- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -

Authoress Ramble: Editing is such work! long sigh And even after it's all done, there are always errors I have missed. Oh well. The next chapters are more exciting as far as humor, but this one is important ... I like it, really. A lot of internalization. Do you think I should become the girl of my dreams? That's an informal poll question, I just put it up here so that most people would miss it. I'm depressed all the time, so I figure, a major, drastic, irrational change can't hurt a thing ...

Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of language and sexual content (none now). Also, it is slash, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

Disclaimer: Obviously Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: Today is Monday evening in the story.

Draco had never before been subjected to veritaserum. It was a surreal experience, one he might've compared to being extremely intoxicated and at the same time entirely unaware of that fact.

Within minutes, everything around him had began to mean less and less; he no longer sensed the chair beneath him, the cracking of the fire, the rigid position of his own body. Though he glanced at Harry from time to time, he could not register the emotions he saw flashing across his face. Anger seemed no different from serenity, shock no different from calm. In fact, it meant little that it was Harry at all, Harry who was questioning him. It meant nothing that he was being questioned, as he had already forgotten what he had revealed to him. His words were present in his mind – he knew, tangibly, what had been said – but they were indistinguishable from all other words and thoughts. He had lost his logic, his rational, his ability to tell a secret from a passing remark.

Harry was staring at him, and he was staring, rather dispassionately, back.

He could not have heard that right, the raven-haired boy thought suddenly, reclining back into the leather sofa forcefully. His muscles tensed as nervousness washed over him, his heart beginning to pump harder with a denied fear. He would clear it up now, before anything more was said.

he said loudly, as if the other boy was busy somehow. The blonde's head tilted slowly toward him, his face blank, unassuming. You mean that you're drawn to me, right? You loathed me, and because you loathe me, you seek me out and try to get a rise out of me. Your hate draws you to me, attracts you to me.

Harry finished sharply, having blurted out the sentence in a rush. Draco took a moment to respond, as if he were thinking, though in reality he certainly was not. He was merely recalling.

he said matter-of-factly. That is not what I meant. That's true, what you said, but it's also obvious. We both know that; so many people know that. What Pansy discovered was that I was attracted to you, not drawn.

Harry sucked in his breath, frustrated suddenly, confused.

Tell me what you mean, then, he said harshly, angered as though the blonde was playing a trick on him, purposefully using a word like that, like to trip him up, to get to him. Draco continued on, sounding oddly like Hermione reciting a textbook definition.

I am attracted to you, he said, his voice monotone. When I snuck into the shower and looked at you, I was mesmirized. I could not look away, because I found you alluring, sublime somehow. I wanted to reach out and touch you, but I restrained myself.

You're lying, Harry hissed as soon as he finished, his hands curling into fists. Perhaps it had not been veritaserum; maybe Snape had mislabled the bottle. Maybe he had brewed it incorrectly. Maybe Draco, with his roots deep in the dark arts, with his father, knew how to resist the potion. I know you're lying, you have been, all this fucking time! Didn't you drink it?

Draco blinked, his eyes glazed over. He seemed unalarmed by Harry's outbursts, his accusations.

he said immediately. I drank half of the bottle. I swallowed it. He waited a moment, as if remembering what else Harry had screamed. And no. I cannot lie.

Just drop it, Harry half-yelled, half-cried, his voice strained. Just drop the act. What kind of sick joke is this? This is a new low, Malfoy, saying that.

There is no act, came the monotone response. His anger only flared more, surging up, overtaking him.

Did you really think I would fall for something that .. that insane? he shouted, standing suddenly and stalking toward Draco's chair. I would never believe that, no one would! You aren't attracted to me!

I am, said Draco smoothly. He seemed almost confused at the fact that he was made to repeat it, seemed to be wondering if he was not saying it in the clearest way.

And so you just watched me shower, Harry snapped, livid. Then, for an instant, embarrassment occurred to him; someone had seen him naked, vulnerable. It quickly became fuel for his fire.

the other boy said firmly. I did. I could not look away. I wanted to touch-

Just shut up! Harry interuppted, blood rushing to his face. His fingernails dug deeply into his palms, but he could not feel it. Draco made no move to continue speaking. It isn't fucking funny! You just want me to think that so you can laugh later, so that you can mock me for being so daft as to think you might .. might .. well go to hell, Malfoy! I'm not falling for it!

