Right, so apparently, I either write two thousand words a night, or can't put pen to paper for a week. I'm sorry this took so long to update, but I hope that it's sort of, maybe, worth the wait?
Chapter Two
After the war time took on a new meaning for Harry.
Before the war he'd moved at a slower pace. Now everything whirls about him, and just as he thinks he can reach out and grasp the moment it is pulled away.
As a child he'd seemed to have all the time in the world. He'd sweated for hours on the Dursley's garden, crouched in the tree for absolutely millenniums before Aunt Marge had called off her dogs. Spent positively eons staring out the school window, waiting, just waiting for something (anything) to happen.
Then Voldemort had come, and with him a feeling of time speeding past. Of not enough hoursminutesseconds to do what needed to be done. And every time Harry paused to breath, it seemed another person would die, another muggle would be found tortured to death.
And every time he blamed himself.
Of course he blamed himself. This war was on his shoulders, had been from the moment the prophecy had smashed in the Department of Mysteries. Had been, even before that, when Voldemort had chosen him instead of Neville. Placed his mark on Harry. Visible. For everyone to see.
The war had been his responsibility and sometimes he felt he could never make up for the lives that were lost as, day after day, he watched others fight his battles. As, day after day, he stood sheltered by the Order, unable to do anything until the time was frigging right.
Time had sped past. And the only way to cope had been to pushshovecastaside all feelings that hindered. All the guilt he should have felt, could have felt, had he only let himself.
During the war, his war, he had been aware of what others did for him. But couldn't allow himself to feel their pain. Truly feeling their emotions. Because if he had, it would have destroyed him.
Had known, but not understood.
But it had been his war. And was his war still. And it seemed he'd built up a debt of guilt to be given to those who had fought.
Since the war it seemed that all the feelings he should have felt, would have felt had he not been tied up fighting for the world, had hit him all at once. As if they had been stored up, somewhere in his mind and heart.
He found himself, now, spending so much time thinking of those the war hurt. Those he hurt. Those nameless faceless enemies in white masks, bent on destruction and revenge for the wrong magic had done them in coming alive in those of lesser birth.
He dreamed at night of green light and spells that ripped men's hearts from their chest while still beating. Of women who screamed as their skin was shredded from their muscle and bones, strip by strip.
But most of all he dreamed of the prisons, full to bursting during that war. Prisons commandeered by both side, where regardless of whether you called yourself light or dark, you were required to do things... unspeakable things to others.
Harry hadn't spent long in the dungeon. He had been needed for more important tasks, the prophecy dictating his every move. But others he knew, Justin Fintch-Fletchley, Padma Patil... they had been the prisons wardens. The torturers.
Parvati said Padma still wouldn't speak of what she had done.
They were the true casualties of the war. Those whose lives had been destroyed so utterly destroyed that they could never be returned, that never could they live normally. Enjoy the sunlight on their faces and the grass beneath their feet. That in every waking moment of every day, they felt the urge to atone for past mistakes, to feel heavily the guilt laid upon their shoulders by those such as Harry who demanded more of them than any person should ever be expected to give.
Those who had died had escaped such a burden, and sometimes Harry found himself wondering in it wouldn't have been better to have been one of the multitudes that died.
He knew intimately the guilt of those who had manned the prisons. On more than one occasion he had asked that acts unspeakable be done to others. And he had felt no remorse. For it was not the time for remorse, for those feelings that would send you to your knees if you let them.
But now. Now the war was over and the dark cloud of Voldemort and his followers was gone. Now he remembered every action he had sanctioned, every person he had ever touched in hatred, and he vowed never to do so again.
...
Draco Malfoy was a study in scarlet as he walked towards Flourish and Blotts.
Well, to tell the truth he was a study in scarlet and black, in which the only scarlet to be seen was (and let's admit it, a Malfoy would hardly be seen dead in scarlet – and Draco is still mostly a Malfoy) the inner lining of his coat.
But still. Harry saw that scarlet and his heart was warmed.
