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This Intermission is odd; it contains two scenes of comfort and two vaguely icky ones. No, I lie. One is very icky.

Intermission: Vengeance and Trauma

Lucius stroked the top of the small cage sitting on the library desk as he read the message he'd received from the Ministry over again.

September 22nd, 1995

Dear Mr. Malfoy:

I of course understand your concern that new laws impacting on the activities of Dark wizards might be made without your input and consent. Since your family has traditionally been considered Dark, these laws must be expected to lay a greater burden on you than proclaimed Light families such as Gloryflower and Opalline. I am flattered that you have taken the trouble to contact me about it. It is true that I come from a Dark pureblooded family on my mother's side, and though I myself have not Declared, I have a sentimental regard for many of the old dances. If you would like to visit my office on the sixteenth of October, then I would be happy to explain the new laws to you, and why I believe the Dark families have nothing to worry about.

Yours sincerely,

Auror Edmund Wilmot.

Lucius curled his lip slightly. Wilmot was no pureblooded name that he was familiar with. More than likely, this Auror was a halfblood, his father perhaps even a Muggle. And he was probably lying about his mother coming from a Dark pureblooded family. Lucius didn't know any Dark pureblooded witch who would lower herself by marrying like that.

Then, of course, he had to remember that he was related by marriage to Andromeda Black Tonks, who had done that exact thing.

Lucius shook his head briskly and folded the letter. He had already written Wilmot back, accepting the invitation. He trusted Wilmot—who was Nott's contact on the cells, the one who would arrange to get Lucius to Lily and James Potter—to take care of things from there. If anyone questioned him about Lucius's presence, that would be Wilmot's fault, and not Lucius's.

Lucius stroked the top of the cage again, then crouched down to look in through the close-set bars. One of the insects inside jumped hungrily forward at him, only to crash against the bars and fall back. Lucius chuckled. He caught a glimpse of long black legs, seven of them, and fluttering wings, dark but deeply sheened with green, and barbed pincers. He tried to imagine the pain that would result when one of those insects dug into a healthy, living body.

He found that he could not imagine the pain.

That was all right. James Potter would imagine it soon enough.

Lucius rose and walked across the library to select a book from the shelf. He had the outline of the curse that he intended to use for Lily Potter all ready. However, the curse was eminently flexible, and Lucius could place other spells within it, all of which would affect her mind at intervals that he controlled. There might be an incantation perfect for expressing his displeasure that he hadn't yet found, or had forgotten, or had dismissed as not worthy of his notice and should reconsider.

He opened the book, flipped through a few pages, and began reading. Ten minutes later, he sat up, staring intently at the words.

Yes. Yes. That would be appropriate, and I do not believe that I left it this long.

Of course, Lucius mused, he might have encountered this spell before he hit on the idea of the flexible curse, and discounted it. Usually, Neco Identidem could not be cast in concert with other spells; it required time and mental space in which to work. With the curses all joined in a round, however, that problem was eliminated. Lucius sat back to read again about the effects of the curse, a warm glow growing in his stomach.

It will never be enough for what they have done, but it will be enough for my share of the vengeance.

The door of the library opened, and Narcissa entered. Lucius looked up at her and raised an eyebrow when he realized that she wore red robes, rather than her more usual black or dark green.

"A special occasion?" he asked.

"I do not wish the blood to show." Narcissa smoothed the red robes down once, then turned and showed him the side view. "What do you think? Do I look suitably terrifying? An angel of vengeance?"

"A very phoenix of vengeance, my dear," Lucius assured her, and had the satisfaction of hearing Narcissa laugh softly.

"Very good." Narcissa came forward and bent to kiss him, deliberately not touching any part of his body with her hands. Lucius took care of that, winding his right hand in her hair and pulling her head back. Narcissa watched him with a peaceful smile. She knew that she could die on her hunt, and Lucius knew it. When he bent and kissed her, he put all that bloody wisdom in his kiss. Narcissa had her eyes shut when he pulled back.

