Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Wound in Song and Crowned in Flowers

Draco felt hostile to the whole world as he stood there with Harry in his arms. Well, at least potentially hostile to the whole world. Anyone who would try to take Harry away from him and insist that he make some speech or answer questions counted.

He'd heard the sirens' song less as music and more as a simple pull towards open sky and open land and open water, at least until Harry had begun singing back to them. Then he'd listened to the conversation swaying back and forth, a thread of silvery argument countered by the golden reason of the phoenix song. He'd not known he would be able to follow it so well, or that the songs would twine around each other in a tight net that tugged him on to the right conclusions. Harry was persuading the sirens to leave, and they were going to leave, at least if he could show them visions that charmed them enough to do so.

Then he'd heard the voices, the voices of Harry and his mother, overlaid on the conversation as though they were standing in front of the lake where the sirens sang.

It had been—a memory Harry hadn't shared with him. Or he had and Draco had forgotten about it. Either way, it had felt like the shock of hearing it for the first time. It certainly explained some things that Draco had often wondered about, including how Harry could be so bloody reluctant to take a lover.

And it infuriated him that so many people got to hear something so private about Harry, almost as much as it did to look around the Great Hall and realize how many of the expressions were ones of pity.

He'd raced everyone else outside when the wards fell, to insure that he got to Harry first. And now, as Harry leaned his head on his shoulder and briefly succumbed to his nearness, Draco felt it had all been worth it.

The next moment, though, McGonagall appeared in a gap of the trees, and Harry stood straight and pulled away from Draco. Draco had to content himself with running his hands over Harry's shoulder while the Headmistress asked anxious questions about the presence of the sirens and the safety of the school.

Harry wrote his answer on the air in the same letters of fire that he'd used when he refused to speak to Draco for two days. The sirens came at Falco's command. He's become a Dark Lord, and he was using the same technique that Voldemort did to control them a few years ago. I drove them away, but Falco escaped before I could do anything about him.

All stripped down, Draco thought, very neat and simple. He wasn't surprised when the Headmistress frowned and asked, "And what about the voices that we heard, Harry? You and—" She glanced over her shoulder at the curious students and professors appearing behind her. "Your mother."

Harry's face turned so pale that Draco grabbed his arm, afraid that he would faint on the spot. He must not have realized other people could hear that, Draco thought grimly. He would have wanted to keep it private, and now his privacy was splattered across the air for everyone to see.

It made Draco dream of seeking Falco out and possessing him, then forcing him to flay himself. Surely that was possible. Making someone commit suicide with possession was possible. So this ought to be.

Once again, though, Harry refused to give in to whatever temporary weakness he might be feeling. That was a weapon Falco used against me, Headmistress. Not intentional.

"He was trying to make you become distracted and give him the upper hand in the battle?" McGonagall asked, her eyes sympathetic.

Draco thought he was the only one who noticed Harry's slight hesitation before his flesh hand moved to trace the letters in the air. Well, Snape, who hovered at McGonagall's shoulder and stared at Harry as if he were never going to let him go again, and was only prevented by Harry's age from picking him up and carrying him to bed, might have noticed, too.

Yes, Headmistress.

McGonagall sighed. "Such are the ways of Dark Lords." She turned around and nodded to the students behind her. "You are all quite safe, and the vates is uninjured," she announced. "Back to your breakfasts, if you please."

Of course, no one pleased. They crowded around Harry, asking questions, staring in fascination at his throat as if they couldn't believe that a song so clean and spontaneous and pure had come welling out of it. Harry endured it all, more polite than Draco could have been. It probably helped that he couldn't speak, and his letters on the air only answered one question at a time, so he could pretend to ignore those he found too uncomfortable.

Snape made his way to Harry's side as soon as possible, his hand falling heavily on Harry's shoulder. Harry nodded to him and cleaved close. What the Headmistress's sternness hadn't been able to accomplish, the Potions Master's scowl did. Snape successfully won Harry free of the crowd and led him inside.

Draco followed slowly, thoughtfully, never letting Harry out of his sight, but thinking a number of thoughts that were quite unusual for him. Harry would be honored for this; even if no one else had seen the struggle or heard the song, the children at Hogwarts would write to their parents.

Now, for the first time, Draco thought he was seeing why Harry didn't want to be. He had not looked triumphant when Draco came to fetch him, but simply exhausted. For a few moments, at least, he had sagged as if he hurt, as if his legs were unable to support him.

