Once again, I know some people don't want to read heavy slash, so, if you don't, skip from the point that says, "Draco glanced at Harry curiously," to the scene break. This chapter has six scenes, and the fifth one does contain slash.

Chapter Twenty-One: Confluences

On the day the article in the Daily Prophet came out that proved Aurora Whitestag and Philip Willoughby had decided to work together, Harry decided that he'd had enough of this nonsense and wanted to talk to people.

He came into the Great Hall to find people staring at him. Harry rolled his eyes. When they do that before breakfast, one thing is usually the cause: an article in the paper. He didn't think it was the Vox Populi, though. Most of the students still took that less seriously than the Prophet, and anyway, Hornblower was busy cutting his way through a forest of supposition about the Minister and his fitness to do his job right now. He hadn't published anything concerning Harry in the last five days.

Harry sat down at the Slytherin table. Millicent tossed a copy of the paper to him without a word. Harry nodded to her, and let his Levitation Charm catch it, holding it in the air in front of him while he spooned up porridge and poured pumpkin juice for himself. The shop in Hogsmeade he'd paid to deliver breakfast to him each day had proven less than imaginative about their choices, not that Harry minded the bland food that much.

VATES NEEDS MONITORS, OPPONENTS SAY

Monitoring Board May Be Best Compromise

By: Melinda Honeywhistle

"I have been worried that we haven't done the right thing so far," said Aurora Whitestag yesterday. "After all, the vates needs to concentrate on fighting the war against You-Know-Who. But I hope this new solution will be an acceptable compromise to both parties."

Whitestag was referring to the new petition brought before the Wizengamot yesterday, which asks for a monitoring board to be established on the former Harry Potter's activities. The members of the monitoring board would consist mostly of those parents whose children Harry killed before the Battle of Hogwarts, but a few Wizengamot members and a professor from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would be welcome as well, Whitestag said.

"Harry obviously needs some supervision," she said. "He trained during the summer, but I think he returned to the wizarding world before his training was complete. He needs more. We can suggest tactics to him, and make sure that he isn't using his magic irresponsibly. He benefits from our presence, and the whole of our world benefits from making sure the Boy-Who-Lived is properly trained. And properly watched over, of course."

Philip Willoughby, whose daughter Alexandra died in the attack on Hogwarts, and who has petitioned to bring Harry to trial, appears to have thrown his support behind Whitestag.

"I've given up hope that I'll ever see Potter put in Tullianum for his crimes," he told this reporter yesterday. "But a monitoring board is a good idea. I've been beyond grateful that so many people in the wizarding world have paid attention to me, a Muggle father whose daughter was still looked upon as inferior by many of her peers. I've made good friends, and those friends will stand behind me to put the monitoring board in place, even as they stood behind me in the petition about the trial."

Whitestag says that her own motive, and the motive of many of the parents of the Dozen Who Died, as the children have come to be known, is not vengeance for the dead, but simply making sure the entire wizarding world survives.

"There's a good reason that no teenager has ever been a Lord," she says. "They cannot be trusted with that much power. It's not Harry's fault that this happened to him. If anything, I think it's our fault, the fault of parents and professors, for leaving him with abusive parents who twisted his sense of honor and justice. Under our care, he will learn more about what he can be, rather than just growing into whatever monstrous form he might achieve without us."

Harry finished the article and shook his head, laying the paper on the table. Draco promptly snatched it, and Owen settled into place on the other side of Draco, patiently reading around the jerking motions of his hands.

Draco said nothing when he'd finished. Harry went on eating, and waited for the storm to break.

"Why aren't you upset about this?"

At least Draco had hissed that into his ear, not shouted it to the Great Hall. Harry arched an eyebrow. "I am," he said. "But yelling about it won't do any good. They might not even get the Wizengamot to decide on this any time soon, given that they're occupied with deciding what to do about the werewolves. At least I'm forewarned. And I accepted consequences like this when I mercy-killed those children, Draco."

Draco shook his head. "You are infuriating," he said, but his voice was more resigned than anything else.

"I'm trying not to be," said Harry firmly, and pushed his porridge bowl away, standing. Draco stared at him. "I'm going to find Snape," Harry explained to that stare, "and ask if he's far enough along in his healing for him to want to see me."

"After what he said to you in Potions class the other day?"