Not because he held any ridiculous notion that the colour (on a Malfoy! A Malfoy!) would imbue the wearer with any form of empathy for Gryffindor.
Or well, not fully because of that.
And the other reason... well he didn't really want to consider the other reason.
No really. He didn't.
But then... he hadn't actually lectured himself on his sexuality before. That was new. And rather detrimental to the plan of not thinking about it. No really.
But there was the lecture. In his head. In third person. And wow, how many synonyms for cute did he know?
But still, there is no way Malfoy is hot. There is no way. In this world or the next. Malfoy just isn't good looking. Really Harry, he's not. He's really not. Good looking? No. Handsome? No. That rather alarming adjective there... you know sexy... Just - just no. A thousand no's.
But still... Malfoy. In crimson...
And he was thinking in terms of shades. Of red.
Red was red. Any hot blooded heterosexual male knew that. But here he was contemplating the pros and cons of crimson vs. scarlet vs. burgundy. And he hadn't even realised he knew those terms. He was sounding so camp. So gay.
And there it was. That word. Gay.
Harry had, admittedly, gone through a brief period in which he'd considered being gay. It had seemed rather attractive when he'd been young and foolish. And Oliver Wood had just scored that goal and was glistening with sweat...
Ahm...
But the truth was, there'd been Cho, and Ginny, and there was no way he wasn't attracted to girls. I mean, he'd had more than the token amount of hard on's when an attractive girl was around. And he was horny.
And well, if his fantasies were anything to go by he was as heterosexual as they come.
Breasts figured. As did, to put it bluntly, vagina's.
Penises? Not so much.
Being gay had been a good idea, theoretically. Because, well, he'd kind of figured boys might be a little less wet, and clingy. And well - not as much fuss. But in practice? Well, he just didn't think he was capable of it. Gayness, and all.
Except, apparently, when Malfoy was in the room.
And wasn't that a blow. Harry had figured if he was going have a sexual identity crises it would be over someone like Ron. Or Charlie, or Oliver. Someone reasonable.
But no. His hormones had chosen Malfoy. Malfoy of all people.
And no, Malfoy was not good looking. No matter what his body was telling him.
He was a ferret. Too pale, too pinched. And he had those alarmingly scary blue eyes. And that hair. Greasy and urgh. And greasy. And urgh. And his skin, well... okay maybe his skin was... but no. It was dry and guh. And... his – his... he was too short. Way too short. Barely a head taller than Harry... And...
And...
Well. He wasn't cute. He wasn't.
Really...
...
"I'm know I'm gorgeous, Potter. But really, do you have to stare quiet so intently?" Malfoy's voice cracked through Harry's reverie. As he sauntered down the stairs from the upper level of Flourish and Blotts.
Harry mentally screamed several four letter words at himself along the lines of you s head, why the f weren't you paying attention, fff and so on.
"Cute?" his mouth replied, thankfully no longer hotwired to his brain. "You?"
He thought perhaps the condescending tone could have been more convincing. And, well – the way his voice had cracked on the last word? Totally gave him away. But anything was better than saying Malfoy for some reason I find you insanely attractive, pleasepleaseplease sleep with me. NOW! Because that would have been insane and – well... insane. And rather more likely than he cared to admit.
But still...
He'd totally given himself away.
"God, Potter. You really do find me attractive, don't you?" asked Malfoy, stepping close. And why did he feel the need, now, of all times, to start invading Harry's personal space?
"N-no," said Potter. Because well. He may have totally given himself away. But it wasn't like he was going to admit it.
Never. Even if he had to stay away from Malfoy for the rest of his life just to make sure he failed to admit it. Even then.
And if he weren't standing at the foot of a very public stairwell in a very public building he would have turned and fled. Fleeing was allowed.
Except when it meant humiliating himself in public.
Nothing, not even Malfoy, was worth a week of Rita Skeeter's headlines.
"Sure you do," said Malfoy, his breath rather disconcertingly brushing against Harry's cheek. "Now, why did you want to see me?"
"W-who said I was..." Harry started.