"I wish I could stay," she murmured. "But my sister will be so disappointed if I don't keep our lunch date."

Lucius breathed out over her lips and let her go. Narcissa moved to the door, and paused a moment to look at him. If she died, she would leave him a memory of herself in glory and strength, and that, Lucius thought as he stared into her eyes, blue shining against the pale skin of her face, was more than enough.

She departed, then, and Lucius turned back to the book. When he was sure he fully understood Neco Identidem, he rose and went to write a letter to an acquaintance whom he kept employed as a fact-hound. It was time to find out which Dark pureblood family on the Continent, or in Britain for that matter, had had a son who went to Durmstrang, was tall, and had cracked his collarbone at some point in his life.

The letter was soon written, and Lucius went back to his library shelves. His hand hovered over the books that he had used to choose spells for vengeance on the Potters, but moved on a few moments later. The whole point of his revenge on Harry's parents was that it should be inconspicuous, so that no one would ever learn how much they had suffered.

When punishing the family of the man who had tried to kill his wife, he need not use the same finesse.

And Lucius wanted blood.

Narcissa Apparated once she was outside the Malfoy Manor wards, and landed in a place familiar to her from scattered days of childhood and one long summer, when her parents had simultaneously decided that they wanted to take their daughters away from home but didn't want to risk Wayhouse's odd sense of humor. Narcissa felt her face relax into a smile. She hadn't grown up by the sea, but she loved it, and the scent of salt air and the roar of waves worked as a balm on her. She stood enjoying them for a moment before she walked towards the house.

Cobley-by-the-Sea was the largest of the Black family estates, except for Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The house rambled along high cliffs on the coast of Cornwall, with the sea leaping and roaring beneath. Magic gleamed on the windows and the doors, spreading out in subtle webs that made most Muggles think Cobley was just part of the cliff. Narcissa would have had a hard time seeing it if she wasn't a Black. Distrustful people, her ancestors, to be so wary of other wizards and witches.

Narcissa wasn't surprised that Bellatrix had been sighted here. Cobley was a dreaming house, old and rich in additions, and it had long been family rumor that there were entrances into it which the wards didn't comprehend. Bellatrix would look to find one of those entrances. She might be days at it, but the treasures inside Cobley—not weapons, but treasures—made the effort worthwhile.

Tertian Brown had been the one to write to her and inform Narcissa that he'd seen her sister nearby on one of his herb-gathering expeditions. Narcissa was still impressed that he'd had the courage to defy his formidable wife, Henrietta Bulstrode, and start a secret correspondence with her. And it must be secret, or Henrietta would have made sure to trade the information to Narcissa for a higher price.

Narcissa let the Atlantic spray soak her hair. For a moment, she stood on the edge of the cliff and relived a moment in her childhood when she might almost have believed that everything was all right, that death and madness didn't lie in the future. Andromeda had conjured a rope ladder for them to descend the cliffs and look for gulls' eggs. They'd climbed down, and seen a bright shape soaring overhead that Narcissa had always believed, privately, was a phoenix. Even Bella had gone silent with awe. The instant lingered in Narcissa's mind as a perfect mingling of sea and fire, wind and stone.

She heard the expected movement behind her a moment later. Narcissa smiled as she whirled around, her wand securely in her hand. She had known that standing on the edge of the cliff like that, clearly outlined against the horizon, would draw Bella. Her sister always struck at weakness.

Or perceived weakness, in this case, because Narcissa was ready with her conjured bonds, and Bellatrix went down a moment later, shrieking and spitting.

Narcissa walked towards her, biting her lip thoughtfully. She'd sworn to make Bella suffer, and so she would. However, Narcissa wanted to claim another permanent price from her, the way that last time she'd deprived Bella of her left hand. What should it be, though? It had to be something crippling, painful, and symbolic.

Oh, yes. I know.