"Yes," said Harry mildly. He had been hurt when Snape criticized his potion as he had never done in Harry's years at Hogwarts, casting aspersions not on his training—that training would have included Snape's teaching, of course—but on Harry's desire to experiment by himself, and implying that Harry thought himself too good to brew ordinary class assignments. It was such a reversal from a few weeks past, when Snape had trusted Harry with Potions work enough to lend Medicamenta Meatus Verus to him. Harry had thought about it for a while, though, and managed to calm down. It had been hurtful, but considering what Snape was going through right now, it was a miracle that he was rational enough to teach classes at all, never mind speak politely to a student. Harry thought it could even be an honor, though dubious, that Snape cared enough about him to single him out. Usually now, Snape just paced in circles around the room, having put the instructions for the potion on the board, and stared at everyone.

"Why?"

"Because I want to see if I can help him in his healing, and I want to see if I can have my guardian back," Harry said, and smiled at Draco before he trotted out of the Great Hall. Not surprisingly, Snape hadn't been at breakfast. He avoided them now, since the first day of term when he'd come near to Transfiguring a Hufflepuff girl into something embarrassing. Harry thought that meant Snape was listening to Joseph's advice, and that was a hopeful sign.

He made his way to Snape's quarters, all the time counting the minutes in his head before Potions. It should be enough time. He'd made sure to come to breakfast early, and the Potions classroom wasn't that far from Snape's rooms. He had half an hour.

He had opened his eyes this morning, lain staring at the ceiling of their four-poster for a moment, listened to Draco's soft snores, and realized that gestures of reconciliation wouldn't go amiss. Waiting to discuss things because he didn't want to infringe on someone else's free will was only making assumptions, again. How could he knew whether pride held them back, or anger, or simple misunderstanding of Harry and his motives, unless he asked? He hadn't asked Snape what had happened between him and Camellia since that initial question. He hadn't persisted in visiting Snape because he thought it might hurt him.

But it might hurt him if I stayed away, too. And I'm never going to know if I don't ask.

He reached Snape's door just as it opened. Joseph stepped out, his gray robes swirling around his ankles as he shut the door gently. He saw Harry, and frowned, shaking his head.

"This is not a good time, Harry."

"Why not?" Harry tilted his head and waited. He felt poised, calm, balanced. He had accepted that there was no direction he could move in that was free of mistakes. He could make a mistake in pressing the matter when Snape was so wounded. He could make a mistake in waiting to press the matter, because then Snape would assume Harry didn't care about his suffering. He could make a mistake in any tiny gesture or word that someone took the wrong way. He had to be willing to make those mistakes, and bear the consequences of them, and keep moving forward with a little more knowledge under his belt, eyes a little more open. If Snape's moods really did change as rapidly as the weather, then Harry would have to keep considering them, that was all.

"He had a very bad dream last night." Joseph murmured as if his words would hurt the air—or as if Snape were listening from inside the room, which Harry thought was much more likely. "A dream that involved memories he had not only pressed down to the bottom of his mind, but tried to destroy. He did give me permission to tell you they involved Regulus Black. And since Regulus is not here at the moment, there is little I can do to help him."

"And how is he in general?"

Joseph sighed. "The same. Willing to give me scraps and bits of information, but not explain specific twists in his soul. Convinced he is vile. Hurting and unwilling to show his pain, but wishing there was someone in the world who knew of it."

Harry nodded. "And is there anything that you think I can do, even if he doesn't want to see me or talk to me?"

"I don't see what," Joseph said. "Even I can see that he needs your presence, but I will not admit you to his rooms when he has asked me not to."

Harry bit his lip. "What about a letter?" he suggested. "That comes to him and lets him know that that I'm here and waiting, but he doesn't have to write back, or even read it, if he doesn't want to."

Joseph blinked. "That—that might work. But you know that he could write a letter full of the most violent abuse back to you?"

"I've taken worse." Harry found himself grinning. He was always happier when he had a plan, a way to move forward after being stuck in place. "And I want to speak to him, Joseph. If you don't think it will hurt him more than help, I'll take the chance."

Silence passed for a moment, while Harry went on gazing expectantly at Joseph and the Seer mulled it over. Then he nodded. "If you believe that you can stand it," he murmured.

"I can," said Harry. "And anyway, he needs it. And I love him, so there you go." He smiled at Joseph one more time, then turned and made his way towards Potions class, already composing his letter in his mind. When he was far down the dungeon corridor, he heard the door of Snape's quarters open and then close, but he didn't look back. If Snape had come out to peer after him, Harry would let him have the sight of Harry he seemed to want, without forcing his guardian to meet his gaze.

Does it really matter who makes the first gesture of reconciliation, who reaches out first? No. This isn't a sacrifice, and I'm not doing it to be a sacrifice. Snape can tell me to fuck off, and I'll fuck off. He can yell at me, and I'll accept that.

