Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!

Chapter Three: Pools of Grief and Pools of Gold

Harry sighed. "Yes, I promise I'll close my eyes and try to enjoy this like a good little boy." He met Vera's gaze and held it until she gave him a slow nod. Her bare feet made soft slapping noises as she walked around the rim of the pool towards the door.

"You might want to think, Harry," she said calmly over her shoulder, "why it is this part of your training that you resist overcoming, more than almost anything else."

"I know," Harry muttered, as the door shut behind Vera. "I don't like it because it's silly, both to think about and because I have to put so much effort into overcoming the smallest parts of it. The more effort I have to exert, the more frustrated I get, and the more likely I am to give up."

But he'd said that to Vera already, and she had simply watched him with serene eyes and asked if he wanted to stop trying to overcome his training. Harry had told her no, and so they'd progressed through childish—in Harry's opinion—reports of what a pear tasted like, and whether Harry liked a cool breeze or a warm one on his face better, and what chocolate actually tasted like to him, when he was forced to slow down and think about it carefully. Accustoming himself to tastes and smells and mild sensations seemed like wastes of time to Harry even now, but he knew he had no rational reason for feeling that way, and presumably he would be able to demand a Chocolate Frog over porridge someday, and that would benefit—

Well. Someone. Maybe even him.

He eyed the pool reluctantly. It was a stone basin set in the floor of the room that Vera had said the Seers called the Relaxation Room for lack of a better name. It had a concentrated form of the air that was everywhere in the Sanctuary, wearing away at a person's emotional barriers like the sea carving rock, and would create what it thought was necessary to calm down that person, like a fine-tuned Room of Requirement. A pool full of hot water appeared every time Harry came in here. The room apparently thought he should get used to that—no, more than that, take pleasure in it—before it would give him anything else.

Harry was still having the most problems overcoming the training his mother had given him to avoid touch. He could tolerate a few minutes of hugging, or the light touches from Draco that he had grown accustomed to. He had done much more than that in the Walpurgis Night ritual, and he'd tried to present that to Vera as a sign that, really, he'd climbed over more of the obstacles in his path than she thought he had.

She'd asked him to spend ten minutes in the pool in the Relaxation Room without squirming and wanting to get out.

So far, Harry could manage only five without squirming, and only a half hour altogether before a combination of impatience and discomfort drove him out of the water. There were so many better things he could be doing, not least seeking out the kinds of rooms in the Sanctuary that centered on magic he wanted to know and studying that.

He was going to try for a full hour this time, though. So he promised himself as he unhooked his robes with the help of his hand and the semi-permanent Levitation Charm that always hovered around him. He'd make it a full hour, and talk to Vera about it without rolling his eyes. Then she would let him do things that were actually useful.

He shrugged out of his shirt and trousers, as well, trying to ignore the shrieking in the back of his head. He felt far too vulnerable this way, especially in a strange place; he'd almost grown used to it in the Slytherin bedrooms at Hogwarts. He wanted to ward the door, or, better yet, collect his discarded clothes, put them back on, and make a dignified exit.

Well, I can't, and I won't, he thought, as he finally lowered himself into the water. The pool was more than big enough to let him stretch out. Vera had warned him the first day about falling asleep in the water and drowning, but she hadn't repeated the warning since she saw how absolutely unlikely Harry was to relax in it.

Harry found a seat on a stone step not far below the surface and craned his neck in several directions. Yes, he could see anyone open the door and approach from here. Yes, he had enough of his body out of the water to be able to leap to the attack if he had to. Yes, the water was thick and murky enough, with the glazed sheen of a hot spring, that anyone who didn't count his clothes wouldn't be able to tell what Harry had on under it.

He attempted to lean back and close his eyes. It was impossible. His neck felt like a bone or a dry stick against the rock, and his eyes remained stubbornly open, staring at the ceiling.

The water felt like slime against his skin.

Harry closed his eyes with an effort. He forced himself to remember how Lily had trained him to this—creating a warm sensation and then a disgusting one right after it, or soaking him with cold water and then having him dry out slowly, rather than with a charm or by being wrapped up in warm blankets and bustled to bed. It was only a sequence of events, or a sequence of spells, in some cases. It had clawed its way into his head, but so? Other things had attempted to claw their way into his head, including Tom Riddle. He hadn't let them. There was no reason to associate the water swirling against him now with the idea of not being able to rescue Connor, or the invisible slug trails that had appeared on his body in the wake of feeling warm.

