Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N:As always, great thanks to separatrix and snottygrrl for their fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading.
"Damn it," Harry swore under his breath as he heard the now familiar shuffling from Ron's bed. It was one o'clock in the morning and Harry couldn't sleep. Neither could Ron, it seemed. After two weeks of living with him, Harry knew what to expect. Wanking. As if on cue, there was the soft snick of a drawer opening and closing. Harry rolled over and crushed his pillow to his head, hoping he wouldn't hear. Of course, knowing what Ron was doing only made Harry hyper aware of every sound in the room. The rustle of sheets, a sharp intake of breath, and the faint sounds of slapping skin penetrated Harry's pillow. Harry cursed under his breath, pulled the pillow around his head more tightly, hoping that Ron would get on with it.
Thus far, Harry had resisted the urge to get up, yank Ron's curtains back, and remind him that, while privacy was a limited commodity, a bit of cloth would not cloak his activities with secrecy and he was bloody tired of listening to him. He had to live with Ron, after all, and Ron was Draco's friend. Ron was Harry's friend, too, when he thought about it. Ron had taught him how to play chess, told fantastic stories about growing up with five brothers and a bratty younger sister, and about all of the magical places his family had visited over the years. Harry didn't want to do anything that might somehow impair any of that. But more than that, Draco had told him the "rules of engagement," as they were—what kinds of things he could cry foul over, when he could complain, et cetera, et cetera. Apparently, inconsiderate wanking was not on the list.
All of the ridiculous, unspoken protocol made Harry dizzy. He wanted to follow it. He wanted to fit in at Wolsford. But, at the same time, Professor Snape's words after Harry's first Botany class whispered incessantly in the back of his mind. Perhaps he wasn't being independent enough. So, when Ron started in with a series of low, warbling moans, Harry had had enough. Friendship and protocol be damned. He got to his feet, stomped over to Ron's bed, and ripped back the curtains.
"Must you do that all the bloody time?" Harry roared, ignoring Ron's surprised scream or the way he tried to cover himself with his hands, only succeeding in tangling himself in the sheets and wobbling off the bed.
"Bloody hell!" Ron squeaked, as Blaise sat straight up in bed and cried, "What the fuck is going on?" while Draco drawled, "Shut the bloody hell up! Some of us have to get up early."
Ron yanked his coverlet down and wrapped it around his middle. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Trying to get some sleep. But with you playing . . . doing . . .Jesus fucking Christ," Harry muttered under his breath as he rolled his eyes, "with you wanking all the fucking time, no one can get any sleep. Do what any normal person does and sneak into the bloody loo, bite your bloody tongue, and get it over with!"
It was silent for a moment before Blaise burst out laughing. "Fuck, Potter. Is that what you do? Sneak off to the loo?"
"That's none of your damn business," Harry snapped, the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment. He'd assumed that Ron was the aberration in all of this. He didn't have time to think about the possibility that his preferred wanking method was that different from the other boys.
"Oh, but I think it is," Ron said, hoisting the coverlet higher and standing up. "I'm not sneaking off to the loo when I have a perfectly good bed to wank in, thank you very much. That's what men do, Harry. They wank in their beds." Ron's eyes narrowed. "You're not one of those weird religious freaks are you?" He looked over at Draco who was finally sitting up. "He's not some freak is he?"
"Don't call him that," Draco growled.
Harry rolled his eyes. He was tired of Ron's wanking, Draco's constant hovering, and he was just plain tired. "Stay out of this, Draco," Harry said, missing the way his head reared back in shock and the way anger made his lip curl in contempt. "Look Ron, you do it all of the time. You don't even try and hide it. You've no consideration for the rest of us. Other people live here too, you know."
"Yeah, and you're the only one complaining," Ron said, glancing over at Draco to make sure he wasn't going to jump in and defend Harry. Judging by the incredibly cross expression on Draco's face, Ron didn't think that would be a problem. "Why is it that you're the only one complaining, huh? I bet you don't even wank, do you? What are you, some little mummy's boy?" Ron turned his head at Blaise's snicker. "Ickle little Harry doesn't know how to make his wee-wee feel good," Ron said in a baby voice, causing Blaise to laugh harder.