Now, after Potions class, I'll find Connor and approach him. I think I can catch him on the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Really, the fight he had with Draco was silly, and I should have given him the chance to tell his side of it long before this. At least arrange a time for us to use a Pensieve.


Snape did not feel human.

He also did not want to go into the dungeons and teach the Potions class.

But McGonagall had given him the terms for his remaining at Hogwarts, and this was one of them. And if he was forced to leave Hogwarts and go elsewhere…Snape did not know how he would survive. He knew he would be less than he was here, a sack of blood and bones and charred memories. He had essays to mark and classes to teach as long as he remained Potions Master.

The only advantage being away from Hogwarts might offer was being away from Harry.

Since he had started dreaming of Regulus and the part Regulus had played in driving him back to the arms of the Light, he had found it harder to tolerate being around Harry. He wanted to see Harry. He watched him when he ate in the Great Hall during lunch and dinner, talking with the other Slytherin students or lost in contemplation or arranging dueling club meetings. He wanted Harry to come to him, to apologize for sending Snape away from Cobley-by-the-Sea, and explain that he had punished Camellia and she would never touch Snape again.

But he did not want Harry near him at the same time. He could not forgive him for being absent as he suffered the dreams, or summoning Joseph and leaving him to the Seer's nonexistent mercies. He wanted Harry to understand, but not ask questions. He wanted Harry to realize what the dreams were doing to him, but he didn't want to have to tell him about the dreams.

He knew that was irrational. That only made the pain worse, particularly when days passed and Harry made no effort to seek him out at all.

And then, today, Harry had come and spoken to Joseph outside the door, and Snape had listened. Harry spoke of writing a letter to him. Snape hated the thought of it, at once. Harry should have known better than to reach out to him after the dreams of Regulus that tormented him night after night.

Harry doesn't know about the dreams of Regulus, whispered his saner mind.

Snape didn't care. He should have known. Harry was a Legilimens. He could have met Snape's eyes and read the dreams out of his mind. That Harry wouldn't do such a thing because of his dislike for compulsion of any sort was worse, because it suggested Harry prized his precious principles above Snape, and only confirmed another old truth his mother had told him: that no one would ever love him above anything else. Harry had only cared when he was essential to the cause, and now that Snape had revealed his wounds and his bitterness, he had turned away.

The thoughts, mad and sane, and the bitterness made a rope so strong that Snape nearly let himself hang from it rather than listening to the words Harry spoke to Joseph. And then he laughed aloud when it was done, because Harry expected vileness from him.

How can he, after all I have done for him?

But if Harry had not, then Snape would have despised him for not learning the lessons he had tried to teach the boy. Only a fool would assume he would write a calm, coherent letter back in this state, or even try to communicate at all. No matter which way Harry turned, he was a fool.

"Are you fit to teach today?"

Snape looked up. Joseph had come back through the door, and stood leaning against it, watching him thoughtfully.

"I must be," Snape rasped out.

Joseph nodded. "And if the letter comes and you don't want to read it, you can always burn it."

So Joseph knew he had overheard—or he guessed it, because it was the kind of thing someone with Snape's pitch-colored soul would do. Either assumption was unacceptable. Snape snarled at him and turned away.

Joseph said nothing else, which Snape was grateful for. He prepared for the Potions class in quick, efficient movements. He had already memorized the recipe for the potion. He would put it on the board and leave his students to follow it as best he might. A glare from him was usually enough to put even the most confident and skilled of the sixth-year NEWT students off their careful following of instructions. Hermione Granger had made small mistakes in each class since the start of term.

He strode into the corridor, his face formed into a cold mask, his hands clenched around his wand. If he had met anyone on the way there, he didn't know what would have happened. But he did not, and he opened the door of his classroom and swept in, coldly pleased to note that a few talking students scrambled into their seats.

"Twelve points from Hufflepuff for slowness," he said coolly, because Susan Bones hadn't moved fast enough. She lowered her eyes, her face the picture of misery.

Snape waved his wand, and the Potions recipe appeared with a short bang of colored smoke. He turned around and let his gaze sweep across their faces menacingly, silently instructing them to get to work. Most of the students ran for the ingredients closet at once. Only three didn't move: Draco and Granger, who always copied down the instructions or checked them against their books before they did anything else—

And Harry, who sat calmly in his seat, staring at Snape with large green eyes.

Snape stared, unblinking, pouring all the malevolence of commingled pain and hatred into his gaze, using it as a blade to slice at Harry's Occlumency barriers. Harry gave a small smile, and then his barriers fell and Snape found himself in a mind he barely remembered.