Connor wasn't even here, for Merlin's sake, and neither was his mother.

Insidious thoughts were, though. They twined around him and pointed out, as Vera had, that learning to tolerate this kind of sensation, even relax into it, meant coming to terms with being vulnerable and lowering his guard. But the thoughts went a step further. Could he afford to lower his guard? Harry really didn't think so. A moment of peace was one that Voldemort would choose for attack. A moment of relaxation could mean he lost the edge on his reflexes necessary to strike, or dodge, or jump out of the water and protect those he loved from someone.

It could be actively harmful to the war effort if he let himself heal from this part of his training. Other parts, yes, he couldn't see how it would harm his allies if he learned to enjoy the taste of a pear, but this one? Very dangerous.

Relieved with this new justification not to stay in the water any longer, Harry started to stand up. Then he saw the door of the Relaxation Room swing open, and he ducked back into the pool, his heart hammering and his magic abruptly stirring to life around him. Had an enemy actually come into the Sanctuary? One who wouldn't hesitate to hurt him? Or maybe it was an honest mistake. Harry had thought that Vera had told other guests and Seers when he was using this pool, so that they wouldn't put themselves out, but perhaps someone had missed the announcement.

"Harry."

Worse. It wasn't an accidental intruder, or an enemy who was taking advantage of his being vulnerable to hurt him.

It was Draco.

Harry slid further down in the water, even though disgust was making him shudder now, and it got worse as the liquid crept up his chest to the base of his throat. Draco strode to the edge of the pool and stood looking at him, head tilted and eyes bending at the corners with amusement, even though he didn't wear a smile.

"Draco." Harry hated how unsteady his voice sounded. "What's the matter? Has something happened to Snape?"

"Not at all," said Draco easily. "I just remembered that you told me about your healing the other day, with warm water, and I thought I'd come and see how you were getting on. Nina told me today that she thinks most of Voldemort's taint is gone from my mind. She'll still See me every day we're here, but the last bits are small now, scattered into the corners of my soul."

"That's wonderful," said Harry, and wished he could sound more enthusiastic. It was hard with Draco staring at him as though he were a Chocolate Frog. "But—Draco, I'm not comfortable with having you here." There. Best to be as blunt as possible. A lie would have made things worse. "I want you to leave."

"Why?" Draco asked. "Were you about to leave?"

"I promised myself to stay here at least an hour," said Harry. Damn. I don't think he'll listen to my reasoning about this as readily as Vera would have. "But then I thought that getting used to this probably isn't a good idea at any rate. Getting used to being vulnerable? Letting my guard down so far that I might fall asleep?" He shook his head, and pushed some water through his hair. The sensation of it there wasn't quite as distracting or disgusting as it was on his skin, since he was used to taking showers and getting rain in his hair during Quidditch games, but it gave him something else to focus on. "It's not something I can adjust to."

"Harry."

Harry blinked. He had expected Draco to sound disappointed. Instead, he simply sounded—soft, as if he were trying not to frighten off one of Hagrid's wilder pets. He rose and circled around Harry. Harry turned in the water immediately, needing to keep an eye on him. This was Draco, of course, whom he loved and trusted, but it was only his mind that said that. His instincts told him that he was in the water, almost naked, and his enemy was on shore, fully clothed and on the higher ground. If Harry couldn't see him… His shoulders hunched with tension.

"I do want you to relax," Draco whispered. "Not just on Walpurgis, or the other nights that we do the rituals. There's going to be plenty of our lives that we share outside the rituals, and where I'll want you to relax and sleep in my arms. You've managed it before. Why not now?"

"We've been more equal before," Harry said. His neck was beginning to ache with the odd angle he had to hold it at. "Both tired, for one thing. Both recovering from mental injuries. Both clothed." He let that slip out before he could stop himself, and then winced when he saw the expression on Draco's face. At least, though, if they were going to have an argument about this, it would distract Draco from thinking about the implications of Harry being unable to relax when they weren't absolutely equal.

No argument was forthcoming. Instead, Draco crouched down on the side of the pool. "Does this help?" he asked.