"Shut it, Ron. You're the one who can't keep his hands out of his trousers. I'm surprised you make it through classes without having a go. What? Miss your binky? Is this some desperate attempt to recapture the security of your childhood?" Harry tilted his head to the side and smirked. "You know that's what they say, Ronnikins. Boys who can't keep their hands off their bits miss their mummies. Who's the mummy's boy, now?"
"Why you," Ron started, but Blaise interrupted with a loud round of clapping.
"Brilliant. Fucking brilliant!" Blaise crowed. "I was worried about you, Potter, but you're going to fit right in. Isn't he Ron? Ron? Of, for fuck's sake, Ron, get over it. And you are a bit loud, you know."
"Whatever," Ron muttered before hopping back into bed and shutting the curtains tightly, before snapping them open once more. "Just for that, I'm not teaching you the Queens Gambit Declined," he huffed before snatching the curtains closed again.
"Oooh, scary stuff, there mate," Blaise said to Harry. "I hear that Queen's defense is real killer on the chessboard." Blaise snickered at Ron's grumbling before turning his attention to Draco. "Looks like Harry doesn't need you to look out for him after all," Blaise said. Draco didn't respond. "All right, chaps, back to your beds. Excitement's over," Blaise announced before flopping onto his back and pulling his curtains closed.
Harry, still standing near Ron's bed, turned towards Draco and smiled as he trotted back to his bed, feeling very pleased with himself, not noticing the blank stare Draco gave him in return.
Harry's fingers felt fumbly and thick as he tried to knot his tie. He wasn't looking forward to the Smythwick party. What if he forgot what all of the knives were for, or called someone the wrong name, or spoke out of turn?
Despite his brief brush with independence, Harry's insecurity about the upcoming party had driven him to dutifully listen as Draco coached him in what to say, how to act, who to talk to, and everything else he could think of. Draco's tutelage had been dragging on for days. The only thing he'd had accomplished, however, was to terrify Harry. He would never remember all of the "acceptable" humorous anecdotes Draco had tried to make him memorize, or the positions and favored charities of the husbands and wives attending, respectively, or what to do with all of those tiny forks. In the end, Harry had decided that the only thing he could accomplish was being himself—even if that didn't meet with Draco's approval.
"What are you wearing?"
Startled, Harry turned at the sound of Draco's voice. He looked down at his clothing. Charcoal gray trousers, white dress shirt, silver cufflinks, and a checkered gray and lilac tie—Harry didn't see the problem. "What?" he asked.
Draco rolled his eyes and stomped over. "You can't wear that tie with those trousers and that shirt."
"Why not?"
"Because you can't."
Harry was tired. It seemed his independent streak only came out when he was tired. He huffed and turned back to his wardrobe cupboard. "That's stupid."
"Look, do you want to make a good impression, or not?"
Harry whirled around. "There is nothing wrong with this tie or these trousers. And I think I can make a good impression all on my own, thanks."
"Yes, like you did at the start of term picnic," Draco drawled.
"Shut it, Draco," Harry rasped, wondering if he'd have a bruise across his stomach in the morning, for it certainly felt as though he'd been kicked there.
Draco sighed. "Sorry. That was, uh, a bit unfair. Look, I'm just trying to help you. Look out for you."
"Then be my friend, Draco. Like me for who I am."
Draco's nose wrinkled in confusion. "Of course I'm your friend. What's that supposed to mean?"
Harry rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. "Nothing. Let's just go. I don't want to be late."
"Fine."
"Fine," Harry responded before stalking out of the room.
"Welcome, welcome," Stuart Smythwick said with a bright smile as he ushered Ron, Harry, Draco, and Blaise into his home. After a perfunctory exchange of pleasantries, Mr. Smythwick directed the boys to the large parlor, but not before pulling Harry aside. "Harry, I thought you might enjoy seeing some of our formal gardens. We have some striking specimens."
