ancient forest and the rot of blackened flesh.

And so to Harry, at least, what happened next was a surprise.

It started with a Hufflepuff by the name of Stebbins, who was in his sixth year. Disgruntled with a poor mark on his day's potion, he bumped hard into Draco Malfoy, who was on his way to Snape's class. Draco snarled and pushed back.

"Watch where you're going," he sneered.

"You watch out," Stebbins returned, shoving Draco back. "You get tired of skiving all the time? Snape finally -- "

That was as far as he got before Vincent Crabbe punched him in the mouth.

Stebbins' friends leapt to his aid as quickly as Vincent had done, and when Snape stormed out of his classroom to see what all of the noise was about, he was greeted by ragged chaos. Ties torn, robes dirtied, noses bloodied; Goyle didn't stop hitting the Hufflepuff he had in a headlock until Snape began to shout.

Draco and Stebbins, however, didn't even pause. They were on the ground, Draco pinned against the stone with his clawed hands scrabbling around Stebbins' neck. Stebbins' robes covered both of their bodies like the wings of a bird, Draco's furious kicking catching on the hem and jerking Stebbins' head back. It was a ludicrous fight made no less absurd by their red faces and the silent way that the other students avoided looking at them as Snape grabbed their hoods and pulled them bodily to their feet.

Snape eyed Stebbins -- normally an easygoing boy, quick to accept even Snape's harsh instruction -- and then Draco, whose eyes were fixed somewhere around Snape's collar.

"How did this happen?" Snape demanded.

Neither answered. Stebbins, who outweighed Draco by nearly two stone and had come off the clear victor, cleared his throat and stared at the floor. Draco brushed ineffectually at his bloody nose.

"It was me, sir," mumbled an unhappy voice at his shoulder.

Snape turned. "You?"

Goyle nodded, his dull eyes downcast. "I started it. I pushed Stebbins."

Stebbins and Draco stared at Goyle, aghast. "Indeed?" Snape said, icily. "And why was that?"

"Dunno," Goyle said. "Because Hufflepuffs are thick. I guess."

There was an ominous growl from the Hufflepuffs. Snape glanced to them and dismissed them with a sharp nod. Stebbins stayed where he was, fidgeting. Snape turned back to Goyle. "Am I to understand that you take responsibility for this ... altercation?"

Goyle nodded slowly, colour rising hot and fast in his cheeks. He ignored Draco's wide, questioning gaze. "Yessir."

"Well," Snape said. "Well. You will report to Filch for your detention at 8 o'clock. Be prompt or I'll add another night to it."

Goyle nodded again. "Can we start class now? Sir?"

Snape's glance from Goyle to Draco was measuring, but all he said was, "Certainly."

-

-

Snape froze as he stepped out of Albus' Floo, uncomfortably aware of two distinct eyebrows being raised in his direction. "Headmaster," he said. "I didn't know that you were occupied, excuse me -- "

"Don't be silly, Severus," Minerva said, putting down her teacup. "Sit down and have some tea."

Snape dusted ash from his robes, not looking at her. "Actually, I had only come to borrow --"

Albus had already drawn his wand. A chair and a cup and saucer appeared in short order, despite Snape's protests. He seated himself and declined sugar and lemon drops, but grudgingly accepted a scone.

"I'm glad that you stopped by, Severus," Albus said, once the social niceties had been seen to. "I've been meaning to discuss something with you."

Severus tensed, the teacup lifted part way to his mouth. He set it back down on the plate and stared at it, his brows knitted together. "I'm afraid that this year's crop of prospective O.W.L. scholars are more hopeless than I was expecting. They require much of my free time, so I'm afraid I cannot possibly supervise Sinistra's detentions this week."

Minerva's mouth tightened. "Really, Severus," she said. "You know perfectly well that Albus didn't mean detentions. The staff has been willing to look the other way for some time, but the situation is getting quite out of hand. Yesterday's ... brawl is hardly the only incident that we've had lately, although of course it was the worst yet."

"What would you have me do, Minerva?" Snape asked, his tone deceptively mild. "Gregory Goyle accepted responsibility for the matter and I have punished him accordingly."