Harry's thoughts had changed since the last time he had seen them. Then, they had resembled a steel skeleton barely touched with leaves. Now they were a living tree, and the dark spaces between the branches that had once been filled with uncertainty curled with new twigs and new leaves—emotions and experiences Harry had had no context for, before. Snape stared.

Harry nudged softly at his Legilimency. Snape complied, so caught off-balance was he, and found himself looking straight into Harry's love for him.

It cut like sunlight and hurt like blades. Harry didn't expect that Snape would wake up from his pain one day and return to the person he had been. He knew the healing might last the rest of his life. He knew that Snape might never be his guardian again, might never speak to him directly again, might be useless to the war effort and Harry's vates path from this moment forward.

That didn't matter. Harry's love for him would still exist, because Harry's love for him didn't depend on any of those things.

Snape felt his carefully constructed reality sliding away from him. He had known, even as he raged about Harry refusing to speak to him more directly, that he had no right to expect this kind of devotion. Eileen Prince had been right. That kind of devotion didn't exist.

And here it was, staring back at him.

Snape snapped his gaze away and snarled, "Mr. Potter. Do you wish for the low mark you will receive if Mr. Malfoy does all the work? Begin."

And he could feel Harry smiling even as he rose from his seat to obey, because Snape had slipped enough to call him by the last name he had discarded.

Snape didn't need to open Harry's letter. When it came, he would burn it, but not because he didn't want to read it. He would burn it because he already knew what it would say.

Why should this change things? he thought, scrambling to rebuild the mask Harry had destroyed. After all, his love could still be a sham, or a lie. He could still love you mainly because of what you have been to him, and not for the person you now are. He has made no effort to learn what you are now.

But Snape doubted that any rationalization he could make would dent or damage the fact of that love. He could change his mind. He could rage. He could storm. He could drive Harry away, or attempt to split open his heart with the cruelest words he knew. He could decide that he would never see Harry again.

None of that would change the fact that the love existed, and would go right on existing, in spite of him.


Harry caught up with Connor just as Connor was about to duck into the safety of the Defense classroom. The first thing Connor knew of his presence was the hand on his shoulder that tugged him gently to the side and leaned him against the wall. "Can I talk to you?" his brother asked him.

Connor thought of refusing. He should, he knew. Parvati was right. Harry could have solved the whole problem between him and Malfoy by demanding Connor's side of the story when the argument had first happened. Connor would have given in with just a little more pressure. He wouldn't have wanted to apologize to Malfoy, but doing that and explaining were two different things.

On the other hand, Harry had caught him. Connor didn't want to yell at Harry in front of the other NEWT Defense students. Parvati would want him to avoid making a scene.

"I suppose," he said, ducking his chin into his chest and scowling up at his brother from beneath his fringe.

Harry just nodded. "I wanted to know if I could hear what happened between you and Draco," he said. "If you don't want to tell me or can't remember everything, I can get hold of a Pensieve, and you can put the memory in there. Then I can watch it and make my own decisions."

Connor blinked, his mouth coming slightly open. "Did you use Legilimency on me?" he snapped.

"What? Of course not." Harry blinked back at him. "Why would I have?"

"That's what I wanted to do!" Connor exclaimed. "Tell you the truth, everything, with just a bit more prompting. But instead it lapsed into silence for two weeks, and you didn't make any effort to pick it up again."

Harry winced. "I know, Connor," he said. "I'm sorry. That was a mistake on my part. If I really want to consider myself as respecting the free will of everyone, then I need to know more about those people and what they want, and I need to approach them instead of letting the wounds between them and me fester." Connor nodded in approval. That was something like the apology Parvati thought Harry should have given, though not as detailed. "Now. Can I hear?"

"After class," said Connor. "In a Pensieve," he added, because he didn't think that he could recall all the details of the conversation, and he didn't want Harry to think of him as biased.

Harry nodded, and then Malfoy arrived behind him and took his arm, giving Connor a condescending look. Connor just rolled his eyes and made his way to the back of the class. Malfoy might be with Harry from now on, as his boyfriend, just the way Ron had said, but he didn't have to like it.

And after what Harry sees in the Pensieve, then he probably won't like Malfoy quite as much, either.

Connor settled into his seat and contemplated that pleasant prospect as Peter entered and swept to the front of the classroom. He was much less nervous today, Connor noted absently. Teaching did seem to agree with him, the longer he did it.


Harry pulled his head slowly out of the Pensieve he had borrowed—Draco's, used when he invented the spell that let one person experience another's mindset—and blinked, shaking drops of silvery liquid from his hair. Connor sat on his bed in the Gryffindor sixth-year boys' room, watching him anxiously. Harry sat back and shook his head again.

"I think we were all three at fault," he told Connor.