Perhaps, no matter how great the achievement, having the celebration right after it isn't a good idea.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Harry wanted to brood.

It wasn't—it didn't hurt that much, to have a memory splayed across the ears of those inside Hogwarts—and further away, for all he knew. He could bear it. He could survive it. He had survived having people see worse during the trial.

But he wanted an hour, even just a few minutes, to curl himself up inside a little shell of pain, and wrap the memories around a core that he understood, that other people didn't dictate to him. The core wouldn't have self-pity in it. It would have complete understanding. Because he was the only person who completely understood himself, after all.

Just a few minutes alone…

But it appeared he wasn't to have that. First it was Snape remaining beside him as they went back into the Great Hall, hovering until Harry sat down, and then watching until he ate his first bite. Harry ducked his head, a dull flush mantling his cheeks. He could understand the reason Snape wanted to watch him—he had nearly vanished from life, in one way—but surely all the people peering from the other tables and watching him act paternal would embarrass him?

They didn't seem to. Indeed, Snape leaned closer to him and said quietly, "See that you do not forget you have a father here, if you wish to lean on him," before stalking back to the Head Table. And Harry knew that Millicent, sitting on one side of him, and Draco, come to sit on the other side, had heard.

Then it was Connor coming over, to hug him and exclaim about his nearly having lost the battle and how strange it had been, to feel his own limbs deadening and turning inside out with fear and delight as he listened to Harry and the sirens talk to each other. Harry returned the hug one-armed; Draco was holding his other hand in something like a death grip.

Then it was Argutus, come slithering over to demand to know why he'd been left out of all the fun, and then it was a large gray owl, descending magnificently towards the table, carrying an envelope with the official Ministry seal. Harry ripped open the seal with his flesh hand, leaving Draco to hold the silver, and scanned the letter that lay inside somewhat desperately.

Dear Harry:

A great many people saw your struggle with the sirens in the air over London. Though it means that the Obliviators will be busy working amongst the Muggles, it was an important reminder for our world of what we owe you. Will you consent to having a small ceremony held in front of the Ministry of Magic tomorrow, to honor your valiant sacrifice? We would not keep you long, but it is important, we think, to reassure those who watched that you managed to survive the battle without harm, and that you remain in the wizarding world as a deterrent to threats, and the champion of the magical creatures.

Sincerely,

Rufus Scrimgeour.

Draco took the letter from him and read it when Harry offered it in silence. His voice was soft and very pleased, thick as cream. "That's good news, Harry, isn't it? You get to remind them of what's actually at stake, and at the same time get a reward for your good behavior." He sniffed. "Time that you actually had something of your own, I think, rather than political concessions that any right-thinking wizard should have granted immediately."

Harry managed to smile. It wasn't so long ago that you were opposed to some of those political concessions, he teased. He kept the letters small, so that Draco was the only one who could see all of them. Does that mean you've changed your mind? Or was Draco Malfoy one of those wizards who miraculously remain right, no matter which side they're on?

Draco had the grace to look embarrassed. Then he put his nose up and said, "This is the Draco Malfoy who's your lover, Harry, and very proud of you." He leaned closer, so that his nose ruffled Harry's hair, and whispered, "And who's making sure we will still have that holiday."

Harry shot him a grateful look. Draco, occupied in reading the letter over again, didn't notice. Then he sat back and started offering suggestions for what Harry should write in his return letter, only half of which, if any, Harry actually felt compelled to use.

He complained silently to himself in his head, then took a deep breath and started writing. So he wouldn't get time to brood. That didn't matter. The day had to go on, and he was sure that he would be stared at in classes and the corridors. Well, why not? He'd done a great thing, hadn't he?

The notion that he hadn't remained in the middle of him, gnawing. And gnawed, and gnawed, and gnawed, all the way through Potions while Snape's eyes rested on him, through Defense Against the Dark Arts where people craned their necks back to give him awed and excited looks, through Transfiguration where some of the Ravenclaws who'd once made plans to track him with a special spell seemed poised to take notes on which miracles could come out of his hands.

I didn't do it to impress anyone, Harry thought, when he heard someone whisper something about that, snickering. He thought it was one of the seventh-year Slytherins. Of course, they had a right to be less than impressed with him, since they lived in the same common room with him and saw him trip over chair legs and slump asleep on the couches with a train of drool running down his face. But, likewise, they should have known him well enough by now to realize he would never do something like this as a—as a—

As a Gilderoy Lockhart stunt, really.