I don't want to insult you, Draco said slowly, his silver eyes shifting toward him. I never even wanted you to know.

Harry met his eyes, brilliant green meshing furiously with the calm void of silver. He opened his mouth, ready to speak, to accuse, to rant and strangle the real truth from him, but before he could, his mouth snapped shut, and he recoiled slightly.

Draco continued to stare at him, his eyes boring into his own, and for a moment Harry felt, inexplicably, that perhaps he was wrong. For an instant, a shadow of the true Draco flashed in his eyes – he saw fury, humiliation, hate, loathing, pain. Without thinking about it, the thought that perhaps he was not acting, the thought that perhaps the veritaserum had indeed worked, occurred to him.

Calming slightly, he decided to test him. Even Malfoy could not hold up an act like this, not when it would mean divulging secrets, personal secrets.

Tell me, Malfoy, he began tensely, deeply suspicious and expecting already a hesitant response, Who was your first kiss?

came the dull response, so immediate that it stunned Harry. He frowned, pursing his lips and wondering how to continue. He wasn't sure he had picked the right question to ask; he wasn't sure if this was even something he wanted to know. And yet, after a long moment, he hesitantly went on.

You were dating her? he asked. He felt his chest stiffen; he had never really imagined the blonde dating anyone, and somehow, his mind stubbled over the idea, like trying to push away a bad memory.

Draco answered. No, not really. I kissed her in the library, behind a shelf. I thought it was time to do it, to get used to the idea of doing that with someone like her. I will need to marry to continue the bloodline.

Harry's frown deepened. He was not sure how he felt about this; it was a mix of sympathy and being stunned, and he wanted to label his reasoning as odd, as strange. What sort of person would give up their first kiss like that, when they felt nothing at all for the person?

What did she do? he asked suddenly, the questions flowing from him. He wanted to know if they did anything else in the library. Draco paused, recalling the event.

She laughed, he said at last, decidedly. She told me that I'd gone mad, but that she didn't mind. She thought it was funny, what I did. An ironic sort of funny.

Something in Harry melted then, turned morbidly to rot. Last year, when he had kissed Cho, she had opened her eyes and looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to say something profound, something life-changing. He hadn't.

Perhaps he and Malfoy, with their odd, unromantic kisses, had a fraction more in common than he had thought.

And compulsively, Harry did not want to stop asking.

Why did she think it was funny? he questioned. Draco jerked his shoulders, perhaps shrugging.

I don't know, he answered honestly. Pansy is funny like that. She doesn't get herself wrapped up in things, just watches the rest of the world play out, sometimes because of the way she's meddled in it. It amused her.

Harry frowned, thinking of the girl. She had always seemed a bit odd to him, odd to everyone, in fact. Hermione had mentioned noticing her staring at her once, in Potions, smirking at her when she'd announced a right answer. She had found it disturbing.

Are you still .. kissing her now? Harry asked, his stomach churning. He felt unsettled, unsteady somehow. The thought of it – of Draco, cold, mocking Draco, kissing such an odd girl – left him feeling uncomfortable. It occurred to him mildly that he didn't like the idea. It seemed unnatural.

Draco said, and Harry breathed an internal sigh of relief. It was a long time ago, in second year. He paused, as if deciding whether or not to add an afterthought. We were young.

As much as he was resisting admitting it, Harry was nearly convinced that Draco was indeed locked under the veritaserum's influence. His tone had remained monotone throughout everything he had asked, and while he sensed that the blonde was a great actor, he doubted he was this perfect. Wanting to distract himself from what he had previously confessed, Harry went on with the questioning.

Did you and Pansy ever .. ehrm, he began, blushing suddenly. It was a terrible thing to ask, really, so personal, and asking made Harry feel rather like he was spying on them instead, watching them do it as it happened. It twisted his insides, and his eyes drooped; he didn't want an affirmative answer. He wanted to know Draco as he had always known him, as the coldhearted boy who mocked him, who strived to beat him, to cheat him, to trick and torture him. He rather liked him that way, liked the tension betwened them, and he liked how that connection was inescapable. He didn't want to think of Draco as being human, as being sexual.

I mean, did you ever, you know. Do things with her, he blurted. He stopped himself there, hoping that Draco, with his blank, impassive eyes, would understand what he meant.

He seemed to comprehend.

he said easily. Just the kiss. She had laughed, after all, and I was embarrassed. I knew she might have, if I would have asked, but I didn't. I didn't want to do it.