"I'd like that very much, sir. Thank you."
"Wonderful, wonderful. I, unfortunately, won't be able to show you myself, but my daughter, Pamela, has graciously agreed to be your guide. Ah, here she is now."
Harry was met with the sight of an attractive young woman with honeyed-brown hair and pale skin. She wore a black sleeveless dress and the largest hat—replete with feathers—that Harry had ever seen.
"Pleased to meet you, Harry," she said with a smile.
"Er, yes, pleased to meet you as well," Harry stammered, trying to look away from the huge black plumes spilling from the top of Pamela's hat.
"You seem quite taken with my hat."
Harry's cheeks colored. "It's . . . it's rather striking."
Pamela giggled. "Delicately put, Harry."
She stood as if she were waiting for Harry to do something, only Harry didn't know what. Draco, Ron, and Blaise had already left and Mr. Smythwick was greeting a new batch of guests. "Shall we?" Pamela said eventually, holding out her hand as if she meant to place it somewhere.
Harry stared at her hand before realizing that he was meant to offer his arm. "Of course," he said. He jerked forward and stuck out his arm, his stomach squirming slightly as Pamela's cold fingers lay delicately across his forearm.
"Such a gentleman," Pamela said with a giggle. "We're off, father. I'll be sure to take good care of Harry," she said with a wink, as she pulled Harry away.
Harry's tie felt very tight all of sudden as Pamela whisked him through the room and out towards the garden. He'd craned his neck looking for Draco, but didn't see him. He wished—oh how he wished—he'd paid more attention to Draco's lessons. He wished Draco were with him. There had been an odd distance between the two of them, and Harry didn't understand it. It made him rather sad.
Lost in his thoughts, Harry didn't realize that he and Pamela Smythwick were in the gardens, alone, until she stopped and turned back to him with an expectant look on her face. He looked at her and smiled, not knowing what else to do. The beaming smile he received in return made him gulp and made his nerves jangle.
"Come on, there's something I want to show you," she said as she slipped her hand into Harry's and tugged him towards a large greenhouse. "Father's been experimenting," Pamela said with a smirk as she led Harry to a far wall.
Harry stopped. His jaw hung loose and his eyes grew wide. Before him stood one of the largest collections of rare orchids he'd ever seen. Beautiful spikes of chartreuse and red surrounded him. Some were incredible small while others were fat and sprawling. It was amazing. "Holy fuck," he blurted, before realizing he was standing next to Pamela Smythwick. "I—I—I mean, I'm sorry, er, Miss Smythwick, I didn't mean--"
Pamela giggled—Harry noticed that she giggled quite a lot—and laid her hand on Harry's arm. "Stop trying to be so proper, Harry. I say fuck, too, you know. Oh, and call me Pammy. All my friends do."
Harry relaxed. "Thanks. I never know how to act at these things."
Pammy snickered. "Nor does anyone else. That's what makes these parties soooo enjoyable. Come on, let's get closer. Dad's been creating Odontocidium clones. Aren't they smashing?"
"They're fantastic," Harry said as he leaned closer and fingered some of the smaller blooms.
"Tell me about them?" he asked, his head cocked to the side with boyish enthusiasm.
Pammy giggled again, thinking to herself that Father had been right—Harry Potter was definitely someone she should get to know.
"God, these things are boring," Blaise muttered as he slurped at his drink. "I'll be glad to have the real stuff at the cottage party. These soda water and fruit juice things are terrible."
Draco grunted as he scanned the room. "Have you seen Harry? I need to start making his introductions."
"Not since old man Smythwick sent him away with Pammy."
Draco's head snapped around. "What?"
"Er, yeah. Didn't you see them? Pammy and Harry wandered out into the gardens straight away." Blaise twisted around. "Don't think they've come back in yet."