I just did it because I had to. And that's it. People are heroes all the time because they have to be, and no one gives them festivals for it, or stares at them in the Hogwarts corridors and whispers behind their hands.

I'm sick of it. I wish it would go away.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

"Thank you for coming here today, Harry." Scrimgeour was using a Sonorus charm, so that the rest of the crowd who spilled, shoving and pushing, into the narrow little alleyway could hear him. "This festival in your honor is a small thing, the least of what you should have, but we wished to see you honored as close as possible to the day of the actual battle. It would not do for us to forget."

I wish you had, Harry thought. He simply nodded; it was still hard for him to talk. That appeared to be enough to content the crowd, which applauded and cheered wildly. They were in the same place where Harry had held his press conference last Midwinter, to warn everyone in the wizarding world that the wild Dark was attacking. It was extensively warded against Muggles seeing anything, and an image of them floated above the alley, showing, like the Sonorus charm, what happened for those who stood near the back. Harry didn't think his face had stopped flaming since he arrived.

"A small festival" still meant the Ministry did stupid things. There were reporters everywhere, most of them calling out excitedly for the smallest quote from Harry, and with cameras snapping in his face every time he forgot himself and glanced to one side. Garlands of flowers, magically forced into blooming early—or actually brought from other countries, for all Harry knew—lapped the posts and railings of the small platform Scrimgeour had constructed, and an Auror had come forward with another crown for Harry the moment he joined the Minister. Harry had to restrain the urge to rip it off and throw it into the crowd. They were blue flowers, with long thorns that seemed in danger of poking him in the eye whenever he moved.

Draco stood beside him on the platform, his arms looped together around Harry's waist, his face deeply content. Snape was just behind him, armed with a scowl that kept most of the reporters from trying to photograph him. Harry had wanted Connor to come with them, too, but his brother had refused, saying he'd had enough of celebrations in his name to last him a lifetime. The only ones he wanted now were the parties that came after he'd won the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor.

Besides Scrimgeour, a few members of the Wizengamot were on the platform: Griselda Marchbanks, looking stiffly proud, and Elder Juniper, a man Harry hadn't met before. He said little, but from the long and keen looks that he directed at his face, Harry suspected he was a good politician. The Minister had said, with a small shrug when Harry asked him, that the festival had been mostly Juniper's idea, but he had agreed with it because he thought the wizarding world should be reminded of what they owed Harry.

What they owe me, Harry thought, as he gloomily surveyed the cheering crowd, most of whom probably saw no more than a blurry image, is an hour to let me rest by myself and just think.

It hadn't happened yesterday. Draco hadn't left him alone all day, including falling asleep in his arms with a smile that seemed to have permanently marked his lips. Harry had thought he would lie awake and do his brooding, but his magical exhaustion—which he refused to go see Madam Pomfrey for, in the only battle he won that day—and the warmth of Draco so close had sent him spiraling into sleep far sooner than he'd meant to go. And then he'd awakened today and had to come to the Ministry for this stupid ceremony.

The Many snake, looped around his throat because Harry had felt like bringing her, stirred, reflecting his agitation. Harry wished he could raise a hand to touch her without attracting instant attention; as it was, he hissed softly to her under the cheering, calming her down. Parseltongue didn't hurt his throat as much as English still did. He felt her coils slowly shift into a state of relaxation, and the soft flick as her hood and tongue worked to touch his throat.

"Your fame as a vates," Scrimgeour said, when the applause had died down enough that people could hear him, "has justifiably won you the nods of the righteous before now, but the regard of the relatively few." Harry didn't miss the glance he sent sideways at Juniper when he said that last, and filed it away for future reference. "And yet, you have freed the southern goblins, freed the northern goblins, freed the centaur herd of the Forbidden Forest, freed the unicorn herd of the Forbidden Forest, released a Many hive from its web, freed the Dementors, survived two flights with dragons, negotiated a settlement for the werewolves so that they might begin to enjoy the same rights as wizards, and freed a house elf who was then able to show the rest of us how we have gone wrong. That is an impressive toll of achievement for a task begun—how long ago now, vates?" He turned courteously towards Harry and waited.

Harry held up three fingers. His throat still burned like hot iron when he spoke. Swallowing made it only slightly better. But then, luckily, he wasn't required to make some sort of speech at this mad ceremony.