Harry frowned. He understood, strangely, the thought of not wanting to, as he had felt that way a thousand times around Cho; but still, a sensible part of his mind reminded him of how this did not make sense. Draco was a teenage boy, and teenage boys loved to do things with teenaged girls.

Why not? Harry asked, mostly out of curiosity. He couldn't let himself relate to Draco; they had to have had different reasons for their disinterest in their respective mis-loves. Just because you were embarrassed?

came the answer. Draco blinked, frowning, as if suddenly realizing something.

Then why? Harry asked. Of course it was because he'd been humiliated. Draco had such pride; he had probably never gotten over it.

I don't much fancy women, he said, the answer flowing effortlessly from his lips.

Harry stiffened, shocked and certain he had again misheard something.

Despite his denial and mental restraint, the memory of Draco's words, his confession of what he'd been doing in the shower - something he'd previously considered a lie - rushed back to him. Though he remained disbelieving, it clicked in his mind. He put two and two together, ignoring the fact that the other boy in the shower was him just enough to withstand the realization, to make it all impersonal enough so as not feel involved, trapped within the impossible story.

It made perfect sense, but as always, it could not be true.

Then who do you fancy? he whispered. Say Pansy, he thought, say girls or anyone but Pansy, or anything, anything but what he suddenly feared the boy would say. Even would have suited him at this point, however shocking that would be.

I don't know, Draco spoke, blinking his eyes slowly, the movement necessary and yet somehow unnatural, like breathing as you laid dying. His lips remained parted after he spoke, his answer unfinished for a long moment. I don't know what can fit under the word. Please define it.

Harry shuddered at the polite word; the blonde never stooped so low as to utter a genuine please.

Define what? he asked, his voice quiet, low and husky. This all seemed, suddenly, incredibly wrong. Guilt was beginning to leak through the defensive barriers of his mind, barriers his anger had constructed in its denial, in its selfishness. He had too much power, too much control.

The word fancy, came the response. Again, Harry recoiled at the word; the idea of fancying anyone was a concept foreign to Draco's lips, to his voice.

It means, Harry began ackwardly - why was he going on? - It means that you have a certain person that you're attracted to, I mean, in a romantic way. You want to do things like .. like spend time with them, and kiss them, and make them happy. You want them to be happy, and you want to be the one responsible for that. You want to care for them, to cherish them.

Draco frowned, again blinking his silver eyes, blank and wide. He seemed to be shifting things through his mind, sifting through memories to try and find something that fit, that matched the offered definition. Harry was holding his breath; he could not say what he expected as a response.

I have never felt those things for any one person, he said at last, turning toward Harry slowly. Not at once. But seperately, I have felt many.

You need to feel them all at once, Harry said, all too quickly.

Then no, Draco answered dryly.

Harry paused, waiting. The question was answered, but its answer was vague, and it tempted him. He wanted to know more, know more of what Draco could and could not feel. Just how heartless, truly, was he?

Explain what you have felt, he found himself saying, the words spilling from his mouth uncontrollably, a terrible waterfall of curiosity, of need and doubt and a nervous kind of hope, as if he had just bet on something dire.

I am attracted to you, sexually, the blonde began, and Harry sucked his breath in, his heart suddenly pounding. He did not want to hear that now - he had not yet faced that fact, not yet registered its truth. I have wanted to spend time with you, but also with Pansy. She slinks around when everyone else stays the hell away from me, doing just what they think I want. She ignores my irrational desires, and I respect that somehow. As for kissing them, I had wanted to kiss you, and I did, and it was strong, what I felt, but it could not sate me.

Shut up, Harry whispered. He was lying, now, certainly lying now. He knew, because Draco had never before kissed him. That was a lie.

I do not want you to be happy, he continued, as if he had not heard. If you were truly happy, my insults could not touch you, and then our connection would be gone. You would not be nearly as interesting if you somehow became endlessly content. I do not want to cherish you; you have too much of that now, and you resent it. You resent the trade.

Shut the fuck up! Harry snapped, louder now. That isn't true!

I would care for you, he said at last, If it meant that you would want for me to be around, if you would appreciate it that way. I would like to be kept around for that, for attachment.