His brother's mouth fell open, and Connor spluttered, kicking out a foot behind him with such violence that it got tangled in the bed hangings. Harry waited, watching in silent amusement as Connor shook his head and clenched his jaw. Connor had not grown up all the way yet. Such a child, still, sometimes, but I know he's capable of better things. And that hope tempered Harry's anger, and really, he should have allowed it to do so earlier. He knew how much good was in people. He was supposed to look for it, as vates. He should never have allowed his silent treatment of Connor to last so long.

Really, why do I lose my temper? It only does more harm than good. Accepting what other people do, and trying to talk to them about it, and accepting it if they get angry at me, are all more productive than offering them cold shoulders or harsh words.

"I wasn't!" Connor burst out at last. "He came into my room just to taunt me!"

"Then you taunted him back," said Harry, calm as steel.

"He didn't have to say what he did!"

"No, he didn't," Harry agreed. "And neither did you." He leaned forward, stretching out his hand to clasp his brother's. "Connor, did you think it would make him more sympathetic to halfbloods, to say that he would have to accept them?"

"No," Connor said sullenly, avoiding his handshake and looking at the floor. "I wasn't—I wasn't thinking about making him accept halfbloods, or arguing him into it. I just wanted him to shut up."

"And would you say that was childish?" Harry asked.

"No more childish than what he did!"

Harry leaned back against the pillow—he sat on Neville's bed, since Neville was in NEWT Ancient Runes right now—and tapped his fingers on his chin. Draco's ring caught the light and sparked it back at him, making Harry blink. Diamond afterimages raced across his vision as he glanced back at Connor. "But do you really want to be a child all your life, compared to him? Do you really want Gryffindors to seem childish next to Slytherins?"

"I suppose not," Connor said, staring at the floor. "I just don't see why I have to be the more mature one all the time."

"Oh, not all the time," said Harry. "But Draco is more mature most of the time." Connor sat up, his mouth flying open in protest, but Harry shook his head at him. "You know he is, Connor. He was trained to keep his composure. He's hexed you and attacked you, but you've done the same thing to him, and more often. He says horrible things about you, but to me or in his head. You tend to say them to his face."

"I thought you said we were all three at fault there, and not just me," Connor said from between gritted teeth.

Harry nodded. "I know. I was at fault for speaking to you so abruptly, and believing that the words I overheard were the whole story." They certainly had not been; according to the Pensieve memory, he had missed more than half the conversation. "I'm sorry for that. And Draco was at fault for intruding in the first place. He could have ignored you slamming your trunk." He took a deep breath and braced himself for Connor's anger. "But I think you were more at fault than he was."

Connor stared at him. Then he leaped to his feet and stalked towards the door.

"Connor?" Harry pitched his voice low and kept it gentle, and Connor halted, holding the door handle, scowling ferociously. "Will you hear me out?"

Connor gave a quick, jerky nod. Harry nodded back, and then spoke his thoughts as carefully and honestly as he could.

"It wasn't honorable to attack Draco that way, Connor," he said. "It wasn't Gryffindor. You knew how upset he was about the Grand Unified Theory. More to the point, you knew I'd sided with you over him, because I thought he was going to physically attack you that day in the kitchen, and you knew what had happened a few days before between Snape and Camellia. What you did was cruel and calculated and horrible in its timing."

"He has to learn to accept what you are," Connor ground out. "I don't see why you stay with him, Harry. He hates you for being a halfblood."

"No, he doesn't," said Harry, a bit surprised that Connor saw it that way. "Why would he? I think he loves me more than any notion that purebloods are perfect. But everything changed so suddenly. And that is my fault, for not preparing him properly. I don't think he realized that Thomas thinks—and I think—that pureblood culture is still a wonderful and valuable thing. Our main disagreement isn't about the culture or the rituals. He thinks there's a genetic difference between someone like him and someone like Hermione, and that the difference makes him superior. I don't agree with that, but I can live with it. If he takes years to change his mind, so be it."

"That's disgusting, though." Connor's face had wrinkled itself up like the face of a small dog about to bark at someone. Harry entertained himself for a moment with the notion that his Animagus form might be a dog, then pushed it regretfully aside. He had to be serious right now.

"No more disgusting than what I did to both of you." Harry cocked his head at him. "Or taking advantage of an opponent's weakness."

Connor's eyes fell, and a blush of shame worked its way across his face. Harry waited. His brother might still have some trouble admitting he was wrong, but he couldn't hide behind the notion that he was right any more.

Connor's next words still caught him by surprise, though.