He wondered for a moment why Scrimgeour hadn't just summarized his accomplishments as vates, something along the line of "freed many species." Then he grimaced in resignation. That wouldn't have fulfilled Scrimgeour's purpose, which was to remind the people watching and listening, the people who loved him right now, exactly how much he'd done and gone unacknowledged for. But still, Harry thought, nearly rubbing his forehead with one hand before he realized how such a gesture would be interpreted and stopped, he could have lumped a few of them together. The centaurs and the unicorns and the Many hive and the Runespoors, which not many people knew about, had all lived in the Forbidden Forest. He could have made just one pithy statement about that, and been done with it.

Merlin, his head hurt.

"Three years," said Scrimgeour, his voice proud and ringing. "How many of us could have done so much in three years, even if we thought to begin respecting the rights of magical creatures in the first place?" More applause, of a kind which made Harry's teeth ache. "And now you have the sirens to add to that list, Harry. Truly, a most impressive accomplishment. Wizarding Britain would still be much more a country of slaves than it is if not for you."

He paused for some remark from Harry. And perhaps Harry could even have forced one out. He should have said something about how Britain would still be a country of slaves until Muggleborns were free and enjoyed equal rights, perhaps, or until all house elves were free of their webs, or until someone could walk down the street and not receive sidelong stares—an allusion to Jacinth, and the other children who might be like her, and a way to begin building support for them.

Perhaps it was just as well that he didn't say that last, he thought, as he met Scrimgeour's eyes, given the volatile relationship he had with the press, and his dislike of being stared at for becoming Voldemort's magical heir, never mind everything that had happened since then.

"You have saved my own life several times over," Scrimgeour said, evidently deciding Harry would not respond. I love my sore throat, Harry thought sardonically. It saves me all the trouble of coming up with an excuse not to say something. "And the lives of so many here. I do not know how many were on the verge of jumping into the Thames when the sirens sang—"

Embarrassed laughter welled up from the crowd.

"But I can testify that I was in tears when the phoenix song sounded." Scrimgeour inclined his head to Harry, his face gone grave and respectful. Harry knew he should admire the man's political instincts that let him travel from a matter of laughter to a matter for sorrow so quickly. He just wished he would stop talking and go away, though. "That is another thing we should not forget, vates, that you saved us from the wild Dark and that a phoenix loved you enough to give up his life for you. We heard your voice once, on the morning when the rebellion ended and we were able to give werewolves something like the rights they needed." Juniper snorted, and Harry thought he knew which issue the Elder and the Minister parted company over. "To hear it again is a gift for our time, an unearned reward."

Harry just nodded, while his face flamed so hot that it felt as if he were getting a fever. Does he have to keep doing this? I don't want people staring at me. There are other things to stare at, genuine wonders like phoenixes and sirens that share the world with you and which you never look at. And Fawkes didn't die because he loved me. He died because, without his death, the wild Dark would have taken me and taken the world. That's heroism. Sacrifice. Not just another part of my story.

"Given all this, and the other things you have done for us, including your victories in the war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, we see fit to present you with a small token of the Ministry's appreciation." Scrimgeour smiled slightly. Harry was sure that many would take that smile as ironic. This close, he could see the deep sadness in the Minister's eyes, and he suspected that his next words were true. "It is all that we can give, other than our hands and our minds, to support the same cause that you have supported, and truly, though the hands and minds come closer to making up our debt, neither is enough."

Harry closed his eyes. His head was spinning, and he felt nauseated. Merlin damn you, Scrimgeour, you've done more than enough. You've used all the power of your office for my sake, and taken risks that you shouldn't have taken if you wanted to remain a popular Minister. Why do you have to do this, too? It's not right, and it's not fair.

"The Order of Merlin," Scrimgeour continued. "Elder Juniper has asked to be the one who presents it to you, and I can only agree to his request."

Harry snapped his eyes open. No.

The Order of Merlin was mostly reserved for those who did valiant deeds in war; it had been awarded posthumously to several members of the Order of the Phoenix, including Gideon and Fabian Prewett, after the First War. It could also serve as a reward when an ordinary citizen did something heroic, like capturing a fugitive, in a way that went above and beyond the call of duty.

Harry hadn't done anything like that. He'd freed the sirens, for their sake and not the sake of the wizarding community, and he had suffered through a memory he hadn't been anxious to relive, since it would remind the entire wizarding world he was an abused child. And he hadn't managed to defeat or capture Falco, which would have turned yesterday into a real victory.