"You know as well as I do that that boy has all the initiative of a flobberworm," Minerva said crossly. "He wouldn't have -- "

"Minerva," Albus said, soothingly. "The larger issue, of course, is the effect all of this is having on the students of other Houses. Few students have been privy to the full, shall we say, confidence of Mr. Malfoy, and I'm afraid that this has fostered a great deal of misunderstanding. You haven't touched your scone, Severus."

"I'm not planning on eating it," Snape said shortly, his mouth tight. He didn't say that he would rather adopt Harry bloody Potter than punish his Slytherins for their grief. "Are any of my students in danger of failing?"

"Draco Malfoy certainly is," Minerva said. "He's been missing from Transfiguration this term more often than he's attended. I dare say it's the same with his other classes."

"How odd," Snape pronounced. "His attendance is nearly perfect in Potions."

Minerva gave him an irritated look. "Haven't you kept your eye on that boy?" she demanded. "Surely he wants some sort of guidance."

"That's as it may be, but he doesn't it want it from me," Snape said tightly. "I'm rather under the impression that he blames me for Lupin's death."

Minerva's mouth turned downwards, sorrowfully. "Oh, Severus. Are you --"

Snape stood, suddenly, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked down at them and made an effort to unclench them. Albus lifted an eyebrow in his direction but said nothing. "I did not come here to discuss Lupin or my failings as Head of House. If there's nothing further, Albus, I need to borrow your Pensieve for a time."

"Sit down, Severus," Albus says quietly, his hands steepled beneath his chin. "Finish your tea. Please."

Snape sat, reluctantly, and took hold of his cup as though to keep his hands from reaching across and strangling Dumbledore. He gazed sourly into his tea, and then glanced up. "On the subject of Draco, Headmaster," Snape said, "I wish you would reconsider your decision not to allow Narcissa Malfoy to see her son."

Albus shook his head. "Mrs. Malfoy is still unaware of the circumstances surrounding her husband's disappearance. Would you want Draco to be forced to lie about what happened?"

Snape didn't answer for a long moment. "She has sent an owl to my private office every day for the last month," he said at last, his words measured carefully. "She began sending Draco letters on the first day of term; she sent his wand to him, which had been left at Malfoy Manor at the beginning of summer. She wants to see her son and I do not believe that she will be deterred from this. Why are we prolonging the situation? We cannot keep a mother from her child forever."

Minerva's face was turned downwards, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Dumbledore met Snape's eyes evenly. "I think it is best to let things work out on their own, for now," he said.

-

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No more had been said about the matter before Snape took his leave, the Pensieve shrunken to fit in one hand. He took the Floo back to his rooms and left the Pensieve on a table almost dismissively, moving about his rooms and tidying up this or that, straightening the covers on his bed. He ignored the Pensieve, still shrunken and sitting so innocently atop the wooden table, with a casual disdain that had been perfected over the course of years. His eyes flicked to the clock on his desk; it was in that uncomfortable gap between tea and supper, and he had no detentions to supervise that afternoon. He rarely entertained unexpected visitors.

He strode back to the table, enlarging the Pensieve with a flick of his wand. Retrieving the memories he had stolen the previous week and untangling them from his own was no easy task. They had twined themselves around his own thoughts, not as vibrant as they would be in a Pensieve but still visible behind his eyes. It took skill and patience to weed through and separate all traces of himself that had pried into Black's thoughts, searching for the werewolf's presence.

The memories were heavy and shimmered with a dark, sickly light as he lifted them from his temple with his wand and cast them into the swirling waters.

Faces swam up to him and away, the reaching of a hand caught for an instant and then gone again.

Sirius Black's memories, stolen in a heartbeat and locked away in the secret places of Snape's mind, waited to be seen. Snape leaned forward and closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes to find himself looking through the glass panes of the kitchen door, the sunny sky a smear of blue through the smudged surface. He passed through the door without hesitation, the wooden steps under his feet silent beneath his weight. There was a sharp smell of herbs in the air, of lavender and rosemary and sage, delicate plants that had been destroyed by the cold that now wrapped around the Farmhouse. The artificial sun swept all sound away, muting the shouts of Sirius Black and Harry Potter, who were whooping and running through the long grass across the pond, their black hair glinting in the sunlight.

