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 Sansa for her fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading. Also, thank you all for your wonderful reviews! You have no idea how much they mean to me. Slowly, but surely, I am answering them . . . please forgive my tardiness.

CHAPTER 27: Quiet Before the Storm

"Are you sure you're going to be okay over the break?" Ron asked as he hefted his luggage onto a small trolley in the Great Hall corridor.

"Yeah, course," Harry said with a shrug.

"At least it's only for the week. You'll get loads of work done."

"That's why I decided to stay," Harry said, the lie tasting like ash.

Ron licked his lips and looked around. "You could always come home with me, mate. With so many of us, Mum would never notice another teenage boy running around." Ron's eyes flicked up. "Though the black hair might be problematic. Rotten luck you're not ginger-haired."

"I don't really see that as a problem," Harry said, laughing.

"There's nothing wrong with ginger hair," Ron said, shifting his luggage and clearly trying to fight the blush blossoming across his face.

"No, there's not. And certainly not for one Miss Granger." Harry snickered as Ron's blush deepened.

"See if I ever invite you home again."

"Sorry, Ron. You know I don't mean anything by it, yeah?"

"Course you stupid prat. I'm not an idiot. I mean, have you met Fred and George?"

Harry laughed again, remembering his one and only meeting with Ron's devious twin brothers. "I still don't believe that they did half of that stuff."

"They did," Ron said with his serious face in place. "Trust me, mate, they did."

Harry smiled.

Ron cleared his throat. "I should go—don't want to miss the coach into town. You'll be okay?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm staying at school, Ron, not being thrown into the jungle."

"It's just that . . ." Ron hesitated. "You've been . . . you know."

Harry stiffened. "Been, what?"

Ron shrugged. "You know. Quiet, moody . . . erm . . . you've just seemed off, I guess."

Harry tilted his head to the side, willed his body to relax, and affected a lazy grin. A classic Harry Potter pose, one that he'd begun to use again with increasing frequency. Funny. He'd thought coming to Wolsford meant he wouldn't have to do such things anymore.

"I'm fine." Harry laughed lightly. He relaxed as Ron's troubled expression cleared. "You know, you'll make a good mummy one day."

Ron pushed Harry's shoulder. "Bloody prat. Okay, then. See you."

"See you," Harry said, watching Ron walk away, relieved that he'd made a brilliant escape once again.

He watched the other students leave, most getting into fancy cars and only a handful taking the coach into town to the train. He wished he was one the boys scrambling around with trunks, ducking his mother's attempts at hugs.

Fingers brushed his side, making him shiver. "Alcove in the hall," Draco whispered as he passed by.

Harry sighed—watching as a boy got into the backseat, his face split by his beaming smile—before turning away and following Draco at a safe distance.

He waited a few moments before ducking into the alcove, making sure no one saw him. As he entered, hands grabbed him and pushed him against the wall.

"Jesus, Draco," Harry said before Draco started kissing him. "Someone's happy," he murmured in between kisses.

"Got to get them all in now, before I go. Not much time," Draco said, nudging Harry's head to the side so that he could kiss his throat. He pulled back, his eyes shot with panic. "No one saw you, right?"

"No one saw me," Harry said with a bitter sigh. Draco's attack and subsequent panic at being found out was becoming something of a ritual.

"Good." Draco said, his hand caressing Harry's cock. "Fuck, it'll be forever till we can do this again."

Harry let out a hiss of pleasure. "It's—it's only a week," he got out before giving up on conversation all together.

DDDDDDDDDDDD

Somehow in the end, they wound up on the floor with their trousers undone and Harry's jumper half off.

"I'll never get tired of that," Draco said, sprawled against the wall.

"Hmm," Harry replied, irked and feeling quite confused as to why he was upset.

"Seven days without that. How will we stand it?"

"It's just a week."

"Yes, well, you've the whole school to yourself. I'm off with Mum on some insane trip to visit cousins I've never even heard of."

Harry hated thinking about Draco's trip, the abruptness of it, that he wasn't invited. He hated it almost as much as he did the confusing sense of discomfiture that seemed to well up inside after each secret meeting. He stood and started righting his clothes.

Draco followed suit, fussing with his collar and shirt cuffs until he deemed them presentable. "I suppose this is it," he said, reaching out and skimming his fingers down Harry's arm.

"You're off, then?"

Draco bit his lip and nodded. "I'm sorry about this. I didn't think Mum would schedule this 'imperative family trip' over the holiday. Are you going to be okay?"

Harry huffed. "I wish everyone would stop asking me that, and yes, I'll be fine. It's a week, Draco. Not eternity."

"I know. I just thought we'd spend the holiday together."