"How can you stand him?" he demanded, eyes flashing as he took a step back towards Harry. "Forget about the Grand Unified Theory, forget about blood. He's cruel and mean-spirited and takes advantage of you. Why do you love him, Harry? Do you know that?"

It was Harry's turn to flush as he remembered Christmas last year. He had told Draco why he loved him, an incredibly long list of reasons. He managed to give a short nod. "I do."

"Then tell me." Connor's eyes narrowed further.

Harry looked away. "I don't want to share that with you, Connor," he said.

"Then I don't see why I should forgive him." Harry heard a rustle of cloth that he knew was Connor crossing his arms. "It sounds as if you are ashamed of yourself for loving him, really. You know that he's everything I said he was, and you're still attracted. Well, I can understand your bonding to him because he was your first friend here, but really, Harry, spending the rest of your life with him because of that?"

Harry felt angry heat fill his chest. He stood. "Are you willing to tell me all the reasons you love Parvati?" he demanded.

Connor shut his mouth so hard he nearly bit his tongue. "Well, no," he admitted at last. "It's a private thing."

Harry nodded. "And it's the same way with me."

"But no one cares why I love Parvati!" Connor took an insistent step forward. "I want to know why you love Draco. I'm asking you. I want to know. Why won't you tell me? Shame is the only reason I can think of. You'd think Draco would be happy to hear you reciting all the reasons—"

"There's no way I can win this game," Harry said quietly. "Don't you see that, Connor? If I tell you, then I'll betray Draco's privacy, and he's asked me not to do that." It was one of the requests Draco had made of him last year, his head pillowed on Harry's chest, his eyes soft and content. "If I don't tell you, you'll go on thinking I'm ashamed of him, or that it's just lust."

"I know it's not lust," Connor said dismissively. "Not with your training. But I really don't think he's good for you, Harry. How can I keep quiet when I think that? How can I not try to separate you from him? And how can I believe that you're not just blind if I don't hear your reasons for loving him?"

"I wouldn't try to separate you from Parvati, even if I thought she wasn't good for you," said Harry. "I accept that you love who you love, Connor."

"She's not the daughter of a Death Eater," said Connor. "She's not even a Dark witch. Has it occurred to you, Harry, that you could take a lot of hurt from Draco if he does decide that he would rather believe in pureblood superiority than in you? And what happens if he Declares for the Dark?"

"The same thing that happened when you Declared for the Light, I imagine," said Harry. "I still won't feel compelled to choose a side."

Connor was breathing fast, his face flushed with frustration. "I just wish I knew why you would choose him over me," he said. "That's all."

"I don't want to choose him over you," Harry whispered, holding out his arms. Connor didn't move into the embrace. Harry winced and dropped his arms, telling himself he had no right to feel angry or disappointed. His anger or disappointment would just cause so many more problems in the long run. "And I don't want to make you choose Parvati over me."

"I won't," said Connor. "I can balance. But I don't think that you can balance between us, Harry. We're too different. And I think you could be in danger from him." He gave a little nod, as if someone had offered him a command, and stood straighter. "I love you, Harry. I want to make sure you're safe."

"I don't need protection from Draco," said Harry, feeling tired.

"I think you do." Connor gazed at him, eyes wide and earnest. "I've thought about it a lot over the past two weeks, Harry, and I've talked it over with Parvati. But we had to wait and see what you would say. If you'd forgiven me and agreed that Draco's attitude was dangerous, I wouldn't have to do this. But I think he is a danger to you, and you'll only wind up getting hurt. I'm sorry."

I should have talked to him before this, Harry thought. I left it too long. It's my fault.

He took a deep breath and tucked the blame away, because unless the guilt could help him not to make the same mistake a second time, it was useless. He knew how Connor could change, wavering from moment to moment, abandoning prejudices that solidified in his mind when new information came along and seeing his way to clarity when he realized he'd made a mistake. He had nearly done that when Harry pointed out that attacking Draco via his pureblood beliefs wasn't honorable. Give it a few weeks, and he would probably change his mind again.

Connor seemed confused when Harry gave him a politely determined smile and walked past him to the door. "Harry?" he asked his back.

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "We'll have to agree to disagree on this, Connor. Just know that I love you both. I wouldn't give up contact with you to please Draco—I didn't do it in third year—and I won't give up being Draco's partner to please you. I'm sorry. If you can't live with each other, I understand that. I won't make you act like best friends or brothers. I do love you both."

Connor tried to say something, but when Harry paused and waited, nothing emerged. He sighed gently and shut the door behind him.

This time, though, I won't just wait and wait for him to say something. I'll talk to him every day. I'll let him see that I'm happy with Draco. I'll show him the truth until that overcomes his willingness to embrace a lie.