Some of the tension ebbed out of Harry's neck and shoulders. He was actually able to nod now. "Yes," he said. "It does." Of course, now that he wasn't thinking about Draco threatening him, he had to think about the pool. He shuddered. It felt as if a trail of ants were marching up and down his spine. He started to brace his hand beneath him on the step, to push himself out of the water.

"If I got into the pool with you?" Draco asked, distracting him.

"No." Harry heard the sharp edge of panic in his voice, and Draco apparently heard it, too. He nodded thoughtfully and made a little gesture with his hands. Harry stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Turn around, Harry," Draco murmured. "Let me massage your shoulders. Touch your hair. Perhaps the water alone can't relax you, but a combination of the water and my touch will."

Harry let out a sound that wanted to be a laugh. It didn't quite succeed. "Draco, I don't think I can stop thinking about the fact that I'm mostly naked, and you're not. It would be easier if you'd let me get dressed."

"And if this is another bit of your training that you need to overcome?" Draco cocked his head at him. "I won't do it if you don't want me to, of course, Harry, but I do think we'd have to face it eventually. If you can't trust me to be near you when you're not wearing robes, whom can you trust?"

Sometimes Harry hated not only being reasonable, but having to admit that people on the opposite side of an argument could be reasonable. He turned around slowly, trying to convince himself that the water was not ants and not slime, and really, he should be able to see damn well that it wasn't. He offered his shoulders to Draco, though they tensed when he heard Draco step in one of the small puddles Harry's turning had flung out of the pool.

"It's all right," Draco whispered in his ear, a moment before his hands touched Harry's shoulders.

It occurred to Harry that if he got his left hand back, he could do this kind of thing to Draco, too. He snorted in spite of himself, in spite of the fact that Draco's fingers rubbing over his bare skin only felt—rough, strange, not good. There's a new motive for wanting my hand back. Revenge on Draco.

"You're at an awkward angle," Draco complained. "Could you move?"

Harry turned and glared at him, though that was hard; he mostly caught a glimpse of blond hair and bowed head. "You could move," he said.

Draco glanced up at him and waited.

Harry realized, then, that shifting position would bring him higher on the step and show off more of his bare skin to Draco. At least, it would if he moved to the right. He could always shift to the left and pretend that he thought that was the direction Draco meant. He sucked in his breath through his nose.

I could. But that just continues the pattern of playing into my training, and I am tired of feeling ants crawling on my skin when I try to take a bath. Perhaps I shouldn't think just in terms of what's useful to the war. Perhaps just wanting something to stop feeling uncomfortable is reason enough.

Reluctantly, he shifted to the right. He heard Draco give a little gasping noise, and wondered why. Perhaps it was just surprise that Harry had done what he asked for. The next moment, his hands dug in more firmly.

Harry tried to concentrate on them and find them pleasurable. Fear of impending discomfort kept his muscles poised on the edge of flight, though, until Draco said, "Wait. This might help." His right hand lifted from Harry's shoulder, and Harry heard him take out his wand. He murmured an incantation. When his hand returned to its place on Harry's shoulder, it was covered with a soft, warm liquid that smelled like baking bread.

Harry started when Draco began rubbing that into the back of his neck. His muscles loosened under the liquid as they hadn't under the touch of the water—perhaps the greater thickness of it was enough unlike water to fool his training—and the smell of the bread twined all around him. Harry thought he knew why Draco had chosen it; Draco had been with him in the Sanctuary's kitchens the day Harry admitted to enjoying the scent, especially when he didn't think about it as connected to food.

He unwound his muscles, one by one, using the smell as a focal point all the while. He wasn't anywhere dangerous, he tried to persuade himself. He wasn't with anyone who would hurt him. He was in a pleasant place, where house elves or cooks bustled just out of side, preparing bread. In a short time, there would be a tray of food to share, and perhaps a philosophical conversation.

Slowly, slowly, it seemed to work. Harry felt himself sliding a little lower into the pool. It could have been natural gravity. He didn't think it was. And the slime lapping against his sides became—well, water, not the leavings of slugs. He let his head roll back, though he kept his eyes closed. He didn't think he could bear to see Draco's expression right now.

His mind remained oddly focused in the center, a bright point of concentration gathered around the image of himself eating bread and debating an obscure point of the Grand Unified Theory with someone whose face kept changing, but fog crept in from the sides. At one point, Harry would have said the fog was dangerous, and fought to keep his head clear. Now, with the smell and the fact that he knew Draco was the only one in the Relaxation Room, thanks to his magic, he didn't have to.