Narcissa smiled, and crouched down beside her sister. Bella whipped her head around and tried to bite her. Narcissa didn't move, since the teeth snapped an inch short of her fingers. She'd judged the slack in the ropes very carefully.

"You don't have a greeting for your Cissy?" she asked, affecting hurt. "You don't think that I deserve a polite word and a kiss? We haven't seen each other in months, after all."

"Come near me," Bella said, voice as dark as her eyes, "and I will give you a kiss that will eat straight through your cheeks."

"Mother would have liked you to offer a real kiss," said Narcissa, as she drew a silver knife from her pocket. She'd found the knife in Grimmauld Place, and, after a few experiments, revealed the enchantment. The blade cut only human flesh when it was spoken to, and so was largely useless outside of torture, but since that was what Narcissa had planned for today, it would make a useful helper. She whispered a Levitation Charm, and the knife rose from her hand, vibrating slightly. "On the other hand, she's dead, and I suppose you don't have to worry any longer about disappointing her, Bella. But you do have to worry about disappointing me, and I am very much alive."

"Not for much longer," Bella spat. "My Lord will destroy you, Cissy. You should have bowed to him when you had the chance. He might have let you live after multiple Crucios. And now he won't! He won't, and it's all your fault! You've doomed yourself!" She gave a good imitation of her old cackle.

"How disappointing," Narcissa said, and began to walk in a circle around her sister, tracing her wand lazily above Bella's body. The knife followed her motions, and then sank, cutting through her sister's robes to expose her belly. "I did so want to be in the good graces of a raving madman with a face like a snake's and eyes like a rat's. Tell me, Bella, does he bed you? Is he good at eating you? I suppose that would be one advantage to his having no nose, at least."

Bella promptly began screaming incoherently and trying to bite her again. Narcissa had been waiting for that. She spoke a soft plea to the hovering knife.

It stabbed down, twisting through one fold of flesh and then out again. Bella's screams acquired a tinge of pain, but only a tinge. Narcissa knew she was too far gone in madness to react to the cutting as others would have.

That was all right. Narcissa could continue cutting her for a long time. She admired the sheen of blood on Bella's pale skin, and then whispered, "Up." The knife rose and spun, twisted and sank, sliced open Bella's belly and then cut up to her stomach. All the time, Bella screamed, and Narcissa knew she would have tried to grab her ankle and harm her, if her sister were in reach.

Narcissa never intended to be. The red robes were just a precaution. She kept moving, and the knife did the work for her, inflicting such wounds as Bella could never hope to survive if Narcissa weren't carrying potions to heal her and replenish her blood.

And finally, Narcissa did hear her sister scream as Harry must have screamed that night in the graveyard. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her mouth hang open in a devastating, silent cry. The knife kept her conscious.

Narcissa stepped cautiously close and poured the proper potions into her mouth. Bella choked and gagged and swallowed. Her wounds closed. Her body twitched as it made new blood to replace the lost liquid. Narcissa smiled and stepped back. She resumed her circle.

The knife resumed its work, slicing and severing and cutting. Narcissa had not yet decided whether she wanted to leave scars. She might, she thought. Harry had enough scars on the stump of his left hand and on his mind, soul, and emotions. A pity that Narcissa couldn't be sure she would scar her sister the same way by this treatment. Even when they were children, she had to make Bella physically suffer if she wanted to hurt her. She only reacted to taunts and insults by getting angry.

After three more healings, Narcissa thought a small dent was made in the threefold debt Bellatrix owed Harry, and called the knife back to her pocket with a small wave of her wand. She whispered a thanks. The knife stopped vibrating and again became an ordinary blade. Narcissa turned to face Bella.

Her sister took some moments to recover her breath and her lucidity—Narcissa would not say "sanity"—enough to notice her. Then she sneered. "What's the matter, Cissy? Don't you have the guts to kill me?"