Harry waved him away, smiling and trying desperately to maintain a façade of nonchalance. "We'll have loads of holidays together. Besides, Professor Snape has lots of work for me."

"That's great that he asked you to help him in the greenhouse—says a lot about what he thinks of you."

Harry nodded, looking away. He hadn't told Draco about his failing grade or Professor Snape's punishment. Thank God his detentions with Filch had been out on the grounds.

"I'll get you something, a souvenir from Vienna."

Harry licked his lips. "Some chocolate, maybe?"

"Already on the list. I know all about your chocolate fetish. Perhaps I'll get the liquid kind?" Draco smiled that smile that only Harry ever got to see.

"Erm, sure," Harry said, kicking himself, wishing the suave words he could hear in his head had come out instead.

Draco laughed. He reached out, his hand squeezing Harry's shoulder. "I'll see you in a week."

"Yeah. A week."

Draco stared at him, as if memorizing every line, every hair, before turning away and darting out of the alcove. Harry watched him go, remaining in the shadows until the school was quiet and still.

DDDDDDDDDDD

"I need the cuttings to be extraordinarily precise. Two centimeters, nothing more, nothing less."

"Yes sir."

"And only from the tips. Anything lower than that will be useless."

"Yes sir."

"Find the healthiest stalk from each specimen—I don't want any shriveled cuttings."

"Yes sir," Harry said with an exasperated sigh. "Two centimeters from the healthiest tip. I get it."

Professor Snape looked over the top of his readers. "Watch it. And don't forget to place them in the solution."

Harry nodded, following with a mumbled, "Yes sir," as he placed a cutting in a small beaker of preserving solution.

"How is your project coming?"

"Fine. The lichen on the left looks exactly like the lichen on the right."

"No creative license taking?"

"No sir."

"Very well. Mind that cut—it looks a bit ragged."

Harry stared at the cutting. It looked like all the others to him and he liked to believe himself quite fastidious about something as important as a cutting. With a shrug and a promise to "mind his cuts," Harry returned to work.

They worked in companionable silence for a long while, the sound of snipping and chopping creating a soothing rhythm. That was until Professor Snape started taking in gulps of air as if he meant to say something. Harry's shot Professor Snape a furtive glance, wondering when he'd just get on with saying whatever it was he was avoiding. It made Harry very nervous.

"The headmaster mentioned that he'd spoken with you."

Harry stared at the stalk he was getting ready to cut, not moving. "Yeah. Funny bloke."

Professor Snape glared at him, but Harry just shrugged in response.

"Have you made any applications?"

Harry continued staring at the stalk, making no moves to cut it. "Applications to where?"

Professor Snape didn't say anything for several long seconds, instead concentrating on a delicate graft. "I would be very careful if I were you," he said at long last, making a final, precise cut. "I've been playing games much longer than you've been alive."

Harry's face colored with embarrassment.

"Now I'll ask you again, have you made any applications?"

Harry shook his head.

"Why not?"

Harry shrugged again, the tenor of the conversation making him anxious. "Don't need to."

"And why's that?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I applied for Chile," he said, not daring to look up.

Professor Snape didn't reply.

"If that doesn't work out, I'll stay with Draco for the holiday."

"The headmaster has encouraged everyone who applied for Chile to apply for other opportunities, as well. You're not the only one."

"Yeah, I know," Harry said, his heart hammering in his chest.

"I would hate to see you waste your holiday when you could be learning something that will help you later, both here at Wolsford and in your career."

Harry made a particularly vicious snip with his shears, trying to get out with action what he didn't want to say with words.

"Mind your cuts."

"What's it matter? It's not like I'm going to Chile, yeah? Isn't that what you're trying to tell me?"

"I've told you time and time again, no decision has been made and you will be considered along with everyone else who has applied. But it would do for you to have a back-up—Draco is not a back-up. He is an indulgence."

"He is not. He lov—" Harry stopped himself in time, glad he'd not said something so ridiculous as . . . as . . . no, he wouldn't even think the word. It wasn't like Draco had ever said it. And why would he? It wasn't like Draco wanted anyone to know about them.

"He, what?" Professor Snape asked, as if he'd been asking it for sometime and Harry had only just noticed.

"What?"

Professor Snape put his knife down with a heavy thud. "What is wrong with you? Are you on drugs? Has Draco gotten you mixed up in something?"

"No! How could you even think that about him? About me? What, because I've got knocked around in life, I'm automatically a waster? Some sort of smackhead? Well thank you very much."

"Don't try to play the indignation card with me. You're sitting there staring off into space, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, refusing to respond to my repeated questions. You've been distracted and anxious for weeks now. Just what was I supposed to think?"