Besides, he'd felt something like this once before. It was the night Marietta Edgecombe had cast the Blood Whip Curse on him, and he'd had to put up with Draco coaxing him to tell him who it had been. Harry had nearly succumbed to the haze of what he knew now must have been partially trust and partially arousal. And he hadn't particularly wanted to, knowing Draco would hurt Marietta if he learned her name.

Now, he had no reason to resist it.

His head fell to the side, and this time it was because he really couldn't support it. He had a brief, hazy impression that he should try to keep it out of the pool so he didn't drown, and then he felt cool stone under his cheek. He lay with his head on the side of the pool, then. And the baking bread smell and the warm water and the touches of Draco's hands still ghosted around him, keeping him balanced, fixed on the idea of physical sensations instead of retreating into fear.

He knew he should be afraid, or at least uncomfortable. He kept reaching out to the notion and finding that it fit his mental hand. But whenever he tried to draw the emotion into himself, it faded, into a litany of soft words, a gauntlet of soothing hands.

He felt good. He knew that. But the pleasure had crept up on him just like everything else, slowly, without the sense that he needed to rush into it. Why rush? He had time. No battle tomorrow, no need to speak with others about defense and healing. He could think about the breath traveling in and out of his lungs, if he wanted, and so he did for a few minutes, and noticed that his breaths were deepening, slowing, softening.

It felt so good. It felt—

Did it feel too good?

One of the stroking hands touched the side of his neck, at a place that Harry vaguely knew existed, but couldn't find for himself, and the pleasure briefly sharpened into a spike that made him moan. But the hand retreated again, and when the other ventured around to press in the same place, Harry had no trouble accepting that touch as part of the same hazy, foggy world.

He had no idea how long he drifted like that, the pleasure on the edge of overwhelming him and making him panic, but shifting each time. He had so many things to take into account: the smell, the contrasting sensations of cold stone and warm water, the hands, the words in his ears that sometimes seemed like his name and at other times like endearments, the sight of white and blurred vision when he opened his eyes. Someone had removed his glasses. Harry found that he didn't mind that. He'd let himself retreat into a place where it was all right, and he did trust Draco. As he had said, if Harry wouldn't trust him, who was there?

One thing was missing, though. Delicious smells, soothing touch, dear sound, and acceptable sight, but taste was missing. Harry waited, tracking Draco's progress more with his limp muscles than his eyes, until he was sure that Draco's face was hovering right above his.

Then he opened his mouth.

After a moment's hesitation, Draco obliged him with a kiss.

Harry thought it should not have felt as shattering as it did. After all, he'd been relaxed. And he had heard stories of shattering kisses and heart-breaking declarations of true love, but they belonged in stories, not real life.

This one—this one was break-worthy. It didn't snap the world he'd wrapped himself in, warm and languorous and oh so good, but it did strike down through his mouth as though it were a bolt of lightning striking a tree. Harry felt something in him, one of the barriers of his training most probably, sparkle and simmer and begin to burn, fading to ash in a few moments.

He had thought that things that felt good were wrong, but nothing that felt this good could ever be wrong.

He continued the kiss for a few moments more, then let his head loll back and sighed. A moment later, he was asleep, the blurry white haze in his head moving naturally into elegant darkness.


Draco knew that the spells on the Relaxation Room might have helped Harry into this state of helplessness, just a bit. On the other hand, Harry had told him yesterday that his magic largely erased the effects of those spells. The air of the Sanctuary as a whole was subtle, gentle, and unnoticeable enough to lower his barriers, but it was so concentrated in the Relaxation Room that Harry brought his own magic up as a defense automatically.

He had been tense enough when Draco began to touch him that Draco had feared he would have to stop at any moment. And now Harry was asleep, a faint smile on his face, and Draco only had the urge to keep on touching, to not stop.

He reminded himself sternly that it would be much more fun when Harry was awake to share in the touching that didn't stop, and gently pulled Harry out of the pool, casting a lightening charm on him when his body dragged with unexpected weight. Then he stood up, letting himself notice those details Harry ordinarily frowned at him for noticing: the soft way he drew in his breaths, the way his hand sagged to the side as if he didn't need it ready to cast a spell or hit anyone, the quiet darkness of the lightning bolt scar beneath his fringe. Draco hadn't seen that scar a bright red since the day of Voldemort's defeat, very nearly a month ago now. He took that to mean Harry really was healing, the Sanctuary's distance from the rest of the world cutting off the Dark Lord's attempts to reach him.