"You have to stay alive and suffer," said Narcissa calmly. "That's the only way I'll keep the vow I swore. I do feel sorry for you, though, Bella. It must not be very fulfilling following a man whose plans crumple when he faces a fifteen-year-old boy. And he really isn't any good in bed, is he? Or you wouldn't be so frustrated."

As expected, that made Bella shriek and lunge against her bonds. This time, though, she wasn't crying out in pain. Narcissa hoped to get some information from her before she made Bella pay the permanent price she had in mind.

Bella said a great many things that were of no use or no moment, mostly praising Lord Voldemort. Then she said, "And it's not as though you'll stop him from using Woodhouse or his old home all he likes, you know! You won't! You can't! His plans are too grand!"

Narcissa smiled. She had no idea where Woodhouse or "his old home" were, but Lucius might. And, even better, Bella didn't seem to realize she'd given any important information away.

"Thank you, Bella," she said sweetly, and then lifted her wand. Curiosity filled her like the scent of mint. She'd always wanted to try this spell, since the Slytherin girls' rooms were full of the rumor of it during her Hogwarts years, but it wasn't the kind of thing one practiced casually. Someone always knew someone else who had done it, a cousin's sister's friend or the like. It would be interesting to have first-hand experience of it. "Abrumpo mamillas!"

Bella let out a long, knife-edged wail of agony. Narcissa was grateful that she had made the knife cut her robes loose, or she would not have had the pleasure of seeing what was happening now—Bella's breasts shriveling and turning soft and spongy, sagging on her chest into mushroom-like lumps. They broke off her chest a moment later, and rolled down her sides in clouds of dust. Bella went on screaming. Narcissa chuckled. That was worth waiting to see. Quick, of course, but it has such a permanent effect.

"Stay safe, Bella," she said. "And give my regards to your Lord. I suspect that even if you do like him bedding you, he might not like you so much anymore."

She waved cheerfully to her sister, and then walked away to Apparate back to the Manor. There was still the chance that Bellatrix could cause grief and pain, of course—though Narcissa hardly thought she would do so today—but there was always that chance with her bitch of a sister; there was that chance with any Death Eater. And Narcissa might die in their next encounter. There was always that risk, too.

But it was the price she paid for the vengeance she wanted, consuming Bella piece by piece, maiming her steadily, until she had paid threefold for what she had done to Harry. The old vows of revenge were solemn things, not to be entered into lightly, and Narcissa had known what she was doing when she accepted this one.

When she has paid threefold, then she may die. But that will not be for some time yet.

"Remus? Can I talk to you a minute?"

Remus lifted his head and turned to face Connor, blinking. He'd been awake, of course—no chance of sleeping, not when he'd heard about Harry's participation in the battle and slow recovery, and then had to talk softly to several Gryffindors frightened by the rumors of the war—but he was still surprised that his godson had come to talk to him this late at night.

He understood a moment later, when he saw Connor's face. Humiliation and anger and grief chased themselves across his expression, and his scent, thick with emotion, challenged the constant smell of the torches. Remus knew Connor could not have slept while feeling like that.

He opened his arms, and Connor bolted across the room with a little sob and caught him close. Remus stroked his hair, and moved gently towards the back of his office. Minerva had given him a comfortable room, with several padded chairs where Gryffindors could collapse and yell or sob out their grief and their complaints to their Head of House. It was furnished in red and gold, which colors seemed to calm most of his charges down.

Perhaps they would even have calmed Connor down, Remus thought sadly, if the boy had lifted his head from his godfather's chest to see them. He kept his face buried in cloth, though, clutching Remus's robes and crying. They sat down together. Remus kept up a constant soft murmur, mixing encouraging words with questions about what was wrong.