Snape's eyes drew to the two figures that sat in perfect stillness upon the grass, closer to where he stood. It was odd, that Black's memory had taken him to the kitchen, rather than where the Gryffindor romped with Potter. The boundaries of a memory placed into a Pensieve didn't depend strictly on the actual recall; a memory would be limited to the person's general awareness of their surroundings, not only to what they had actually overheard. Black had been aware of the quiet on the other side of the pond and if Snape really wanted to understand why Black's awareness had extended as far as the kitchen, he might have chalked it up to being close to mealtime. As it was, understanding the way that Black's spotty memory worked was far from his mind.

Sitting on the grass in silence were Remus Lupin and Draco Malfoy. Books lay scattered on either side of them, carelessly. Draco was wearing nearly the same outfit he had had on the day that Snape had visited them, bringing the Wolfsbane potion for Lupin; clothing must have been limited for him. As Snape grew closer, he saw that Draco had fallen asleep on the grass, his body twisted so that his face was pillowed on the thin length of Lupin's shin, his knees drawn up to circle the older man. Something twisted brutally in Snape's chest, and he ignored it, circling around the pair.

His hands clenched at his sides, his eyes raking over Lupin's face. It had been nearly two months since he'd seen it last, pale and bruised, looking through the wreath of the Floo. In the summer sun, however, he was flushed and healthy, his eyes downcast towards the book he held open in one hand, the other hand resting lightly on Draco's hair. From time to time his eyes flickered up to track the movements of Black and Potter, across the lake, and a smile stretched across his lips.

Slowly, his black eyes fixed on Lupin's mouth, Snape lowered himself to the fragrant grass beneath his feet. His limbs cried out in protest, no less weary for being inside a dream. He settled himself carefully, fingers plucking at the folds of his robes until they lay straight and comfortable across his legs. And as he watched, Lupin's voice carried softly upon the breeze.

"When the voices of children are heard on the green," Lupin said, "And laughing is heard on the hill, my heart is at rest within my breast and everything else is still."

He chuckled, and the sound of it seemed to settle in Snape's stomach, warming him. "That's rather appropriate, don't you think?" He glanced down to Draco, whose mouth was parted slightly, pale lashes dusting his cheekbones. "Well, I thought so."

Snape's life seemed to be measured out in shadows and trials. For many years he had seen his days as an endless series of troubles; he waited them out, survived them, parceled out his time into brief periods, filing them away into dusty corridors that he rarely visited. He had never known anything like the sunny sky or the open field that he sat in, watching two figures swoop among the tall grass, laughing, Remus Lupin sitting quietly with a sleeping child upon his knee. Snape had never known a day that felt as though it could last forever.

Sooner or later, the memory he had stolen from Black would end. Black and Potter would come back from the other side of the pond, red-cheeked with wind and high spirits, and Draco would wake and perhaps take Lupin's hand or smile at him the way that he had as a child, the way he used to smile at Snape. Then, perhaps, they'd all head inside and do something sickening, like sit down for a meal as a family, laughing and joking. Then, later, Lupin and Black would send the boys to bed and turn to each other.

A warm breeze lifted Snape's hair from his face and sent fine white strands tumbling over Draco's. He watched Lupin brush them back, absentmindedly, his eyes barely moving from the book in his hand.

Snape watched, silent, until time slipped away beneath his feet.

-

-

She smelled of flowers. Not like pansies, of course, she had turned her nose up to her corsage those when they went to the Yule Ball together, pouting prettily until he transfigured them into orchids. She smelled of roses, of lavender. Her hair was in his mouth and his hands were on her naked back and he had been proud even then that they didn't shake. He had thought it would be quick, that maybe they would have the Cruciatus curse cast on them before a bolt of green light would bring an end to the agony. There had been a sick fear dawning in the pit of his belly but he hadn't said anything, and neither had she, not even when they were pulled apart and his robes ripped off when he wouldn't let go of her hand.

His mother had always smelled of roses, and it was her that he thought of. She had sprinkled rose water on the sheets of her bed, and when he was very small he used to clamber atop the covers to wake her up on early Sunday mornings. The smell of roses was tangled up in his memory with bright light and the softness of his mother's skin.