If he can reach him, at all. If he's trying. I wouldn't want to try and reach the wizard who cut a hole in my magical core.

Draco made his way gently towards Harry's room. And he let himself remember that, too. The wizard in his arms right now was also the one who had willed a werewolf out of existence because that werewolf was attacking Draco, and had cut a hole in the core of the most powerful Dark Lord to exist in centuries.

Draco didn't know if that was a contradiction, or if he was just lucky that Harry could embody both those extremes and not explode.

He tucked Harry into bed just as he was; he thought Harry deserved to have the sensation of cloth on bare skin, for once. Then he wrote a swift note to leave on the bedside table, detailing some things he'd planned to tell Harry about the next courting ritual but hadn't had time to give him before he fell asleep, and went to fetch Harry's robes, shirt, and trousers.

He felt a deep, quiet satisfaction that seemed to leak into all his limbs, and his head was up, and the morning air smelled fresh and sweet in a way that had nothing to do with the Sanctuary's last three days of heavy rain. Draco wondered if this was what it was like to be in love, and used to it.


Harry tapped his fingers against the sleeve of his robe, and wondered if Draco would come. Then he told himself not to be an idiot. Draco wouldn't have let two broken legs and a broken arm keep him from attending the next ritual in their three-year courtship.

Harry hated to admit, as he paced back and forth in front of the room's golden doors, that he needed this ritual just as much as Draco did. It would make a nice holiday from endless rounds of reasoning with Snape that just pushed him right back into the same corner. Harry was fairly sure the dreams were becoming worse, and that Snape hadn't spoken to anyone about them. That just made him more irritated and defensive, though, and the more he lost control of his emotions, the more determined he became to keep them under lock and key, and the more he lost the ability to do so. It had exploded today with Snape trying to tell Harry that he never wanted to see him again.

Harry had had his own magic repeat the words back to Snape when he was done yelling, and Snape's face had turned the color of old cheese. Harry had told him, quietly, that he knew Snape didn't mean it, and then turned around and left.

It was his and Connor's sixteenth birthday, the thirty-first of July, and, perhaps not coincidentally—Harry thought Draco's selection of this particular form of courtship depended greatly on the dates—the day before the old holiday of Lammas, a quarter of the way around the year from Walpurgis. Harry had noticed a peculiar shine to the sunlight today. Given what Draco had told him about this particular ritual, that didn't surprise him.

And he had chosen a room in the Sanctuary to celebrate in, since the choice of place was up to him, which reflected the importance of sunlight.

"There you are."

Harry turned with a faint smile. Draco was hurrying down the stairs from the terrace above, fussing and adjusting the collar of his robe. He wore dark blue, the color of starry night, outlined with silver, the color of the moon. Harry wore dark robes as well, but the hem trailed and flashed with gold.

Draco paused and studied him. He nodded. "Good," he said. Then his voice adopted a formal cadence. "We bring the light of stars and moon into our celebration with us, but on this day, perfectly poised between Midsummer and Mabon, both bow before the sun."

Harry saw a faint tracery of fire spring to life in the air next to them, like a lighted candle. In a moment, it raced around them both, enclosing them in a golden circle, away from the rest of the world. He inclined his head to Draco, and stretched out his hand.

"We can celebrate in the light of the sun," he said. "But we can also celebrate by taking the sun into our hearts. Will you come with me, Draco, and bring the sun inside four walls, where it belongs?"

Draco's smile was unexpectedly tremulous. He clasped Harry's hand, and said, "I will."

Harry turned, and raised an eyebrow. The golden doors of the room he'd chosen swung open before them, and he guided Draco inside.


Draco hadn't been in this room since Harry had chosen it. That was part of the agreement, in fact; this part of the ritual was under Harry's guidance and control, both because the courted partner had to control it, and because it was his birthday.

He didn't know what he had expected. A room full of mirrors, perhaps, the ones that Harry had told him had helped him find a way to heal his hand. That would be worth their ritual, Draco thought. They would see their true selves reflected amid a myriad of other selves. He was curious to see what kind of worlds his presence standing beside Harry guaranteed or made possible.