You are so incredibly fucked up, ferret! Harry shouted now, livid. Draco turned to him blankly, appearing mildly interested, waiting for the outburst to end and for the questions to begin again. You think this is all funny, don't you, that this is all some huge fucking joke! It isn't! Bleeding hell, why did I believe you? Why did I think we had a truce?

We did, Draco affirmed.

Harry hissed. You may as well drop the act, Malfoy, I know very well that you did not kiss me. You can't trick me with something so ridiculous as that! Do you think I would forget something like that? You're pathetic!

You did, the blonde began slowly. The potion made you weak, vulnerable; your senses could not handle the world around you. My touch pleasured you when it would have otherwise felt like little more than a light weight on your skin. I took advantage--

I don't believe you, Harry seethed. I don't believe any of this!

I know, Draco said steadily.

I hate you, you know, the raven-haired boy raged on. I loathe you, I hate what you've done and I hate what you continue to do, the way you manipulate everyone around you, the way you can't seem to care. You have no sympathy, no mercy, no fucking heart.

Draco stared at him blankly.

I have always hated you, Harry savagedly continued. I've hated you since the day you insulted Ron's family, and I hate you now. All this time, you haven't changed. You're still the same conniving, selfish, arrogant, bitchy git that's constantly jealous of me, of the praise I receive, of my being superior at Quidditch.

Draco blinkly, his lips parted, full and warm, his face pale.

You find this amusing, he snapped, drawing out the words, drenching them in venom. You think it's funny that I'm a virgin, that I'm inexperienced when you're such a goddamn whore. You probably planned this in an instant. Let's see if Harry Potter, the fucking moron, would ever believe that I was attracted to him. Let's see how foolish he is, how gulliable!

I have never had relations with--

SHUT UP! Harry screamed. I hate how you find all of this fucking amusing. My emotions are not your bloody toys! I'm sick of you! I hate you!

I realize that, Potter.

I hope you end up just like your father, he seethed, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His green eyes flashed darkly. Insane and rotting in Azkaban, his only joy in life the praise of a monster.

Harry watched as Draco stiffened in his chair, his fingernails curling deeply into the leather, leaving frayed grey scratch marks. He closed his eyes and held them that way for a moment, then opened them suddenly, his lips twisted down into a horrible scowl. He turned sharply to Harry.

he said slowly, deliberately. You're an ace in Potions now, aren't you? Answer this for me.

The sides of Harry's mouth twitched in surprise, and his lips turned down in a confused frown, realization flooding him. He cursed internally, but it was too late even for that.

he said at last, angrily but beneath that, weakly.

How long does veritaserum last? Draco asked carefully, his lips twisted into a sneer. Harry swallowed hard, blinking several times. He had not thought of this. He was not prepared for this.

You know what, Potter, he growled, his silver eyes glowing dangerously. I hate you too. I fucking hate you too, and I'm going to fucking kill you .. right .. fucking .. now ..

Harry hadn't even the time to step back in shock before Draco lunged at him, one pale hand curling into his hair and yanking it back sharply, the other latching onto his upper arm, sharp fingernails digging into the firm muscle. The raven-haired boy hissed with pain as he was thrown back onto the sofa, pinned down by the thin boy with surprising strength.

In an instant he felt Draco's fist slam into his cheek, brusing the tender flesh.

Who the FUCK do you think you are, POTTER?! he screamed, bearing his white teeth in sudden flashes, his silver eyes a dark, churning grey. VERITASERUM?! FUCKING VERITASERUM?! How fucking low are you?!

He wrapped his hands suddenly around the other boy's neck, digging his fingernails deeply into the flesh. Harry winced, struggling to breathe as he choked, unable to answer. He was not low, he was cunning; cunning like the blonde above him. Everything he had ever done to wrong him in the past now forgave his own actions; they were justified.

Still, even Malfoy had never been as invasive as this. He'd never forced about something so personal, so violating - but wait, what did it matter? Malfoy had won - he had resisted the veritaserum and lied, lied lied through his straight, pearly teeth. He should feel no .. guilt ..

Harry blinked, continuing to choke. Shadows began to cloud his vision.

How could you fucking do this? Draco screamed down at him. His voice rang hollowly in Harry's ears, and he struggled to listen, not so much to the words but to the sound. He wondered why needed to struggle. How could you fucking do this to me, after I ... fuck! Are you listening to me, Potter?!

Draco had noticed that Harry had closed his eyes, and he shook his hands roughly, jarring the raven-haired boy's head up and down. His eyes rolled open, green and clouded, unfocused. He blinked, opening his mouth slightly.