He had closed his eyes after Amycus, the wizard's wheezy giggle in his ears. After that had been the smell of grass, so rich and green against a copper smell that he shied away from. Nothing blocked out Pansy's gulping, shuddering cries and --

A warm mouth pressed itself wetly against his neck and Draco started, nearly leaping out the stained glass window in his panic. "Harry!" he stammered. Harry grinned at him foolishly. His hair was damp with rain, his scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.

"Hi," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing," Draco said warily. "Thinking."

Harry cocked an eyebrow at him, looking far too clever for his own good. "I think your friends are looking for you," he said. "I heard Crabbe asking that -- er, Nott, where you were."

Draco blinked at him and said nothing. Around the outline of Harry's form there seemed to be trees moving in a summer breeze, hooded figures swaying beneath them. He watched them uneasily. "Is it raining outside?" he asked abruptly.

Harry, who had become rather used to Draco's mood swings and unpredictable behaviour over the past few months, only settled down on the window ledge, his face turned towards Draco. "Yeah, I just came from Herbology. We had to run back from the greenhouses ... it's really coming down."

Draco glanced back towards the window. Rain. He could see it now, splattering occasionally against the panels of the glass. He put the fact of the rain between him and the forest and pulled himself back with an effort. He drew Harry close and buried his nose in the warm, wooly folds of Harry's scarf and stayed there quietly. Harry laughed a little when Draco's cold nose touched his ear, but wrapped his arms obligingly around the other boy, stroking his hair. It was long enough to have lost that newborn chick look, and lay down more or less against his head. It was pale, even paler than his hair had been when he cut it off, nearly colourless and thin, like a child's hair.

"Are you hungry?" Harry asked. Draco nodded, his eyes closed. "It's not dinnertime yet, but I bet we could go down and get something from the kitchens."

Harry's house-elf friend cowered from Draco, clearly remembering life in the Malfoy household. The other house-elves swarmed them, however, and in short order they were supplied with a nice picnic lunch to carry away with them. Harry led Draco up the stairs to Gryffindor tower and lifted the portrait of a smarmy old man with a monkey to reveal a surprisingly cozy little nook, with blankets spread across the stone floor and a round window that overlooked the forest.

Draco halted on the threshold, looking about the room. Harry waved his wand and two warm, flickering lights appeared above his head. "You know quite a few hidden passageways," Draco said, shutting the portrait behind him.

Harry blushed. "Yeah, it's er. This thing that Fred and George Weasley gave me. It's this map that shows where people are in the castle and, you know, passages and rooms and things."

Draco made a thoughtful noise and sat down among the blankets, passing a hand over their surface. "I'm starving," he lied. "What did they put in the basket for us?"

Harry flopped down beside him and opened the basket, pawing through its contents. His nose crinkled in a way that Draco found annoyingly irresistible, but he held himself still while Harry rummaged. "Sandwiches," he pronounced finally. "Two chicken sandwiches, two with fish paste. Half of a chocolate cake and some grapes and things." Draco reached for a chicken sandwich and Harry for a fish sandwich, and they sat leaning together and talking of small things. Dean Thomas was going out with Ginny Weasley, and Ron was in a snit over it. Daphne Greengrass had argued with Professor Umbridge so violently that she had been given detention every night for the next two weeks.

"What about?" Harry asked. He could vaguely place Daphne Greengrass in his mind as a short girl with curly hair and dark skin, whose expression was usually set in a sort of vague unfriendliness. He had identified her by sight the week earlier and Draco had pronounced it a vast improvement.

Draco stared at his sandwich. "You know that line that Umbridge has been feeding us all year? That we should put our trust in the Ministry to protect us from You-Know-Who and we shouldn't be learning practical Defense because it only encourages an interest in Dark Arts?"

"Yeah?"

Draco's voice was dull as he continued. "Daphne demanded to have a practical lesson because we can't even trust our own families to keep us safe, much less the Ministry."

"Wow," Harry said quietly. He chewed in thoughtful silence. "She was friends with Pansy, right?"

Draco nodded and reached for the grapes. He popped one in his mouth and offered one to Harry. Harry leaned forward and lipped it from Draco's fingers, grinning as though he'd done something quite clever. His lips were wet and soft and he kissed Draco's fingers lightly before settling back.