Instead, they stepped into a room that at first seemed long, low, and dark. Then Draco realized it probably only felt that way because of the light that shone in the center of it. So intense was its radiance that everything outside it seemed cramped in comparison.

"Come, Draco," Harry whispered, words which weren't part of the ritual but which didn't disrupt it either, and drew him forward.

"What—" Draco broke off as the source of the light came closer. A pool of golden liquid lay in the floor. Draco didn't know why it should have impressed him so much. After all, he'd seen something quite similar, and larger, at Silver-Mirror, the Black family home Harry had inherited when Regulus Black went into the family's portraits. And that pool had bled golden liquid down chains to light lamps, no less.

This pool, though, was wilder. Draco could see that from the curving arcs that leaped from it and fell back down as soft, hot rain. Or perhaps not so soft; the pool's surface parted under their impact, and the drops themselves appeared to sink into deep wells. And dark spots flickered and danced on that surface, too, randomly appearing and disappearing, and Draco could feel the warmth increasing as he approached, so that sweat ran under his formal, heavy wool robes and made him shift uncomfortably.

"What is it?" he whispered to Harry.

Harry gave him a keen glance. "The ritual said you were supposed to trust me."

Draco shut his mouth, and let Harry leave him on the near side of the pool as he paced around to the other. He eventually halted opposite Draco. At that moment, the pool became aware of them.

Draco gasped. He had felt something like this only once before, with the "courting room" at Hogwarts that would show a couple their happiest possible future. There, though, the room's magic had simply reached out to their minds, drawn forth a possibility, and reflected it.

This was—drawing in. Draco could feel the pool gazing at him, harsh, bright light that irradiated his soul. At the same time, he gazed back into the pool, and found himself falling down enormous wells of unending gold.

"This is a sun-pool," Harry said, somewhere behind the light. "It embodies a practice of fortune-telling that still exists somewhere in the world; Vera told me the Seers think it's among wizards in Canada. The Seers are blind to everything except the sun, but they can see the future accurately reflected there, in images instead of prophecies. More accurate than what Trelawney does. And it reflects the actual surface of the sun as it exists, sunspots and explosions and all. I thought, when you told me that we needed to come to a place that would let us see the Light and Dark within ourselves, that it was perfect."

Draco let out a harsh breath. He still saw nothing except light, so brilliant that he feared what would happen to his eyes when he looked away from the pool. "And does it make us blind to everything except the sunlight?"

"No." Harry's voice was gentle, amused. "Look at me, Draco."

Draco raised his head, blinking hard, and found that he could see perfectly after all, without afterimages. Harry held out his hand.

"This pool works differently, since it's in the Sanctuary," Harry murmured. "I suppose there's not much choice for it. No one here actually practices sun-seeing, and Light magic this powerful tends to interact with other Light magic, like that of the Seers." He focused on the pool, and Draco saw that his eyes were as wide and unblinking as a cat's. "Veritas," he said softly.

The sun-pool began to blaze. Draco had never imagined such a storm of brightness and warmth, and felt his eyes watering. He wondered that he hadn't gone blind already.

Then the sun-pool reached into him again, and pulled something out of him. Draco blinked as he watched a revolving ball come into being above the pool's surface. Part of it was intensely gold, barely visible against the overwhelming sunshine; the other was dark green. As Draco gazed, entranced, the gold and dark green halves separated from each other and drifted a few feet apart. The dark green ball, which Draco knew represented the Dark within himself, was considerably larger than the gold, which represented Light.

Draco failed to see how this was a surprise. He was opening his mouth to tell Harry so when he realized that more balls were blossoming and splitting in the air. Though the dark green ones were always larger, they were not all the same size as the first time. In fact, the fourth pair was nearly identical.

Draco stared across the pool at Harry, waiting for him to explain, only to find him watching with a faint smile. "Those represent the five old definitions of Dark and Light," he explained, without taking his eyes from the hovering masses. "Compulsion and free will is the first one. Then tameness against wildness, truth against deception, cooperation against solitude, and peace against war." His smile widened. "It's no surprise to find that you want to get your own way, and you're willing to lie, fight, and work on your own to get it. It does seem, though, that you're more willing to work with me than you are to tell the truth."

"I swear, Harry, I didn't know I had that much of a predisposition towards compulsion." Draco scowled at the first pair, which could condemn him easily. Harry hated compulsion, after all, and was sworn to destroy it when it came to other species.