"Potter you've been stalking me for the past three days. I'm not blind, you know. And well – I don't think even a Gryffindor would sink to sexual harassment. So you must be following me for a reason other than this – um – crush. So obviously you want to talk to me," Malfoy paused, a speculative look coming into his eyes, "but then, you never know. You're not going to try and rape me or anything are you?"
Harry coughed a little. Then spluttered. Then coughed a little more.
"I'll take that as a no, shall I?" asked Malfoy.
Harry found his voice, which unfortunately seemed to have gone up an octave in its absence. "I wouldn't... I'd never... I don't..."
Malfoy just blinked. "You really need to work on your verbal skills, Potter. Sentences are actually meant to be finished. We may be wizards but we're not telepathic. Well – I say we're not telepathic. Well – not many of us are telepathic. Alright, I'm not telepathic. I tried I really did. But nothing worked. So Potter, if you need to tell me something I'm afraid those sentences need to be finished. Or use a new sentence. New sentences are good too. Just not unfinished ones. Because..."
"You talk too much," squeaked Harry.
"I do not," said Malfoy. "In fact, I resent that implication. I say the right thing, all the time. I'm a Malfoy. It's, like, well our skill – if you will – our trademark. We talk. People listen. And what we've said? Well, it's always perfect. Always. Every time. We are wordsmiths of rare skill, we are trained..."
"Malfoy, you horrendously insulted half our year within six months of arriving at Hogwarts," said Harry, sexual tension momentarily forgotten in the absurdity of what Malfoy was saying.
"Ah, but I insulted them with the perfect words," said Malfoy. "Didn't I?"
Harry blinked. "Mudblood?" he said.
"Exactly," said Malfoy, nodding. "What did I say? Perfect."
"No, Malfoy. Not perfect," began Harry. "Far from perfect. Immature, juvenile..."
"You know, Potter," interrupted Malfoy, smoothly. "We may want to leave the public stairwell of Flourish and Blotts before having this conversation. In fact, we may want to adjourn to the privacy of the Leaky Cauldron. Where, incidentally, there aren't any absurdly dressed, annoying little men recording our conversation."
"I take exception to that!" squeaked Ronald Quastel. His nose wrinkling underneath a horribly yellow hat. (And Harry hated to admit that Malfoy was right – about anything – but really, that hat was absurd.)
"I think I'll take this," said Malfoy conversationally, trying to snatch the notepad as Ronald patted said hat reassuringly.
"You can't do that!" he protested, fighting back.
"I think I can," said Malfoy. "Oh look, I did." He tucked the book inside his robe. "Come on, Potter, let's leave. There's just something about this place I find I can't stand." With a pointed glance in the journalists direction.
...
"I really don't get you, Malfoy," said Harry as they entered one of several private tearooms at the Leaky Cauldron.
"Get me?" asked Malfoy. "My dear Potter, I am an open book. You spent seven years with me at school, and you don't get me. Really I despair for the human race. Or well – the progeny of Potter anyway."
Harry just stared. "In what way are you an open book," he asked. "First you're the heir to all evil. Then you're the turncoat. Then the hero. And now, apparently an open book. I mean, I just don't get you."
"You know. I like that," said Malfoy, appreciatively. "The heir to all evil. Has a nice ring. But really, Potter. There's only one thing you need to understand to 'get me' – as you put it. I am selfish. Totally utterly and incontrovertibly selfish. I look out for myself, and my own. Everyone else can go hang. See, tada, open book."
Harry just stared. There was really no response to that. Because, well, Malfoy was selfish. But... well Harry had seen selfishness. He'd even been selfish himself for most of his life. He couldn't have survived the war if he hadn't been totally and utterly selfish. Sequestering himself from humanity until it had ended.
But Malfoy just wasn't a selfish Harry recognised.
There was grabby selfish. The sort that demanded everything 'at once, or else!' The protective selfish. It's mine so you can't touch. And the lazy selfish. The sort that sat on the lounge saying 'nope, my time's my own, you get none of it.'