Draco watched him with hooded eyes, and held up another grape. This time Harry's tongue traced a slow path around the ball of his thumb, licking gently at the webbing of his palm and drew his finger deep into Harry's mouth. He laughed softly, startled by the sensation, and Harry glanced up. "Does it tickle?" he asked.

"A little. It's ok. It's -- good."

They tumbled down onto the blankets, the food shoved hastily to the side and forgotten. Their legs tangled together, Draco stretched fully over Harry, his hands cupped around Harry's. His hipbones were sharp against Draco's own. The light from the lamps flickered across their skin.

Draco shivered when Harry pushed his robes off and pulled his shirt up over his head. Harry rolled them together and, his knees on either side of Draco's waist, leaned back to take his own shirt off. Draco propped himself up on his elbows, following the movement, his eyes drifting back down to the dark hair just above the line of Harry's trousers.

Harry traced the scars on Draco's belly with a bold hand, following the line of one into the hollow of his belly and along the curve of one rib. His eyes followed his fingers with a strange intensity that was unsettlingly familiar until Draco's mind drifted towards steam and the smell of copper vanishing down the drain. The shower at the Farmhouse, the first time he had seen Harry naked, although his mind had been rather far away at the time. He shivered again and reached for Harry, trying to put the feeling of snow on his skin far from his mind.

He ran his hands up the curve of Harry's spine, bent almost gracefully over him, but Harry caught his wrists and pulled them over his head, pinning them to the ground with one hand while the other slipped under his waistband. Draco tugged on them, experimentally, and Harry tightened his grip at the same moment his other hand busied itself elsewhere.

A shudder ran through Draco, snapping his spine straight and stiff. Harry, mistaking the motion for arousal, bent his neck to bite the side of Draco's neck, high up beneath his ear in the place that always made Draco moan.

Instead, the noise that came from Draco's throat was a keening sort of sob, and he bucked hard against Harry, violently yanking his wrists out of Harry's grasp. Harry, who had already been off had already been off-balance while spanning the width of Draco's body, went sprawling. He crushed the leftover sandwiches -- thankfully they had been wrapped -- and the hamper skidded across the floor and bumped up against the far wall. For a moment, all he could do was gape at Draco, who had pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

"What the fuck!" he snapped. His face was red, extending in a blush down his chest.

"What?" Harry said, scrambling to his feet. "What did I do?"

Draco's eyes shied away from his face, and he pulled away when Harry approached, snatching his shirt off the floor and pulling it over his head. He fussed with the buttons, his chin nearly against his collarbone.

"If you didn't like it, you could have just said so," said Harry, angrily. He reached for Draco, who shrugged him off and bent to pick up his cloak. "What is wrong with you?"

"You were hurting me," Draco said petulantly, his pale eyes finally meeting Harry's. "My shoulders hurt. I had to carry something very heavy yesterday and they've been aching all day."

"Well, you --" Harry said, and then stopped. "Are you leaving?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Obviously," he drawled. "If I had known you were such a pervert I wouldn't have come here at all. Merlin only knows what you had planned for me next. Some of that M & S, like that magazine that Blaise had."

"I'm not a pervert!" Harry shouted. "All I was doing was holding your hands down -- and anyway you liked it too! Calling me a pervert, you and your blindfolds!" His cock was still achingly hard, undeterred by the humiliation he felt.

Draco sneered at him, bundling his robes up underneath his arm. Without them on, it was all too clear to Harry that despite his behaviour, the other boy was just as hard as he was. "Don't try to cast your depravity on me, Potter." Harry stopped, struck by the use of the name, and Draco swept out. The portrait slammed behind him.

Harry stood still for a long moment, his eyes fixed, unseeing, on the back of the portrait. The shout that escaped him at last was part fury, part embarrassment, and a bright burning need that lingered still in the pit of his belly. He threw his shirt on and shoved his fists through the sleeves of his robes and left the picnic hamper behind for the house-elves to find.

-

-

The halls were silent when he shut the portrait behind him and made his way to Gryffindor tower. The common room was empty; a quick glance at his watch confirmed that it was dinnertime. Harry took the winding stairs two at a time, grabbed his broom, and headed to the Quidditch pitch.