I didn't .. mean .. he began, but Draco immediately pushed one of his thumbs down hard into his adam's apple, silencing him.

he sneered above him. Now I want you to listen to me, Potter, and listen well. You forced me to tell you the truth, you .. you basically raped my entire .. fucking .. mind .. my mind and ..

His pale hands began to shake with anger, and Harry's eyes slid closed again; it made his head throb to keep them open for long, somehow. He sighed as he let his head roll to the side, his temple settling gently on Draco's trembling wrist.

He breathed in, feeling a drop of hot liquid hit his cheek as the world around him went black.

Draco was staring up at the stone ceiling, attempting to regain control of himself, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. He was willing the burning behind them away and chanting mentally that he needed to focus on his hate when the weight in his hands suddenly increased. He hesitantly looked down, and then immediately began to panic.

Harry had passed out.

What had he done? Draco hurridly pressed his fingers to the boy's lips, sighing with utter relief when he felt warm, steady breath blow onto them. It felt as though his lungs, filled with solid cement a moment ago, were suddenly filled with life again. He had only forced him to black out, not to ...

The blonde frowned, his stomach sinking. Guilt flooded him in an inescapable rush. He felt betrayal, betrayal as though all this time Harry had been his loyal friend, as though through all of this he had cared for him.

Draco gingerly withdrew his hands from Harry's neck, wincing at the forming dark purple patches that were appearing where his fingers had been. He wanted to wrap those same fingers around his own neck. He deserved to be strangled.

He wished, suddenly, that Harry had been the one to choke him. It always seemed that, in the end, he was alone in these situations. They always ended with him alone at the conclusion, heavy with regret and bitterness.

He was breathing normally. Draco kept his fingers near his lips, feeling the warm air flow out, waiting just in case.

It would be easy enough to wake him, Draco knew. He would only need to withdraw his wand and mutter a few words, but he somehow felt no desire to do so. He wanted Harry to rest, to sleep, peacefully. He wanted merely to look at him - he did not want to face the other boy now.

Perhaps, he never would again.

Draco shifted his hands, moving his fingers so that his thumb was near the boy's mouth instead. He stroked his cheek gently, absently. It was warm and soft, tender, and there were no piercing green eyes glaring into him. He thought distantly that this, this sudden moment of pentrating, almost painful serenity, would make a fitting end to the game. Neither would win, and they would go their seperate ways. They would not speak again, not after this night.

At least, he certainly would not.

Slowly, he drew his wand from his pocket, holding it out steadily just under Harry's chin. He began to mutter quietly, watching with relief as the purple drained away, leaving Harry's skin its natural color once again. He pocketed his wand when he was finished.

Why couldn't Potter have brought him poison instead? That, he mused, would have been so much simpler. He would have liked to have died, to have had his whole future erased in an instant. He would have liked to never have moved on to this moment, this moment when the weight of hopelessness was crushing his ribs, by now a familiar and aching sensation.

Damn Potter for not having it in him.

He shifted, rolling off the boy in once smooth movement. He crawled a few feet away, turning himself around so that Harry now lay before him, his head resting just inches away from his knees. He shifted his wrist away last, letting his tremple settle gently onto the floor.

Potter would probably never believe any of it. He was stubborn like that, too trusting in his own intuition, his own interpretations; he would not believe any of it. Draco would be hated and little more would come of it; he did not need to worry about the raven-haired boy before him spilling his secrets.

How proud his father might have been, seeing Potter lying before him at this moment in time. He would have thought him dead, and would have smiled at him. His cold, obident son had succeeded in his ulimate mission. Draco decided, then.

He would kill himself before Potter. He would point the wand at his own heart, and he would loudly say the words. Perhaps, someday, Harry would watch him do this, and then he would know that it had been true. Perhaps he would feel foolish, or guilty. Meek, trusting Potter, of course he would feel guilty.

He pursed his lips, letting his thoughts go for the moment as he edged forward, lifting Harry's head up gently with two hands and letting it settle in his lap. His neck was limp, and his head rolled to its side, his cheek pressing against Draco's thigh. Looking down on it made him nearly want to smile.

He found his fingers quickly buried in the unconscious boy's hair, stroking it mindlessly, combing through it in gentle, restless jerks. It was not as soft as he'd imagined it to be; it was slightly coarse and thick, but it flowed well together, redeeming itself. His own hair was softer; his own hair was like silk.