Draco nodded, distracted, before finishing his drink in one long swallow. "I'm going to get another," he said, as he walked in the opposite direction of the bar.
Ron came up as Blaise watched Draco walk away. "Where's he headed?"
"For another drink," Blaise drawled.
"But the bar's that way," Ron said, pointing the other way.
"Yes. I know."
"He's been acting very strangely, have you noticed?"
"No, Ron. I completely missed that."
"Wanker. You know what I mean. He's all weird about Harry."
"Yeah. He's gone looking for him, I suspect."
"How do you figure?"
"He's headed in the direction of the gardens."
"And?"
"Pammy and Harry are out in the gardens. Looks like Draco still has a thing for Miss Smythwick."
Ron hesitated. "I suppose," he said slowly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I just . . . well, have you noticed how, er, protective Draco is of Harry? He's worse than my brother Charlie."
"Yeah, I noticed. Every time we ask Harry questions about anything related to his past, Draco jumps in and answers for him. Don't think Harry likes that much, though," Blaise said with a contemplative frown. "I mean, do you remember that night that he told you off about your constant wanking?"
"Not so loud!" Ron hissed, swinging around wildly, hoping no one heard.
"Well, do you?"
"Yeah, Blaise. It's a bit hard to forget. I was traumatized, I hope you know. One minute I'm . . . well, you know, and the next some deranged elf-boy is staring at my bits and screaming at me."
Blaise rolled his eyes. "Elf-boy? And, really, Ron, I thought you were over that."
"He's small and has strange ears. And I am over it. I taught him the Queen's Gambit Declined, didn't I? I don't go around sharing that with just anyone, you know. He's tougher than he looks, that's for sure. I was afraid we had another Nervous Neville on our hands, but Harry's a good sort. He's quite funny, did you know? Wicked sharp sense of humor. Not a bad chess player either, with my help, of course."
Blaise sighed in irritation. "Can we get back to the matter at hand? As I was saying, do you remember that Harry told Draco to stay out of it? Draco looked furious."
"Huh," Ron said in response. "Not surprising, really. Harry's a tough kid. And a little bit of Draco goes a long way. But there is the other thing."
"What other thing," Blaise asked.
"Haven't you noticed how much Harry looks like Jordan?"
"Oh, Christ, not that again."
"I'm serious. It's like he's her brother, or something."
"They're not related, Ron."
"Yeah, I know. But, don't you think it's odd that Draco's girlfriend looks exactly like his childhood friend? And now, apparently, he's all hot and bothered that Harry and Pammy are in the gardens. Alone."
Blaise's eyes narrowed. "Just what are implying, Weasley?"
Ron held up his hands in surrender. "I'm not implying anything. I'm just saying that there's more going on here than an over-protective friend. Maybe there's something in Harry's past that both of them are trying to keep secret—something really horrible or traumatic, or something."
Blaise snorted. "Right. You think Draco can keep a secret?"
Ron laughed. "You're right. Didn't think about that. I don't know. There's just something odd there."
Blaise nodded. "Odd, yes. But let's not speculate about things that we shouldn't speculate about."
Ron's eyes drifted up and to the right as he tried to untangle that. "Er, fine. Yeah. Course. All right, back to the small talk. Dad would be so proud," he said as he walked away and moved to the next conversation.
Blaise snickered, but found himself turning back to the gardens, wondering what was going on.
"There you are. Thought you'd gotten lost," Draco said, his eyes glittering dangerously at the sight of Pammy Smythwick clinging to Harry's arm.
"Draco! Have you seen the greenhouse? It's amazing," Harry gushed, his eyes sparkling. "Mr. Smythwick is cloning orchids. Really, really rare orchids. Did you know? Have you seen?"
Draco smiled, happy to see Harry so excited, but it vanished when Pammy giggled. He was quite unsettled at seeing Pammy and Harry canoodling in the gardens, but he didn't understand why. Did he really want Pammy Smythwick after all? Or, perhaps, was this just another way in which Draco and Harry were too different? He liked plants just fine, but his eyes didn't sparkle over the prospect of cloned orchids. It hurt. Everyday it felt like his friend was slipping away, and Draco didn't know what to do to hold onto him.