He made brightly colored letters appear in the air in front of Scrimgeour, shining like lightning. With all due respect, Minister, I can't accept this.

Scrimgeour frowned slightly. "Why not, Harry?"

I haven't done enough to merit it.

Draco gave him a little shake, and hissed in his ear, "Harry!" Snape moved a stride forward, but Harry couldn't turn to see his face and didn't know what he was thinking. Griselda and Juniper frowned. But Harry's eyes were locked on the Minister, whose face was thoughtful, but melting into a gentle smile.

"I assure you, Harry," he said, "that you have." And he nodded to Juniper, who moved forward to pin the medal on him.

Harry looked straight into the Elder's eyes. It didn't take Legilimency to read the emotions there. Juniper felt sorry for him, and that, along with the desire to see what kind of political opponent Harry made, was what had caused him to come on the platform and award the Order of Merlin.

It was too much. Harry felt his self-control break and fall in pieces like rotten wood. He drew back with a long hiss, and the Many snake reared around his throat and swayed threateningly towards Elder Juniper. Thanks to the image duplicating them in the sky, many saw that.

"Harry!" Draco gasped.

Juniper stepped back out of harm's reach, but his face had gone guarded, his eyes dark. Harry was viciously glad that he had at least lost the traces of pity he had shown.

"Harry, what is the meaning of this?" Scrimgeour said, and his voice was gentle, disappointed, and far too understanding.

They would not understand his real reasons, none of them. And he'd already disappointed everyone and ruined an important political moment that, Draco would say, could have been used to do other people a world of good. So no one should much mind if he did something even more offensive.

Harry shoved Draco's arms away from him, calmed the Many snake with a tiny hiss, and Disapparated.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Draco didn't have to ask where Harry was. While everyone else on the platform acted as if Harry's disappearance was the work of Voldemort, he knew. When the Minister had, in embarrassment, to cancel the festival and have Elder Juniper take the Order of Merlin away—he had seemed deaf to Draco's promise to hold onto it for Harry—he stood there in silence, feeling his anger build, because he knew. And when Snape took him back to Hogwarts and went to search the dungeons, Draco went directly to the Slytherin common room and climbed the stairs to their bedroom, because he knew.

Disappointment and anger struggled in him, but the anger was steadily winning. Why couldn't he just accept this? Those feelings of unworthiness and embarrassment could have been suppressed just a little longer. He deserves those honors, and more, and even if he doesn't think he does, then he could let us think he does, and give them to him. And having his Many snake attack a Wizengamot Elder!

He wasn't sure if Harry had gone a bit mad, or simply couldn't stand the thought of a medal—which would count as a bit mad, in Draco's opinion—but the simple truth of this was that Harry had set back his political relationships. Draco had ears, and he could listen to what the crowd was murmuring behind him before they Apparated, and what Juniper had said to Scrimgeour before they left the platform. A few were shocked at Harry's attitude. Many more were prepared to think him ungrateful, or pitied him because he was an abused child and they supposed the reminder might have been too much for him.

All that Draco could think, as he opened the unlocked, unwarded door and stepped inside, was that Harry had better have a damn good explanation for this.

He paused when he entered. A large, dark shape that looked something like a beehive, but hummed with magic, occupied the bed. Draco gave it a sharp glare. At last he worked out it was a layered cocoon of wards, and that Harry was inside it. Probably brooding, he thought, or building himself up to an unreasonable rage.

On the table near the door sat a Pensieve. Draco walked slowly towards it. It was the Pensieve Harry had given him for Christmas, filled with memories that let him understand Harry's mindset at the time they were happening. Draco hadn't worked through all of them. He always rejoiced when he finally understood something strange Harry had done or said, but too many of the memories made him sick with rage and hatred to view more than two or three an afternoon.

The silver liquid in the Pensieve trembled now above the brim, as though something new had been added. Draco knew the exact usual level of the liquid. He'd stared at it often enough, lying awake in the morning with Harry in his arms, the only time he got to watch Harry sleeping without Harry knowing he was doing it.

He cast one more glance at the beehive, and verified he wasn't getting in without suddenly turning into a Lord-level wizard. He reached out and plunged his head into the liquid of the Pensieve.

The world turned around, and then he was standing on the platform and watching Harry listen to Scrimgeour's speech.