"It's all right, Draco," Harry said, as the sun-pool began to pull his own gold and dark green from him. "I should have suspected it, from the possession gift. You're yourself, and at least I know." His eyes shone as he watched, and Draco blinked. He isn't angry at me for this?

Then he asked himself, Would I have been angry at him if I found out that he was Lighter as a result of a magical gift he couldn't help?

No. Of course not.

And if he was going to ask Harry to trust him at his most vulnerable, he really ought to be able to trust Harry with the truths of his suddenly revealed soul. So he devoted himself to watching as Harry's own gold and dark green separated and revealed his true nature—at least as predicated on the terms of a system Draco thought insufficiently advanced. Dark and Light were both more complicated than those old pairs of dualisms, and Draco was all for free will, as long as it didn't intrude too much on what he was doing.

The pairs of Harry's suns arranged themselves. The golden one was larger in the first—no surprise, Draco thought, with Harry's love of letting others do as they wanted. By contrast, the dark green ball of the second dwarfed the gold, indicating Harry's wildness. The third and fourth pairs were almost balanced. Draco nodded. Harry had used everything from glamours to cooperative rituals in the past to help his war effort and vates work along. Draco was actually relieved to see that Harry didn't want to hare off on his own that much anymore.

The last pair was the one he was really interested in, though. He didn't know if Harry was desperate to keep peace, or if he would go to war. And the sun-pool itself seemed undecided. The pair of gold and dark green orbited each other for a good two minutes before they broke apart.

The dark green ball was slightly larger.

Draco blinked at Harry, who nodded back to him, his mouth set in a thin line.

"That's another decision I made and thought you should know about," said Harry. "I don't like the idea of it. I would much rather accomplish everything I have to do by peaceful methods." He cocked his head at the sun-pool. "But that measures not only intent, but emotions, rationality, and will. And it knows that I have the will to carry a war or a revolution forward, if it's the only way." He let out a shuddering breath. "And I think it is."

Draco shook his head, and then walked around the pool with rough steps. They had seen each other as they were. Harry had done his part in this ritual, arranging that. Draco could hug him if he wanted to, and he did, burying his face in Harry's neck and breathing deeply of his scent.

Harry embraced him back, sounding a bit bewildered. "Draco, are you well?"

"I didn't know if you would find it in you to go to war again, after killing those children," Draco whispered. The scent of sweat tickled his nose. At least he knew Harry hadn't been entirely unaffected by the heat inside the room. "I thought you might be broken, and I'd have to coax you along."

Harry let out a heavy sigh. "I still hate the idea of it," he said. "That's a wound that will never totally heal. But I have to work on healing it while pushing the war forward at the same time. And—I've decided that I can't let myself be pushed by fear of anything, Draco, not when fear is the only driving motive. That means that if, say, the Ministry uses violence against the werewolves, and they aren't only trying to imprison those who bit others or defend innocents, I have to push back. They can only go so far and no further."

"Do you know how long I've been waiting to hear you say those words?" Draco whispered into his ear, working his hands beneath Harry's robes.

"Why those words?" Harry's voice had gone slightly breathy.

"Because," Draco said, lifting his head to catch Harry's eyes, "it means that you finally trust yourself enough to use your power the way it should be used. Not to rule the world, no, and not to manipulate everyone the way Dumbledore tried to do. But you can fight for what you believe in, and you don't think it's unfair anymore that you're a Lord-level wizard and most of your opponents aren't."

Harry smiled faintly. "No, I don't." He tilted his head. "I'm ready to fight, Draco, and ready to use my magic to back up what I say."

Draco laughed aloud. There was still some of the ritual left to go, a few promises to one another, and of course he had to give Harry his birthday gift, but he was thinking more, at the moment, about the sensation lifting and expanding in his chest, a soaring sunrise or a phoenix.

Finally. Fucking finally he'll be what he always should have been. Not a Lord in name, but he'll fight for what he wants. And he'll change the world if people insist on being stupid and not changing it themselves. And he'll show anyone who underestimates him what he really is.

He met Harry's eyes, and grinned. He knew it was a vicious smile, but Harry seemed to take it in the spirit in which it was given, because he returned it.

Draco barely contained the urge to howl like a werewolf. And I'll be right there fighting at his side.