"Isn't he adorable, Draco?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry said, bristling at yet another remark about his diminutive stature.
"Oh, calm down, darling. I just mean it's so refreshing to see someone excited about Dad's work—other than the family, I mean," Pammy said, as she fluttered her eyelashes in Harry's direction.
"Er," Harry said, wondering if one of the feathers had gotten in Pammy's eyes. Her eyes blinked rapidly, as if trying to expel some foreign object. He wasn't entirely sure how to handle such a situation. Should he knock the feathers out of the way? Should he ask her about it? He was saved from having to do much of anything, because Draco—as Draco often did—took over the conversation.
"Yes, well you've had your fun, Pammy. Time to release the claws. It's really quite rude to cling to a guest for so long, you know, especially when the poor chap hasn't even had a chance to get a drink. Honestly, those ridiculous hats are cutting off the circulation to your brain," Draco snapped.
"Oh yes, I'd forgotten. Draco Malfoy, paragon of virtue," Pammy volleyed back.
"It's okay, really. I really wanted to see the gardens, Draco. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine for keeping Pammy for so long. I'm sure she was just indulging me," Harry said, desperate to avoid an argument. He hated when people fought—especially if he was in the middle somehow. It made his stomach clench and twist and roil unpleasantly.
"You don't have to apologize," Draco said to Harry before turning back to Pammy. "I'll take over from here, make sure Harry is introduced to the right sorts, since you obviously have no inclination to do it for him. Of course, what you consider the 'right sort' wouldn't much help to Harry tonight, now would it?"
"How dare you," Pammy screeched as her fingernails dug into Harry's arm.
Harry yelped and shook his arm free. Pammy and Draco turned back to him, surprised. "Yes, well, I think I can make my way around the party myself. Excuse me," he said before darting off, leaving Pammy and Draco standing in the gardens.
Draco was dumbfounded. How could Harry choose to go it alone rather than let Draco help him? What had happened to the gypsy kings? To their oath sworn in the stables before school started? Draco turned to look at Pammy, who was running the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip in contemplation.
"I think you've scared him off," she said. "No matter. I'm sure I can capture his attention at the cottage party."
Draco knew precisely the kind of attention Pammy wanted to capture at that particular party. "Leave him alone, Pammy. He's not your type."
Pammy snorted. "I think he's exactly my type. Handsome, intelligent, dashing, and bashful—I'd say he's quite perfect." She cocked her head to the side. "Looks like you've a bit of competition, Draco," she said before sauntering back to the party.
"What's eating you?" Blaise asked as he tried to stay in slow step with Draco, who seemed determined to stay as far behind Harry and Ron as possible. The party was over and the boys were making their way back to Wolsford's main entrance.
"Nothing," Draco said.
"Nothing. Right. My eyesight must be fading. Should I try Harry's glasses?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Shut it."
Blaise sighed and cast about for something to say. "Pammy seemed quite taken with Harry, did you notice?" Draco didn't say anything in response, so Blaise continued. "I think she fancies him some sort of mysterious rebel, what with the fact no one knows anything about his past."
"I know everything about his past," Draco said in a clipped voice.
"Okay . . . well, the rest of us don't, Draco, and every time we try and ask Potter a question about something, you jump in and answer for him. What is he hiding? And why are you hiding it for him? What, did he burn down his last school, or something?" Blaise asked with a chuckle. When Draco didn't respond, Blaise got a bit a worried. "Hey, seriously, he didn't burn down his school, did he?"
"Of course not, you idiot."
"What crawled up your arse? You've been a pill all night."
Draco stopped walking and faced Blaise. "Why the sudden interest in Harry? He your new best mate, or something?"
"You're acting like a lunatic! What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing's wrong. Just fucking leave it!"