His fingers continued to stroke.

Hermione glanced worriedly at the clock, closing her book suddenly, unable to focus. The fire of the Gryffindor common room had long been reduced to glowing embers, the clock on the mantle reading well past eleven thirty. She had decided earlier that evening to give him until midnight before she would worry.

He had twelve minutes, and she doubted that he would be returning any time soon.

She hadn't wanted to step over the line and violate his privacy. Harry, she knew, was fully capable of taking care of himself as far as magic was concerned. Her main worries lay in the fact that she knew he had been tricked in the past. He was stubborn, and whatever he'd been caught up in, she knew that it was likely he wasn't looking at the situation in the most logical of ways.

And she knew he was caught up in something, that much was certain. At first, she and Ron had mused it was a girl - Cho even, perhaps - but that no longer made sense. It explained the nights he disappeared and came back only in the early hours of the morning, yes, but it didn't explain his mood surging out of control, his temper flaring uncontrollably.

It also didn't explain why he had been running into Malfoy so much lately, why he had been slightly obsessing with making the blonde's life miserable. Harry usually didn't take the initiative; he merely responded to what Malfoy himself cooked up.

Yes, she mused. Malfoy was a part of this somehow.

It had started a week or so ago, hadn't it? Strange things had started happening immediately after the spawning of the article infurring that Malfoy was homosexual. She remembered keenly how furious he'd been; she recalled his paper bursting into flames, food being suddenly transfigured to ash.

She remembered how little Harry had to say on the subject. Ron had seemed eager to mock Malfoy as gay - she rolled her eyes at this point, oh, Ronald - but Harry hadn't said a word. She had been relieved that he wasn't prejudiced, relieved that he was remaining their unbiased, accepting Harry.

But hadn't he also choked on his pumpkin juice?

And from that point on, he'd been acting strangely. For a few days, he'd been calmer than usual, content almost, serene, and then he'd suddenly become furious for reasons he had never quite disclosed.

She remembered when Harry had been with Cho, remembered how she'd sighed over how terribly they fit. Cho had been highly emotional, which was understandable after Cedric's death, but she had made the mistake of going to Harry, of expecting him to comfort her and soothe her pain when he himself was still riddled with deep guilt over the event. She had gone to Harry, Harry who had never been in the situation of loving someone all his life, less, of course, herself and Ron. And that, naturally, was not much preparation for an grieving, tortured lover.

She remembered thinking that he would be better suited to someone who was self-reliant, who could handle their own feelings well, someone who would share themself with Harry instead of throwing their pain into his hands.

Harry had come back one night and told them that she had kissed him. He'd described it as wet with a bored face, and she had felt unnerved then. Harry was, of course, no ordinary boy, but he was a boy none the less, endowed just the same with high levels of testosterone. And he had looked bored.

And now he was suddenly, mysteriously running around in the middle of the night, and during the day he was not acting like himself. He was moody, furious, distant, and somehow, she knew, Malfoy was mixed up in this.

Malfoy, with his grey cashmere sweaters and silky blonde hair, was a part of this. Cold, elegant, devious Malfoy, who had always had an odd sort of obsession with driving Harry (and by association, herself and Ronald) mad. Malfoy of the article, Malfoy whose perfume she had sniffed when he had molested her, was a part of this.

And Harry had looked so bored when he'd spoken of his first kiss. Harry and Cho, an extreme case of a typical emotional sponge, had not fit in the least. He had been bored with his first pre-sexual experience with a woman, bored and not eager in the least, not even nervous.

And somehow ... Malfoy, heartless, seductive, excessively well-groomed Malfoy was involved.

Hermione paled, setting her forgotten book to the side and standing suddenly. She wondered why she had never considered it before, never questioned just why he had seemed so bored and miserable with Cho - it made sense now, it very well did, and she resolved then that she would wait until he was ready to tell her himself. She would read books on how friends could show their support of this sort of thing, and she would perhaps find some that he might benefit from reading, she would ..

But Malfoy.

She swallowed hard. It seemed unlikely, and even though it seemed to be excessively coinsidental, it was possible that she was imagining it all. She hoped desperately that she was imagining it because, after all, being right would mean that Harry was in grave danger. If it was true, it was probably a trap - a trap that would be painful for Harry to escape from, if she knew him.