He thought he could guess, of course. Minerva had got the story from Severus, and told him. Both Harry and Connor had gone to the battle on the beach, from which You-Know-Who was controlling sirens who had swum up the rivers miles away, especially in London, and lured Muggles into the water. The Daily Prophet had a story about it already, temporarily displacing the stories of the abuse case from the front page. Connor had not been in London to see helpless men, women, and children fall prey to the sirens' compelling songs, but he had seen curses hurled at close range. He had seen death. He had seen his brother take a curse for him.

The wonder, Remus thought as his hands stroked down Connor's back, is that he lasted this long before breaking. It was almost ten at night.

Finally, the tears stopped, and Connor lifted his face, gone red and blotchy. Remus already had a cloth ready; he'd laid in quite a supply of them after his first day talking to first-years who missed their homes and their mums. Connor wiped at his eyes, blew his nose, and gave a crooked smile.

"I suppose that you think I'm silly, huh?" he croaked, as he moved away and collapsed into another chair.

"Not at all," said Remus quietly. His heart ached. Oh, of course Connor had known troubles before—even if they weren't as deep and long-lasting as Harry's problems, that didn't mean they weren't important—but never on this scale. The parents he had loved and the Headmaster he had once trusted and revered were in prison. He'd spent the summer apart from his brother, getting battle training from the elder Weasleys. He was struggling through his first bond with a girlfriend whom, Remus knew, he genuinely liked but who didn't like Harry much. Today he'd had the war press itself viciously on his awareness, and he'd seen just what Harry was prepared to do for him.

Connor was Connor, untrained to face trouble the way Harry did, by pushing it behind a silent mask and channeling his energy and his magic into helping others. It was not surprising that he needed comfort.

And thank Merlin, Remus found himself thinking, as he studied Connor and saw the lines of grief starting to carve the immaturity off him. Thank Merlin. I love Harry, but I would not wish his training on his brother. Harry lives scarred. He will always carry those scars. Connor might weep now and then, but the tear tracks won't burn themselves as deep.

"I just felt useless, you know?"

Remus fixed his attention on Connor again, and not on his past. "Why?" he asked softly.

"I—I thought I could do something if I went along." Connor wiped at his eyes again and then shrugged, crumpling the cloth in his fist. "Use my compulsion, use the spells that Bill and Mr. Weasley taught me, fight the Death Eaters, something. But I only managed to get off a few spells, and those were mostly hexes and jinxes that bounced off the Death Eaters' Shield Charms. And then I stepped up behind Harry and said his name like a fool, because I was worried about him, and Voldemort tried to fire a spell at me, and Harry got in the way." Connor stared at the cloth, now knotted around both his hands. "I want to hug Harry. And I want to slap him."

Remus laughed. "That's a common reaction around Harry, Connor. And I don't think you were a fool. You survived a battle against Death Eaters. It isn't many people my age, let alone yours, who can say that."

"But I got Harry hurt."

Remus sighed. What he might be about to say was harsh, perhaps, but it would free Connor of self-blame, and that was all to the good at this point. "No, Connor. Lily got Harry hurt. I do think that Harry did the best he could with limited time to spare, but she was the one who trained those sacrificial instincts into him. He thinks the best way he can protect you is by endangering his own safety, so that's what he does."

"I wish he wouldn't," said Connor, a harsh expression on his face "It's annoying."

"Yes, it is," said Remus.

"There are times I wish she wouldn't have existed," Connor went on, staring at his feet. "And there are times I'm jealous of Harry, you know? Because I know his life is hard, but he never falters for long. He just keeps going. He does what he has to do to survive, and he also helps other people. I could never do that, even though I'm supposed to." He made a frustrated noise. "And then I see times like today, and I'm so grateful I'm not him that I can't breathe." He stared up from under his fringe at Remus. "Does that make any sense? I'm not sure it makes any sense."