"Whatever."
They trudged silently for a few moments, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet the only sound.
"How's the party shaping up?" Draco asked, his tone conciliatory.
"Working on the guest list. Obviously, we'll invite Ron and Ha--, well you know."
"You can say his name, you know."
"Sure about that mate?"
Draco sighed. "Yeah, I'm sure. Who else are we inviting?"
"The old crowd, of course. Anyone new you think should make the cut?"
"Not especially."
"We could always invite Nervous Neville," Blaise said with a titter of laughter, not understanding why that seemed to make Draco scowl again.
"Harry'd like that. He and Longbottom have become fast friends," he said with a sneer.
"Seriously? We need to sit him down and have a frank chat about social hierarchy at Wolsford. He'll be doomed if he's not careful."
"Yeah, well, he seemed to do just fine tonight, didn't he?" Draco said, the bitterness evident in his voice.
"Yeah. I thought Pammy was going to try and take him right then. She's coming to the party, you know."
"Shut it about Pammy! I don't want to hear anything more about that cow."
Blaise shot Draco a strange glance. It was hard to keep up with the emotional tilt-o-whirl Draco seemed stuck on. "What has gotten into you about Pammy Smythwick? You're acting like you're jealous. You had your chance with her, you know."
"Shut it!" Draco growled before stomping away, leaving Blaise to follow alone, shaking his head in bewilderment. Ron was right. There was something odd going on.
Draco stomped along the gravel walk, listening to Ron and Harry laugh about something or other. That should be me. He should be laughing with me, Draco thought to himself. It was as if he'd been invisible all night. Well, invisible all week, truth be told. It wasn't going at all the way Draco imagined. The party had been a disaster, at least Draco thought. Harry had been whisked away the second they'd walked through the door. Harry hadn't even tried to find him. Of course with Pammy draped across his arm, why would he concern himself with Draco? He certainly hadn't thought of Draco as he barreled through the house, making his own introductions, defying the delicate, unspoken protocol. He hadn't thought of Draco as he made all sorts of plans for dinners and study groups that didn't include him. He'd not turned to Draco, or sought Draco's opinion, the entire night. It hurt, but Draco didn't understand why. He wanted to, and he wanted Harry to explain it to him, though he didn't know how to ask. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" Draco whispered to himself as he wrapped his arms around himself and continued walking, alone, through the cold night.
"Where are you going?" Draco asked as Harry packed up his satchel. Two weeks had passed since the Smythwick party—two weeks of intermittent arguments and spurts of silent treatment. It was a week before the cottage party, and Draco was desperate to have his friend, his Harry, back.
Harry rolled his eyes. He was getting tired of Draco always wanting to know where he was going, what he was doing, who he was with. "Botany study group," Harry said as he cast about for his botany notes. "Main Library. Don't wait up."
"But I thought we could study Literature and then start going over your riding lesson schedule."
Harry sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't know you wanted to do those things and I've already committed to this."
"Well, I didn't know you had formed yet another study group," Draco said hotly.
"You're not serious?" Harry asked, wondering why Draco was getting so upset. "You're not taking Botany. Why would I tell you about the study group?"
"Because perhaps I've made other plans for us," Draco snapped.
"Well, perhaps you should let me know about these plans before you simply decide things for me. I'm perfectly capable of making decisions, you know."
Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping to regain some semblance of control. "Of course," he said eventually. "Tonight's not a good night in any event. Blaise still needs my help with the party preparations for this weekend. Why don't we get an early start on riding on Saturday morning?"
Harry shifted from foot to foot. "Er, about Saturday," he began.
"What, another fucking study group?"
"No," Harry sneered. "Thomas Wright invited me and Neville to lunch in his family's formal gardens."
"And you're just telling me this now?"
"I wasn't aware I had to clear my schedule through you, Draco, and, not that it matters, but Thomas just invited us earlier today."
"Well, you'll have to tell him you can't attend, is all," Draco said with a sniff.