This time, though, he could hear and experience Harry's thoughts.

Draco stared. Harry's thoughts were angry, irritated, and resentful, but almost none of them had to do with feeling himself unworthy of the Order of Merlin. Most of them came from not having had enough time to put his head to rights as regarded the memory Falco had shown the rest of the world. No one had left him alone long enough for him to do it.

Oh, Harry, Draco thought, as he watched Harry's agitation climb and climb, until the moment came when the Order of Merlin was offered and Harry did turn into the paths of thinking that common heroism happened all the time and wasn't acknowledged, so he didn't see why his should be. If you didn't want to go to the festival, you should have said so. Scrimgeour would have accepted it, I'm sure. And if he hadn't, then never mind. Why didn't you say so?

He knew the answer almost at once, of course, because this memory enveloped him in Harry's point-of-view. Harry knew it was a political bridge-building opportunity, and he didn't feel able to refuse it. And he understood Scrimgeour's purposes, and viewed the Minister as an ally. If it made him uncomfortable and embarrassed, that was a small price to pay for earning visibility and notoriety that might benefit the house elves' cause, or someone else's cause, at some point in the future.

Except that, this time, it had been too high a price. Harry had needed more time to hide and brood alone—though Draco wished he did not think he had to work through his thoughts about the memory alone—and this time his temper had splintered before the demands made on it. He hadn't thought of the fact that he was a Lord-level wizard, and could keep others waiting on his pleasure, if he desired it. No one would object. They might be angry or frustrated, but they would remember Harry's magic and what he had done for them, and calm down.

He does hate disappointing people.

Draco pushed a little further at the memory, wondering if Harry hadn't slept well last night, and that was the cause of his tiredness. He smiled a bit when he realized his own presence had lulled Harry to sleep long before he was ready.

No, he realized a moment later. Falco had used the memory as a web, trying to coax Harry into surrendering to it, and Harry had yearned to do so. And the guilt and the discomfort of that were mixed up with his efforts to find some sort of peace with the fact that now most of the British wizarding world knew about his old determination not to have a family or a spouse.

Shit.

And he hadn't told them about that, of course, because—

Because he was Harry.

Draco came slowly out of the memory, shaking his head, two resolves like iron blades in his mind. One was that he couldn't be angry with Harry, because Harry needed him too much for things like watching his back in a political situation. Draco kept priding himself on his perception and his keener instincts for what Harry could do, did he? Then he should have been able to realize Harry's mounting anger was more a result of emotional exhaustion than simple discomfort with the notion of being celebrated, and insisted that everyone wait a day.

The second was that they both needed that holiday, and he was going to make sure Harry took it.

He looked over at the bed just as the wards collapsed into each other and Harry came out, shaking his head like a cat rising from water. His expression was calmer than it had been since Draco first saw him after the siren battle. He'd brooded, then, and confronted his pain, and probably tucked it into some private corner.

He faced Draco, and waited. It took Draco a moment to realize he was waiting for a scolding.

How he thinks I could, after having seen that memory—

But perhaps Harry hadn't expected him to check the Pensieve.

He moved forward, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend and kissing him softly. Harry lifted both his arms in self-defense and made a low, confused sound in his throat, which he grimaced about a moment later.

"Your throat still sore?" Draco asked quietly.

Harry, head on one side as if wondering what the trick was, nodded.

"Then you should go to Madam Pomfrey," said Draco, slinging an arm around his shoulder and tugging him to his feet. "And after that, we'll go to the Headmistress. I'll do the talking, if you like."

Harry sighed noiselessly, and the letters appeared on the air. About the festival I ran away from?

"About our holiday," said Draco. "Both of us need it, you as much as me, and I won't let it be put off any longer."

Harry actually stumbled for a moment. Then he glanced sideways, a glance that turned into a full-on stare, and new letters appeared, erasing the old. You're not angry at me?

"Not when you share like that," Draco said, with a nod to the Pensieve, and caught Harry's eye. "Not when you trust me so much, the way that you would never have trusted me just a year ago."

Harry, still hesitant, still looking as if he believed this new situation would reverse at any moment, put his arms around Draco. They stood there like that for a moment, breathing.

Draco kissed the top of Harry's head, and glared at the wall, imagining any enemy who might try to stop them from vanishing together for a few days. He needs me just as much as I need him.

Anyone who tries to get to him this weekend is going to have to pass through not just his wards, but every trick I can put in place.