She frowned, mulling this all over in her head as her legs almost unconsciously carried her up the stairs to the boys' dormitories. She found their door easily in the darkness, opening it and entering quietly, walking calmly over to Harry's bed. She smiled at Ron's snoring for a half-second as she opened his trunk, rummaging through it as she searched for what she had in mind. Within a moment, she had found it and unfolded it expectly, withdrawing her wand and lighting its tip so that she might read.

I solemnly swear that I am up to no good, she whispered, tapping the blank parchment. Instantly, the weaving lines of the map appeared, and she began to search it diligently for Harry's name, browsing the library, astronomy tower and Quidditch pitch before hesitantly continuing to the lower dungeons.

What she found then made her gasp. Together in an obscure room doors down from Snape's office were the names Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, nestled together tightly in floating script.

She barely had time to erase and replace the map before disbelief and slight panic overcame her. She did not want it to be true, to even be possible, but it seemed that way as she rushed down the stairs, running back into the common room at top speed. They were together, late at night, in an obscure hidden room that no one would have ever thought to look.

They were lovers.

She threw herself back down onto the sofa, running her hands restlessly through her brown curls. It made sense, it made so much sense, but Malfoy? Harry was not stupid, Harry knew better; he knew what Malfoy was and what he was destined to become, and he knew what side he was on. How could he be so daft?

She shifted her head into her hands, sighing loudly.

Only one thing could make someone so patheticly mornic. Oh, yes, it was certain now.

They were lovers.

Draco was not sure how long he had been sitting there, his unfocused silver eyes staring down at the warm, heavy bundle that half-laid in his lap. He was watching blankly as his chest went up and down, and he felt relieved, enchanted.

He shifted his fingers, feeling the dark hair slide between them. Fatigue was gaining on him, and his eyes drooped slightly, heavy, but he could not allow himself to sleep, not even for a moment. Harry could awaken and find them this way, feeling his pale hand still tangled into his messy black locks. He could not have that.

Or Harry could unexpectantly die. The bruises could return.

Draco blinked slowly. He wanted to sleep now, he wanted to escape. He thought, with surprising calm, how much he wanted to die in that moment. Would Potter awaken to his cold body and stroke his own hair sorrowfully, as he was?

No, he would not. And he needed to sleep.

He knew that he could wake him up in an instant, that much was certain. He knew the spell. The problem was that he had no desire to speak with a livid Harry, not now; he was too tired, and he had said too much. He rather liked it this way, really, not the unconsciousness but the quiet, the peace he could pretend laid between them. It reminded him of sneaking into his dormitory, of staring at his bed and wondering.

He very, very much needed to sleep now.

Slowly, he shifted his leaden body back, setting Harry's head gently on the floor. He was still breathing, his chest heaving gently; Draco watched it for a moment before standing and withdrawing his wand.

He muttered the spell and in an instant Potter was levitating, hovering several feet above the ground. He visually checked that his head and limbs were supported before turning, making his way carefully toward one of the closed doors flanking the main room. He checked over his shoulder every few seconds, making sure that Harry was floating behind him successfully, and at last he reached the door, opening it widely as he stepped inside.

The room was dark and smelled of musk, of dust and years of neglect, of thick, unreleased air. He turned up his nose at the smell of it, lighting his wand so as to get a better look around. The bright ball of light cast eerie shadows around the room, revealing grimy windows and a large bed, its velvet curtains tattered and caked with dust.

Draco grimaced; it was even worse than he had thought. Still, he felt too drained to attempt any sort of cleaning spell, and the energy needed to keep Harry's body levitating was fading by the second. He frowned and walked quickly to the bed, throwing the curtains open in a cloud of dust.

He coughed, sneering as he flicked his wand, floating Harry over the bed and at last releasing the spell, letting him fall gently on top of it. Another small cloud of dust errupted, and Draco, incredibly drowsy now - the after-effects of veritaserum were hardly stimulating - swore under his breath and began pointing his wand haphazardly at the bed, muttering cleansing spells.

Thirty seconds later he gritted his teeth, annoyed. He had managed to clean large circular patches of the dirty sheets, leaving half of the bed still covered in a layer of dust. He had never been very skilled at those sort of mundane, housework spells. He grumbled to himself, pocketing his wand and walking around the bed, climbing onto it from the other side.