"The hell I will, Draco. You don't own me, you know. I'm not some little doll that you toss around at will. I can make my own friends and do my own things. I don't need you right there every single moment of the day smothering me!"
"You ungrateful sod! I've done nothing by try and help you here."
"And I'm grateful, Draco. Truly. But I'm capable of answering questions people have about my past. I'm capable of carrying on a conversation with Pammy Smythwick without your intervention, and I'm damn well capable of deciding with whom I want to study or visit and when I want to do so. I'd appreciate it if you stopped trying to live my life for me!"
"Oh, yes. Good old Pammy Smythwick. I wondered when she'd make an appearance in this conversation."
"What is your fucking problem with Pammy Smythwick?"
"You mean besides the fact that she's uncultured cow?"
"Damn it Draco! I thought this was over."
"I thought so to, but you seem incapable of not thinking about Pammy."
"She's my friend, Draco. Would you like it if I stopped thinking about you?"
Draco's gaze was hard and Harry couldn't figure out for the life of him what was going on in Draco's crazy brain. Things had been all right until the night of Smythwick's start of term party, but had spiraled out of control from there. Harry didn't understand why Draco cared if Pammy Smythwick was his friend. Despite her odd choice in hats, she had a sharp wit, and, like her father and brother, a keen interest in botany. Harry was thrilled to have another friend. Why couldn't Draco be thrilled for him? After all, it wasn't as if Harry was interested in her. He'd made the mistake of asking Draco if he liked Pammy, if that was why he was being so odd about her. Draco had called her an uncultured cow who was as easy as they came. That had resulted in a spectacular argument between the pair after which they hadn't spoken for two days.
Harry's thoughts were brought back to the present at the sound of ripping paper. "What are you doing?"
"You don't want to be late for your little study group," Draco said as he continued to rip out sheets of paper from his journal.
"Why are you ripping out those pages?"
"These?" Draco replied, holding up bits of paper. "Since you obviously don't need me to help you learn to ride, and you don't seem to have the time for me to teach you, there's no reason for this schedule, then," he said as he tore the remaining bits of paper into even smaller pieces, tossing them in a nearby rubbish bin. "Maybe Thomas Wright can teach you to ride. Better yet, perhaps Pammy can. I certainly don't want the job anymore," he said archly as he turned his attention back to his Literature notes.
Harry stared at the rubbish bin for several moments, blinking back the hurt and the anger he felt. Draco knew—he knew—how much Harry wanted to learn to ride. More importantly, it was something that they were going to do together. But Draco had wrecked everything.
"Why would you do that?" Harry whispered.
Draco sniffed. "I've decided not to waste my time, is all. I know when to cut my losses. Oh, and by the way, just a little bit of advice. I've had Pammy Smythwick and so has everyone else. She has no standards, you know. She'd fuck a wall if she could."
Harry gasped—it was as if the breath had been squeezed from him in one short, vicious twist. "Why would you say that? To me?" he asked. Draco didn't respond. Harry pushed down the hurt as far as he could, but he couldn't stop the words as the fell from his lips. "You're nothing more than a miserable, spoilt child. I can't imagine why I ever thought I wanted to be friends with you. Have a nice fucking life," he said before leaving, wondering why he put himself through this time and time again.
Draco watched Harry go, wondering how things had gone so terribly wrong. All he wanted from Harry was a little bit of consideration. Was that too much to ask? He was Harry's best friend. Not Nervous Neville, or Thomas Wright, or, or Pammy Smythwick. God, he hated her! He knew she just saw Harry as her latest conquest. She'd get what she wanted and hurt him, leaving Draco to pick up the pieces when she was done with him. Draco knew how girls like her operated, why couldn't Harry? Or, more importantly, why wouldn't he listen to what Draco was trying to tell him? Draco looked at the rubbish bin, resisting the urge to gather all the tiny pieces of the riding schedule he'd made and tape them back together. "Fuck," he said under his breath, wondering what to do now.