"It does," said Remus. "I don't think you need to be ashamed of either emotion, Connor. Harry is—someone I can admire, someone I love deeply, but not someone I would wish anyone else to grow up to be. He's paid too high a price for what he's achieved. I think he might experience joys the rest of us are never going to know, but he has pains the rest of us are never going to know, too. The way he got his training—" Remus shook his head. If he thought for too long about the abuse, even now, his anger rose, and the wolf with it. "I would rather you were you," he told Connor. "I would rather that Harry was more like you than the other way around."

Connor was quiet for a few moments, before he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I can see that." He scuffed with his foot at the floor for a second, then said, "I just wonder if I should be more like Harry sometimes. I'm supposed to be a hero, you know? And I don't feel like one."

Remus leaned forward and hugged him. Connor stiffened slightly in surprise, but Remus didn't let him go, though the movement had been impulsive.

"In just over two years," he said softly into Connor's ear, "you've survived possession by You-Know-Who, seen one of your adopted uncles die in front of you, had to revise or reverse truths you've known most of your life, and seen your parents accused of abuse and Harry emerge as someone completely different than who you thought he was. You've come out of that alive, with your sanity intact. I don't know a better beginning for a hero, Connor."

Connor's hands came up and clutched tightly at his shoulders. Remus thought he might cry again for a moment, but he didn't, just sat there holding him. When he drew back at last, his smile was shy, but there.

"Thanks, Remus," he said softly. "I'll remember that. And now I've got to go back to Parvati, or she'll wonder where I got to."

He stood and left. Remus watched him go, some of his own pain gradually melting into peace.

They've both had to suffer, and it isn't fair. But they're both still alive. They both have the chance to change, and to live.

"Draco?"

Draco blinked and lifted his head, groaning as a crick in his neck warned him not to turn too fast. He rubbed it gently as he looked up at Harry. He stared witlessly before realizing Harry was awake.

Draco felt his tongue freeze for a moment; there were so many things he wanted to say that he choked trying to say them all. As it turned out, that was probably a wise thing. Harry smiled slightly and reached out to clasp his hand.

"I was hoping you would be alone with me when I woke up," Harry said quietly. "There's something I want to tell you. And—" He hesitated, then shrugged and forced the words out as though through a barrier in his throat. "I don't want to say it to anyone else, yet."

Draco felt as though he had stepped into sunlight. There had been a time when he would have adored this sign that Harry valued him above other people. As it was, he knew Harry was capable of giving more, and he wanted that, but this was still pretty damn nice.

"Well?" he prompted, when Harry sat in silence and stared at the far wall of the hospital wing.

Harry spoke without looking at him. His hand, though, remained steady, rubbing small, comforting circles on Draco's knuckles. "Did your father explain to you what Voldemort's curse did?"

"Created a reality so pleasant that you wouldn't want to leave it," said Draco at once. "Yes." He swallowed. He could imagine dozens of realities, or hundreds, better than the one Harry lived with every day. He had been terrified that his father wouldn't be able to bring Harry out, though he hadn't dared show that.

"Did he say what mine was?" And now those green eyes were locked on him, and Draco didn't feel much more comfortable than he would have confronted with a Hungarian Horntail. He shook his head.

Harry closed his eyes. "Good. That's what I wanted to tell you. I thought about keeping it secret, but—well. You keep saying you love me. I think it's about time I trusted that, instead of automatically assuming you'll be disappointed in what I think or feel."

Draco didn't speak. To speak would have been to mess this up. He took Harry's hand in both of his, forcing it to stop its rubbing, and squeezed as hard as he could. Harry tilted his head towards him, and smiled slightly.

"I dreamed about a Hogwarts where I barely existed," Harry said softly. "The war was still happening, but other students went to Connor for reassurance. And he bore it well. He could comfort them without even thinking about it. They came to me when they needed more specific, concrete help, but he was their emotional guide and guardian. The only set of rules I had to remember was the pureblood rituals. When someone walked away after I finished helping him, I knew he wasn't going to demand that I help him in any other way.