Draco glanced at Harry curiously. Harry had seemed unusually fidgety that evening, even as Draco studied his Animagus notes some more and Harry tried to read information on place magic that Granger had researched for him. He'd said something about "entering the dream" when Draco asked, and Draco didn't understand what that meant, so he'd been willing to let it drop. He was more interested in how close he could come to the visualization now, anyway. He knew his form was four-legged, relatively small, and not bulky, but not what it was, yet.

"Draco," Harry said abruptly, and Draco put down the notes and turned to face him at once, because Harry sounded near-panicked, something that never happened.

"What is it, Harry?" Draco asked, his eyes roaming his partner's face. Harry was flushed, and the flush had crept everywhere except his lightning bolt scar, which stood out as a pale line on his forehead. Draco was just as glad not to see that turn red.

Harry shook his head, then abruptly grabbed Draco's neck with his hand and drew him close for a kiss.

Draco blinked, but he was hardly about to object this, so he responded, grabbing at Harry's shoulders and hair and pulling him forward. Harry pulled him backward, so for a moment they engaged in an undignified tug-of-war, and then they sprawled in the middle of the bed. Draco muttered a protest as his teeth hit Harry's, and Harry gasped an apology, but didn't stop kissing him.

Draco kicked out, trying to find a way to get a better purchase on Harry and stop just scrabbling around in the middle of the bed. Then the room smelled of roses, and Harry rolled him over again, with magic rather than a hand, and Draco found himself on his back, gasping as he stared up at Harry.

"Will you let me touch you?" Harry whispered to him. "Just—touch you? That's what I want to do right now."

It cost Draco actual physical pain to remove his hands from Harry's skin, but he nodded. Harry murmured a thanks and then pulled at Draco's tie and his shirt, taking them off so smoothly that Draco barely felt a brush of cloth across his skin. He thought Harry must have used magic, but it was very hard to look away from those green eyes, so he wasn't sure.

"I love you," Harry murmured, bowing his head and beginning to kiss his way down Draco's chest. Draco gasped, wondering why he couldn't speak, wondering why he wasn't more panicked by the feeling of not being able to breathe, wondering why he suddenly seemed to be lying in a bed of summer sunlight. "I don't care if someone else disapproves, I know it might cause problems but that doesn't mean I'll stop loving you, and this sounds so stupid Draco but I don't know if you're listening to me right now anyway—"

Draco might have told him he was listening to him if Harry would just stop touching him. But he wasn't, he was nipping and kissing and lucking and sucking, and Draco's skin felt taut and stretched, as if all of it were ready to slip off his body and fly into Harry's mouth. It was an effort to keep his hands at his sides, and he didn't succeed, though they only flew up in loose fists when Harry stripped him of both trousers and pants, as efficiently as he'd stripped him of shirt and tie.

"Love you," Harry said softly, and then took Draco in hand, stroking him with his hand and rolling over so that his hip lay against Draco's, as if he wanted to surround him as much as possible with Draco still flat on his back in the bed, watching his face all the while.

Draco closed his eyes. He was adrift in gold. It altered and rippled in his mind, like sunlight changing through moving leaves. He had thought, foolishly, that the pleasure he shared with Harry would not change in essentials from one bedding to the next. It seemed he was wrong. This pleasure was keener, sharper, than that which they'd shared while tumbling on the floor in Silver-Mirror. Draco found he couldn't keep his hips still as they rolled up in short jabs into Harry's hand. He knew his breath was leaving his mouth in gusts of hot air, too. Light traveled past his eyes. He had lost track of the rest of his body. Mouth and eyes and cock—did he need to worry about the rest?

When he came, he heard Harry's voice say something, but he couldn't make it out under the intense pressure and pleasure inside and out. His head grew too heavy for his neck as he trembled out the last spasms of light and warmth, and then he knew where his hands were. He reached up and gripped Harry's shoulder, pulling him down, managing to open his eyes just enough to whisper, "What did you say?"

"The usual," Harry whispered, kissing him. "I love you."

Draco tried to answer, he really did. But a huge yawn escaped his mouth, and the thought of moving hurt. He wanted to sit up, though, and reach down to touch Harry. He wanted to give him some hint of the pleasure he'd given Draco.

Harry kept his hand away when he tried, though, the metal of the ring on his finger cool against Draco's palm. "I'll be fine," he whispered. "I wanted to do that, to remind myself that you're real, that you're not just sitting on the other side of the bed and studying notes, but actually in my arms if I want you." Draco could hear him smiling, though he couldn't open his eyes to see it. "And in my hand."