And, okay, maybe Malfoy was a little of all of these. But he'd thrown himself in front of a curse for Snape (luckily just a hex for a bloody nose.) He'd spent hours during the war trying to convince his friends to flee. He'd hugged Molly Weasley when he'd thought no-one was watching, and told Charlie that Norbert really had gone to Dragon heaven.
No. Harry really didn't get Malfoy.
But then, maybe that was good. Maybe now he could truly get to know...
And, damn, there it was again. That – that gayness. He would be wearing a pink shirt any minute now. Because he didn't want to get Malfoy. He felt no urge to spend long afternoons in his company trying to plumb the mysteries of his soul. Really he didn't.
Because, Malfoy may be an enigma. A mystery. A fascinating, riddle of a person but Harry didn't care. Because all this touchy-feely stuff implied he was actually interested in Malfoy. Not just wanting to get into his pants. (Which admittedly...) But actually interested. As in, interested. And that was just not on.
"You really need to stop ticking yourself off," observed Malfoy. "I can see your brain hard at work lecturing from here."
"Shut up, Malfoy," said Harry.
"Alright, alright. I'm just saying. Gryffindors." The last was slung across his shoulder as he crossed the room. "Brandy?"
"Uh, no," said Harry. "And what do you mean 'Gryffindors'?"
"You're just all so bleedingly obvious," said Malfoy. "I mean, you walk around looking at me like I'm gorgeous and everyone in the street knows exactly where your interests lie. Your Weasley girl just needs to say your name and everyone in the vicinity is acutely aware you haven't actually slept with her. And the sexual tension between the Weasel and Granger. Well. Need I say more?"
"I don't..."
"You do, Potter. It's obvious. And anyway, I am gorgeous. So don't worry about it," said Malfoy as he sipped his brandy.
"But. You... I..." stuttered Harry.
"Get over it already, Potter. I'm not going to assault you, and I'm not going to tell anyone. Though, really, I'd be surprised if you don't do that yourself. Your face reads like... well like one of those muggle things. A Fellytision. You know, the pictures and lighting tell the story. Besides it's fashionable to have a crush on a guy. Everyone's doing it."
"You really do talk too much," said Harry. "Wont people be a little horrified at the thought of me, well, liking you? I thought we were enemies?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?" asked Malfoy.
"Scarface, git, Mudlover, freak..." intoned Harry.
"Oh," said Malfoy contemplatively. "I can maybe see where you're coming from. Be assured, most venerable Scarface, I am not your enemy. Only honest."
"Well. I can hardly tell Ron and Hermione that, can I?" said Harry. "Oh, yeah, your remember Malfoy. You know the Prince of Evil. Yeah. He didn't hate us. He was only being honest. They'd hardly get over six years that easily. I'm not sure I'm over six years that easily. "
"Oh, but I fought for you," said Malfoy. "You have to like me now." He drawled. "Lord, Potter, you're the one who decided I was gorgeous. I just, what's that muggle saying? 'Go with the flow.' I hardly hate you. Haven't hated you at all really. Not since Voldemort killed my parents. Have to say that shifted him rather closer to the top of my 'hatehatehate' list than you could hope to be. If you want to worship my body from afar, go right ahead. If anything I'll be flattered. You don't need to actually associate with me. Remember I didn't initiate this meeting."
"No, but..." protested Harry.
"Look, I won't be a problem for much longer anyway," said Malfoy. "A few more weeks and I'll be back at Hogwarts. Then you can get on with your life. And worship me from an even greater distance."
"Oh," said Harry.
"What do you mean, 'oh'?" asked Malfoy. "Disappointed?"
"Not really," said Harry. "Though there is a flaw in that plan."
"Oh, you're not? Potter, tell me, you're not? You're the hero of the wizarding world. It's not like you have too," groaned Malfoy.
"Either you're really, really quick on the uptake, or you have the wrong idea entirely," said Harry. "What did you think I meant?"
"Obviously, you're returning to those hallowed halls of learning, you idiot. It's not like it could be anything else. Why, do you have to come back to Hogwarts? It's not like you need to."
"Maybe I do," said Harry.