He almost went back when he saw the dim figure of another person above the pitch. He squinted up and saw copper hair glinting against the light of the fading sun, and smiled. He swung a leg over his broom and joined Ginny Weasley in the air.

The rain had tapered off while he had been with Draco, and angry clouds hung close to their heads, trying to choke out the last bit of sunlight that the day had to offer. Ginny flashed him a brilliant grin when she spotted him, and looped swiftly around him, glancing over her shoulder as if daring him to follow.

He gave chase and outpaced her easily. She spurred the school broom harder, her pale face creased in concentration. Harry laughed out loud, the knot of hurt in his chest easing a bit in the rush of wind on his face. They circled each other in the sky, as fiercely competitive as he had ever been with Draco.

And if he closed his eyes, it could have been Draco and there could have been the beat of an artificial sun on his back and the smell of lavender in the air, the lowing of the Dingwall Gins below ...

They landed on the Gryffindor stands when it began to rain again, hurrying beneath the striped canopy. Harry set his broom aside and sat down on a bench, wrapping his robes closely around his legs to keep them warm. Ginny sat down beside him. "Why aren't you in the Hall? Not hungry?" she inquired.

Harry shook his head. "No, I was ... upset about something. Needed to get out of the castle for a bit. What about you?"

Ginny rolled her eyes, pulling her hair back from her face with a careless gesture. "Oh, the same. Dean and I had a row earlier. Merlin, he's such a bore sometimes."

"Oh," Harry said. He hadn't spoken much to Dean since the morning Remus' belongings had been willed to them. Dean had hung the African mask on the wall above his bed, removing his treasured West Ham poster to do so. He hadn't snubbed Harry, so to speak, but any interaction between them was awkward and Harry had decided that things were best left alone. Seamus had assured him without being asked that Dean didn't hate him, and in a vague way Harry was reassured.

"He's just sopping wet," Ginny said, leaning close to Harry with a distasteful expression on her face. "He thinks that relationships are all about holding hands and things like that."

"Oh," Harry said, rather mystified. She was so close that he could smell her perfume.

She shrugged, her eyes bright with amusement. "He drew me this weird picture, you should see it. It's hilarious."

She drew a piece of parchment out of her robes and handed it to him. Harry took it reluctantly, as unwilling as any fifteen-year-old boy would be to see the emotional outpourings of another.

It was a drawing of Ginny herself, in profile, her hair falling forward over her neck as though Dean had drawn her bending over her homework. Her eyes were a brilliant color and there was a kiss of the sun on her skin. It was a fine portrait, although Harry wouldn't have been able to put it into words himself, of the way you looked at someone you were in love with. She was beautiful in it. Along the edges of her hair was a sprawling rose, and upon the rose were written words.

"The red rose whispers of passion, and the white rose breathes of love," Harry read aloud. "O the red rose ... is a falcon? And the white rose is a dove. But I send you a cream-white rosebud with a flush on its petal tips ..." He glanced towards Ginny, his eyebrows high. "Uh, wow."

"I know," she said. "It's ridiculous. He just doesn't understand me. He's just too sweet. I need somebody more natural, more aggressive."

Beneath her perfume, Harry could smell her skin, warm and clean. "I hate talking about feelings," he confessed. "I hate having to worry about what -- the other person is feeling. I hate having to guess what they're thinking and if I'm doing the right thing and having them do things that make no sense."

Ginny rested her chin on her open hand. Annoyingly, Harry was reminded of Draco once again, who always seemed to be unwilling to sit up straight in any class but Snape's. Anger swept over him again, and he tried to push it away. Ginny caught the frown on his face and leaned forward. "What is it?" she said.

"I just --" He stopped, shifting restlessly in his seat. Ginny's hip was pressed against his own, and suddenly he didn't feel the cold at all. "I'm just tired of everything."

"Me too," she said fiercely, and leaned over and kissed him. He gasped in surprise, and Ginny took the opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth, sliding it along his bottom lip. Oh, Merlin. His arousal, nearly forgotten, surged painfully into his stomach. She brought both hands up as she kissed him, capturing his face. Ginny's mouth was soft against his, so much softer than a boy's, and she whimpered when he threaded his hands through her long, soft hair. For the briefest of moments, a small voice in his head begged of him, "What about Draco?"