Draco attempted a protest. "But, Harry—" He thought it should be stronger, and maybe it would really have been, but the warmth had traveled back into his limbs, puddling them. He could feel Harry rolling them over, so that he lay fully within Harry's embrace, and then he was fussed about until he didn't think any part of him was touching the blankets, but draped fully over chest and hips, groin and arms.

"I'm here," Harry murmured. "We're both here. Nothing's going to separate us, Draco." His arms tightened possessively around Draco's chest. "Go to sleep."

And Draco did, letting his head bob down until his nose rested in the crook of Harry's neck. The last thing he heard before he fell asleep was the soft, contented purring of Harry's magic, like the rumble of a great cat, and the last thought he had, absurdly, was, His Animagus form is a lynx.


Harry took a deep breath and shook his head before he walked into the Great Hall the next morning. He had something to say to his brother, and he had thought long and hard about the right words as he lay with Draco cradled in his arms last night, still a bit stunned by his own desperate need to feel Draco and be assured he was there and real.

Draco came up, brushing his shoulder against Harry's. Harry smiled at him, then moved towards the Gryffindor table.

Connor was sitting head-to-head with Ron, planning Quidditch strategies by the sound of it. He looked up in surprise at Harry, and then his face tightened in an expression of resignation.

"Come to scold me about yesterday?" he asked.

Harry stood surveying him for a moment. Connor looked as if he hadn't slept well, but still stubborn, still determined, still trying to do what he thought was right. Just like he had been in third year, come to think of it, when he thought Harry was going to kill Sirius, or just like he had been in fourth year, when he was trying to go through the Triwizard Tournament despite being terrified of it, or just like he had been in fifth year, when he had chosen to testify at Lily and James's trial and hadn't told Harry about it beforehand, in case Harry tried to stop him.

We both think we're right. This time, though, I'm not going to let misunderstanding get in the way, or sympathy for him make me look past it. He's doing what he thinks is right, but that doesn't change the fact that it's fucking stupid.

"No, actually," Harry said. "I've come to tell you that I'd like us to get along, Connor. I know that probably can't happen yet, but it will in time. If you decide to marry Parvati, I'd like to be able to talk to my sister-in-law without screaming at her. And to my brother without screaming at him, as it happens. And I'd like you both to be able to talk to your brother-in-law without screaming at him."

Connor's face tightened with distaste. "Harry, Parvati told me some things about him that you should know—"

"And I'm going to listen to them," said Harry with a nod. "But you should know, Connor, that I'll never stop loving both of you, and trying to balance all three of you, making sure that you have what you want and what you need as far as that's possible. And I won't believe that Draco's going to turn against me until he actually does."

"Harry—"

"I'm not leaving him," said Harry plainly. "He's my partner. He'll stay that way until the day he says he doesn't want to be any more. You can argue and I'll listen, Connor. But I won't obey."

Connor's face tightened again, this time with frustration. "Harry, you could solve this whole dispute by telling me why you love him."

"He doesn't want me to. I don't want to." Harry cocked his head, watching Connor closely. "And I don't think it would solve things; you would come up with another objection, Connor. I won't ask you to love him. I will ask you to accept that I do."

"If you would listen—"

"If you would," said Harry, "you would hear what I'm trying to tell you. I love him. I won't leave him. He's mine, and I'm his. That's the way it is."

He paused, but apparently Connor didn't have a counterargument for that right now; his face expressed nothing but dismay. Harry nodded once and turned away from the table.

On the way, he caught Ron's eye. Ron raised his brows, then clenched his left hand into a fist in front of his heart. Harry smiled and returned the gesture of respect as best he could; it didn't have exactly the same meaning, but since he lacked a left hand, he could tell Ron accepted it. He lingered long enough to hear Ron say, "You're being a right idiot, mate," which caused Connor to gape at him, and then he made his way back to the Slytherin table.

He met the owl who delivered his morning porridge from Hogsmeade, and stared unlading her. He merrily ignored Draco's stare for quite some time, until Draco said, "So you had an argument with your brother about me."

"Hmmm," said Harry, pouring the porridge into the bowl it came with, and reaching for the vial of juice. Orange juice this morning.

"And you fought with him for me," Draco said. "Why?"

Harry looked up. "What do you mean, why?"

Draco's face changed slowly, as if clouds were moving across it. Then he put his hand on Harry's arm and leaned in to kiss him.

Harry accepted it for a moment, returned it for a second moment, and then pulled back and sat down to eat his breakfast.

He kept feeling Connor's stare from across the way, and when Parvati joined him for breakfast, the stare redoubled. Harry didn't care.

Some of the people I love are being stupid right now. That's all right. They'll get over it, and I can wait for as long as they need.