"Well, maybe you don't," said Malfoy prevaricating.
"Not over those six years so easily then?" asked Harry.
"Maybe not," agreed Malfoy.
...
"What did you want to tell me, anyway?" asked Malfoy once they'd hunkered down and made a fair dint in the brandy bottle.
"Washn't important," slurred Harry.
"Come on, Potter. You followed me for three days, it must have been important," said Malfoy.
"Washn't. I wash consherned," said Harry. "Why aren't yoush drunk."
"Of course I'm drunk," replied Malfoy. "But apparently coherent. What a surprise. Normally I'm comatose by now."
"I think yoush is actually using more sy... sysh... syll... word sound things now, dan before," moaned Harry. "I need an interpretsher."
"You probably need someone all the time, the human language seems to be beyond you," said Malfoy. "Though, in your state I'd be surprised if you could actually handle words of more than one syllable. Let alone those of three or four," he looked contemplatively at the last of the alcohol. "Well, you could probably attempt them. But they'd have several superfluous and confusing 'sh' sounds resounding throughout."
"Huh?"
"Never mind," muttered Malfoy.
"Otay," murmured Harry.
Malfoy closed his eyes as he rested his head gently on the sofa's pillow. "What do you mean 'concerned', Potter?" He asked, a little sleepily.
"I wash wondering if yoush wash alright," Harry murmured, his voice muffled in red carpet that lay before the fire.
"Oh," said Malfoy, all sorts of uncomfortable squirmy feelings taking residence in his gut. "I'll think about it in the morning. Sleep now? Okay."
"'tay."
...
Typically when waking up hung-over Harry would be cataloguing in great detail and with a liberal use of hyperbole just how terrible he felt. But this morning it seemed he was not so much hung-over as still moderately inebriated.
He blinked blearily at his watch, one o'clock in the afternoon. Just how much had be drunk?
A lot, he realised as he looked at the twelve bottles lined neatly beside the couch. Maybe even more than a lot. Maybe an enormous – let's never tell Hermione, she'll kill us – amount.
Enough certainly for it to still be in his system several hours later.
"Malfoy," he muttered, poking the blond boy cautiously. "Just wanted to tell you, I'm going now."
Malfoy didn't move. Didn't even shift in his sleep. Barely even snorted.
"Malfoy," hissed Harry louder. "Malfoy."
No response.
"Come on, Malfoy, you git," moaned Harry, prodding harder. "You'd better wake up, or I'm going. Won't even be polite about it. Give Aunt Petunia an aneurism. Spent sixteen years trying to teach me manners, she did. Serve her right if I never use them."
Malfoy didn't even respond as Harry, admittedly still a little drunk, tried to pull his eyelids open.
"Wake up, you git," hissed Harry trying to roll him on his back.
Tugging at his arm and leg, ineffectually, before just giving in and heaving at his chest.
He gave a small yelp of alarm as Malfoy began to roll, and failed to stop. Rolling straight off the lounge and onto several empty alcohol bottles.
A series of discrete cracks emanated from beneath him, and Harry wondered just how badly he was hurt. Because... wasn't that blood seeping into the carpet. It was a red carpet, so it was hard to tell. But he could swear...
"Wake up, Malfoy!" he hissed. "Please," he added, as an afterthought.
He contemplated rolling Malfoy off the glass, but vague memories of a muggle First Aid certificate had him wondering if that was the right thing to do. Couldn't that just make it worse?
Of course, if he wasn't drunk there were hundreds of spells that could heal wounds and stem bleeding. He just couldn't remember them.
Well, he could maybe sort of... no.
But even if he could, it would probably be wisest not to use them. Seeing as how he was drunk. And probably couldn't even throw up accurately.
Apparently, though, he could make red sparks. Very pretty red sparks. Which were maybe even crimson.
A.N. Of course there's another trip to Mungo's coming. But I promise, they'll reach Hogwarts soon. And the biggest, hugest thanks ever to anyone and everyone who reviewed. I have to say every word I get from someone whose read this makes me insanely happy.