"I was happy. Merlin, Draco, I was so happy. You have no idea. I defended and served and protected people, and they smiled at me—and then I slipped away, and they ignored me, or didn't remember that I'd ever been there. No one stared at me. That's what I want, that kind of reality. No Prophet articles, no expectations I can't fulfill, no one interested in seeing my soul, because why would they be interested? Just ordinariness for me. That's what I want," Harry repeated, his voice sinking at the end.

Draco wondered what the hell to say. He felt only revulsion at the thought, and wanted to ask questions. Hadn't he been in the dream-Hogwarts with Harry? Hadn't Harry thought that if someone else wanted to see his soul, they should be able to do that? Didn't Harry have any ambition at all, even for gratitude? How could he lack a thirst to be acknowledged?

Harry took a deep breath, and his next words came out in a rush, like the unfolding of wings. "That's what I want. But I know it's not what I have." He opened his eyes, and Draco wondered what to make of his smile, because it seemed so unnatural, given what he'd just been talking about. "And it's silly to give up everything I have, everything you've given me, for the sake of a fantasy that can't come to pass. I know what I am now—or, well, at least I know it better than I did. I chose to put my life in danger for Connor's, it wasn't a blind sacrifice, but a few minutes after I woke up in the dream, I knew how you'd view it. That's why I couldn't stay there. I've accepted this reality into my blood and bone. Merlin only knows why I've ended up in this position, but the least I can do is try to understand it, not run from it, and try not to let the staring and the seeing flay me from the inside."

He leaned forward, holding Draco's gaze. "And you've said that you love me without the need for me to give something in return. You've said that you won't stop loving me because I make a mistake, or because I show that I'm less than perfect. It's about time that I trusted you to mean that, isn't it? So I told you about the dream. I knew you might not like it, but I wanted you to know. And I love you. I wanted you to know that, too."

Harry's breath was coming a bit faster, and Draco realized he was terrified, though struggling with all his might not to show it. And why wouldn't he be? Pureblood rituals didn't apply here, and Harry, unlike most other children, hadn't been taught any other way of functioning. He had trusted Draco enough to leap off a cliff, but he couldn't be completely sure that there was a bottom to it.

Draco showed him there was by leaning forward and kissing him fiercely. Their kisses to this point had been gentle, chaste, often because Draco worried that he would frighten Harry away if he moved too quickly. Not now. They'd been comrades in battle, they'd both survived, and Harry had shown Draco a proof of love that wasn't a sacrifice. That called for a fierce celebration.

Harry started, but from the way he relaxed a moment later, Draco thought it was from surprise, not fear. Then he made a noise in the back of his throat that might have been a muffled ah!, as though he'd suddenly grasped the solution to a complicated Arithmancy problem, and leaned into the kiss, giving as good as he got. Draco found himself grinning. Harry would hardly be content to sit there like some sort of passive maiden from the old history songs.

Harry did draw back a few moments later, and then shook his head and settled himself. "Thank you," he said.

Draco finally found something to say that didn't sound stupid. "I wish you had more ambition, Harry, but that's not the same thing as hating you for dreaming that dream."

Harry snorted with laughter. "I know that now. Can you believe how long it took me to figure it out?"

Draco stamped out a flare of anger towards the people whose fault that had been. Instead, he murmured, as he watched Harry's eyelids droop again, "Madam Pomfrey said you should stay here a while, for the spell exhaustion if nothing else. Passing that much magic through your body wore you out. Go to sleep. Do you want me to wake you at any particular time?"

"If you're still here when Snape and Regulus both come in," murmured Harry, his words slurring. "I have some things to say to them."

Draco promptly made a resolve to stay awake for that, if he could. The ring of steel in Harry's voice promised an interesting confrontation.

He waited, listening to Harry's breathing until he was certainly asleep. Then Draco leaned back, closed his eyes, and, for the first time in seventeen hours, let himself really believe that Harry's newfound ability to plan was not just a fluke, but the sign of a deeper, more profound, beautiful, and welcomed change.