It was all too easy to push the thought aside. To hell with Draco, he thought as he slid his hands down her sides to her hips. When he put his hands on her hips she responded eagerly, parting briefly from him to straddle his waist.

Ginny's robes had hitched up over her legs when she climbed on top of him and Harry could feel her bare skin beneath and the itch of her socks below her pleated skirt. He ran his hands up her sides, marveling at how soft her body was, and she gave a triumphant little sigh. His thumbs reached the swell of her breasts and there he hesitated.

They were squishy.

Harry had never touched a breast before and had expected them to be ... different. Certainly not so soft and heavy in his hand. He glanced up into Ginny's face to see if she could possibly be enjoying the feel of his hands on them, but her smile was blissful before she bent to kiss him again.

"I never really gave up on you," she said breathily. "Not really. I always hoped ..."

She bit and sucked her way down his neck, missing the expression of shock on Harry's face. He tipped his head back to let her, but his eyes were wide as he stared up at the awning. He remembered Ron mentioning his kid sister had had a thing for him when she was little, and there had been that awful, shrill card in second year, but he hadn't given thought to it for some time. He moved his hands to her back, slipping up under the hem of her top to touch the soft skin at the base of her spine. She glanced up and flashed him a mischievous grin before sliding forward on his thighs and --

Harry gulped in a startled breath, unable to help himself. Ginny tossed her head back and ground against him again. It had been shock, however, and not pleasure that had made him gasp.

He tried to push Ginny back onto the bench, but she mistook his panic for ardor and simply kept at what she'd been doing. He only managed to unseat her when he stood up, plunking her down firmly onto the bench beneath his feet. She winced and scrambled to her feet, staring up at him in astonishment. "What's wrong?" she cried. "Didn't you like it?"

Harry shook his head, trying and failing to find a way to put You're missing something important into words. "No, I -- it's not that. It's nice. It -- it really is. But it wasn't -- I think I made a mistake," he babbled. "It just wasn't right. For me. But you're -- I'm sorry. Just sorry."

He plucked his broom off the bench and took off in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, without so much as a backwards glance.

-

-

Harry trudged up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, his broom heavy in his hand. He had landed near the greenhouses and paced around the farthest one for some time. His face was still flushed, his stomach still in knots no matter how hard he had thrown his fists into the side of the greenhouse or how many clumps of grass he had kicked up.

He had tried not to look at Ginny Weasley's face as he had fled from the Quidditch stands, but her wide eyes seemed to have been seared into his memory, the slow transformation in her face from arousal to pained embarrassment. He hadn't thought, only acted, dumping her off his lap as if she was a piece of meat.

Harry's first kiss had been with Draco, over the summer, in the bedroom they shared in Remus' Farmhouse. It had been strange and more than a little terrifying. Since the first day that they had met, Draco had always been able to bring Harry out of himself -- usually kicking and cursing -- to levels of passion and resolve that he'd never imagined within himself, and sex had been no different from dueling or discovering the identity of Slytherin's heir. Since that first exhilarating kiss, Harry had felt intoxicated.

It had never occurred to him, however, that he might not fancy girls.

He had considered Cho Chang to be quite fit, and he had acknowledged Padma and Parvati were both very pretty. He had never really thought about fancying one sex over the other; by nature, Harry was not a very introspective person, and having sex with Draco Malfoy had seemed oddly natural. He had accepted it, entranced by everything they did together and everything he felt. He liked sex, craved it, thought about it constantly as all fifteen-year-old boys do. But when Ginny had pressed herself against his groin, he had felt only dampness and warmth instead of the aching hardness that his brain had unquestioningly expected -- Merlin, he couldn't stand to think about it anymore.

He turned his eyes to his feet and watched the dirty laces of his trainers as they moved up step after step. He didn't see the slim figure leaning stiffly against the stone wall outside the Gryffindor dorms until he was nearly upon it.

He froze, one foot on the landing and one on the step below it, his mouth opening and closing convulsively. Draco's eyes widened and he pushed himself off of the wall and stood without speaking, facing Harry.