He crawled his way across the dark blankets, trying his best to ignore the dust gathering on the knees of his trousers. His head was pounding now; he was dead tired, and the entirity of it felt like his first hangover, that only paired with suicidal tendencies.

He reached Harry, staring down at him. He was still breathing evenly, appearing to be only in a deep sleep, his eyelashes fluttering slightly.

Perhaps, by some miracle, Potter would wake up so livid that he would reach over and strangle him, smother him with a dust-covered pillow as he slept, and he would not wake up to the rejection he knew awaited him. In fact, he would not wake up at all. This fantasy comforted him slightly, enough so that his thoughts moved on. If he was to die, surely he could take one last risk?

Draco smiled weakly down at him, letting his lips slip back down into neutrality almost instantly a moment later. He could die later on. For now, Potter had no idea what was happening, where he was, or what the silver-eyed boy above him was doing, thinking. He was lost in the land of dreams, and he was denied knowing of this moment. For the blonde, this made the moment safe, and he let it go on.

He laid himself down next to the boy, leaving less than a foot of space between them. While Potter was lying flat on his back, Draco positioned himself on his side, facing him, his legs curled inward. He watched from inches away as his chest rose and fell. He was alive, and he would, indefinately, go on.

Draco let his eyes slide closed, and the image disappeared. He wanted to fall asleep to that thought, to the thought of his living, to the thought that tomorrow morning he would still be furious, stubborn Harry - to the thought that it would go on. He wanted to know, as he slept, that he would live on.

He reached out, sliding his pale hand across his chest and settling it over his heart. There was a steady beat beneath his fingers, and he sighed, coughing quietly as he breathed in dust.

With no further thought, he had fallen asleep, his fingers twitching fearfully against cheap fabric and warm skin as he slept through the night.

Draco: Are you sure this is a good idea?

Harry: Of course it is. I mean, how else are you going to make some cents? Unless you want to ...

Draco: Point taken, Potter! Uhh .. oh yes, you morons. We have an excellent offer for you all!

Harry: Bloody brilliant offer ..

Draco: You can bid on things that I have touched! Provided you never tell me what you actually .. do with them .. sick perverts .. well, moving on. The first item up for auction is this green crayon I used! I start the bidding at .. FIVE GALLEONS!

Harry: It has to be in cents, remember?

Draco: Right ... how many cents is that, then?

Harry: Heh .. let's see .. three and a half.

Draco: Fine, THIRD AND A HALF CENTS! It goes to the highest bidder! Bid ridiculously!

Harry: Remember, he actually touched it!

Draco: Indeed .. now .. what else can we ..

Harry: This .. used tissue?

Draco: YES! MY USED TISSUE! ONLY .. wait .. THIRTY THREE AND A HALF CENTS!

Harry: That's convenient. This is pretty .. crusty .. you know .. pokes it with a pencil .. you must have sneezed pretty hard in it.

Draco
: Who said I sneezed, Potter?

Harry: ... stare

Draco: You're right, that definitely raises the price. THE TISSUE IS NOW ON SALE! IT IS NOW ONLY .. hmm .. SIXTY SEVEN CENTS!

Harry: Imagine the money we could make if you used a towel.

Draco: True .. ROSE! BRING ME A TOWEL!

Ms. Rose: ... why? You don't look wet to me. Awe, are you guys cleaning? Here, let me take that tissue --

Draco: NEVER! THAT TISSUE IS THE KEY TO OUR ESCAPE!

Ms. Rose: ... oo; Okay then. drops tissue

Harry: Maybe we should just bottle it.

Draco: I like the way you think, Potter. ROSE! A BOTTLE, PROMPTLY!

Ms. Rose: Sure .. that'll be ninety nine cents.

Draco: Fuck you.

Harry: Wait .. they could use it to impregnate themselves .. or make clones of you ..

Draco: Muggles can clone objects?!

Ms. Rose: What the hell are you two on about?!

Harry: Draco is selling his--

Draco: SHUT UP! Actually, perhaps I should reconsider this .. I don't want any fangirls having my heir ..

Harry: How disgusting.

Draco: Indeed. I can feel the bile rising in my throat all ready.

Ms. Rose: You're selling your .. you desperate git! Why don't you just sell one night of great sex with you?

Draco and Harry: What?!

Draco: FORGET IT!

Harry: I WOULD NEVER ALLOW IT!

Draco: .....

Harry: Hey ... I'm on your side for once.

Draco: Just shut up.