"You waiting for someone?" Harry said aggressively, after a pause. A guilty nausea rose in his stomach, and he struggled against it. He could still feel the softness of Ginny Weasley's breasts against his hands. He wiped his free hand on his robes self-consciously, as if he could get rid of the feeling the same way he'd clean an ink stain off of his fingers.

Draco's mouth twitched, and he tucked his bottom lip between his teeth. His jaw was set and he looked Harry square in the eye when he spoke, however. "I might be. You've been gone a while, at any rate. Where'd you skive off to? London? Fancy a short trip to India, did you?"

Harry lifted his broom. "I went flying out on the Quidditch pitch after you flounced off," he growled. "Though I don't see how it's any business of yours. What are you doing out here, anyway? Shouldn't you be in the dungeon with your little bodyguards? Can't really call them friends, I guess."

Draco's lip lifted in an imperious sneer. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you. It seems fairly obvious that you've made up your pathetic little mind, so I won't even bother. See you around, Potter."

Harry grabbed his arm as Draco brushed by him, halting the Slytherin in his tracks. "Draco -- look. I'm sorry. Alright? I'm just ... I'm sorry. I haven't made my mind up about anything. I'm just ..." He trailed off, and when he spoke again his voice was hardly above a whisper. "Why are you here?"

Draco drew his arm up protectively, but didn't try to pull it out of Harry's grasp. "I ..." He looked down at his feet. "I'm ..." He was silent for interminable moments, chewing on his lower lip before he abruptly squared his jaw and glanced back up into Harry's face. "I came to apologise. I've been waiting here for a while and I -- I've been a bit thick."

Harry blinked, taken aback. He stared into Draco's eyes, examining them closely. His grip on Draco's arm loosened, and the Slytherin moved it to rest on Harry's waist. Harry flinched and Draco pulled away immediately. Harry caught his hand again and twined their fingers together tightly. "Thanks," he said. "for admitting it. You're not the only one. I've, er, been a bit dense myself."

"You're always dense, you idiot," Draco said, his eyes lowered.

"Least I'm not a prat," Harry whispered. Draco swayed closer, as if he couldn't help himself, and he glanced up and away, a small smile tugging itself over his thin lips. His body was hard against Harry's own, sharp hips where Harry was used to sharp hips being, the absence of soft breasts against his chest a relief. His arms, folded around Harry's shoulders, stuck out sharply to either side, with no frightening curves to them.

"You're just jealous that I'm sexier than you," he said smugly into Harry's ear, his breath hot and his lips achingly close to Harry's earlobe. "I had been waiting for a while, you know. So inconsiderate of you to keep me waiting like that. I forgive you, though."

"Do you?" Harry managed. Draco's mouth closed over his earlobe, and a long groan dragged itself from his throat. All thoughts of Ginny Weasley vanished as Draco pressed closer against him.

"Of course," Draco whispered. "I always forgive you, don't I? So stupid of me. I just can't seem to give up on you, you idiot."

Harry stiffened, ever so slightly, and pushed it down reflexively, biting his lip to keep words from pouring out. The feeling of Ginny's body pressing against him rose nauseatingly in his memory even as Draco's nose nudged against his own, as Draco's mouth pressed hard against his. Panic rose thick in his throat, thoughts choking him: what if he can taste her on me?

"I can't even think," Draco breathed. "Everything is so confusing, Harry. I hate you but I love you and I think I love you because I hate you. Maybe it's the other way. But I do, you know. Love you, that is. Too much. So much that everything gets all jumbled in my head and I can't do anything." He grinned against Harry's lips. "You'll be the death of me, I know it."

Harry said nothing; could say nothing. His stomach churned and he felt as though he'd be sick, but Draco didn't seem to notice. A grin had spread over his face. "What? Stunned by my rapier wit and angelic beauty? I'd say shut up and kiss me, but you've got that half covered." He leaned just that fraction of an inch closer and pressed his lips to Harry's again.

And Harry let him, praying Draco wouldn't notice his hesitation. He didn't, and nor did he seem to notice how much Harry's hands were shaking as they came up to grasp his hips. Harry dug his fingers into Draco's skin, hoping that Draco wouldn't ask him to explain, wouldn't ask for reasons for his strange, frantic kisses. He didn't know if he could explain, really.

He was already too busy trying to figure out how to ask for forgiveness.