"Maybe—Maybe—Look, just stop talking."

Surprisingly, Professor Snape did. He pursed his lips so hard Harry was sure they'd fall off, but he didn't say anything else for a long while. Harry thought he'd like that, but instead it just gave him time to think.

"Why didn't Mrs. Malfoy want me to come with them?" he blurted some time later.

Professor Snape's hand jerked, almost causing him to miscalculate his cut. "Excuse me?"

"Does she not want me to come this summer, too? Is that what this is all about?"

"Are you ill? If it's not drugs, are you seriously deranged? Never mind—don't answer that. You would not have been permitted to leave for the spring holiday even if she had invited you, so why does it matter?"

It wasn't lost on Harry that Professor Snape had completely ignored his question about the summer, making him feel more anxious than he already was. "So? It matters to me. Why didn't she want me? Not good enough for Draco, am I?" Harry sneered.

"What is wrong with you? Talking to you is like dealing with a toddler."

Harry didn't know what was wrong with him. He just had all of this—this anger, these feelings—none of which he had any idea what to do with, except that he wanted them out.

"I am not!" he retorted, sounding like a child even to his ears.

"I refuse to talk to you when you are like this. Leave. You can return this evening and work alone."

The words ripped through Harry, hurting deeply. Even Professor Snape couldn't stand to be around him. "Whatever," he snapped, blindly pushing away his specimen tray. "Don't do my any fucking favors," he snarled as he slammed the door to the greenhouse, running as fast he could.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

Harry didn't know how long he ran. He stopped, gasping for breath, and doubled over. Once he could breathe without painful contractions in his side, he looked around. It really wasn't surprising where he'd wound up.

"'lo there, Harry," Mr. Hagrid bellowed, yelling from the front of the stables once he'd caught sight of him.

Harry waved back, wishing Mr. Hagrid hadn't spotted him. He just . . . he wanted to be alone. What was wrong with being alone?

Mr. Hagrid beckoned him over with a huge grin on his face. Harry sighed and made his way over.

"Hello, Mr. Hagrid."

"Saw you runnin' out there. Like a house a'fire, you were. Like old Buckbeak on a tear. I saw you and thought to myself, what's got that lad's back up li' that? You alright there, Harry?"

"Yes, sir. Er, sorry. I just, um—" Harry shook his head. "I was working with Professor Snape, and—"

"Bah. Say no more. One word from Professor Snape's enough to get any man's back up. He swoops round li' a damn bat sometimes."

Harry's jaw fell in utter shock. He'd never heard an adult utter a bad word about Professor Snape. But then Mr. Hagrid's description caught up with him. Harry clamped his hand over his mouth, desperate to stop the giggles begging to get out at the thought of Professor Snape with massive wings sprouting from his back.

Mr. Hagrid didn't bother hiding his mirth. "Go on, then. Let it out. A bit of a laugh never hurt a man. Even one as prickled as Professor Snape. Why, he's like some of them persnickety plants o' his."

Harry couldn't stop the sniggering laughter. Mr. Hagrid chuckled right along with him until finally they both stopped. Harry felt immeasurably better.

"Prickly as they come, I say, but make no mistake about Snape," Mr. Hagrid said, sounding very serious all of a sudden. "He cares quite a bit for ya. Never thought I'd see that man take to anyone. But you—scruffy and scrappy as that damn horse in there—you, he takes to. Ain't that a right sight?"

"What? What do you mean?"

Mr. Hagrid waved away his questions. "Nothing particular. Just . . . he's always coming down, making damn sure you've not got on Buckbeak, that the tack's in order, that you know how to use it all proper, that you're not spending too much time here when you should be learnin." Mr. Hagrid shook his head. "Like I said, never thought I'd see that man take to a soul."

"He has a funny way of showing it," Harry mumbled.

"And you've got a right smart mouth on you."

"I do not!"

Mr. Hagrid gave Harry a look that said, quite clearly, 'I shovel shit for a living. I know what it is when I see it.' That was what Harry liked about Mr. Hagrid. He was honest—no airs, no snobby words—he was just Mr. Hagrid. And Harry was just Harry. He didn't have to pretend.

"He just makes me so angry," Harry said.

"Probably 'bout as angry as you make him."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Hagrid's heavy hand on his shoulder startled him.

"It's what lads do—it's what all lads do. Tearing through the world, eager to make your own way, so sure you know every damn thing. Heh. But Snape'll keep you straight. He's got his eye on you. Taken to you, he has, just like I said. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Erm, why are you telling me this?"

Mr. Hagrid shrugged. "Because a smart lad like you gets a little too smart for his own good sometimes."

"I don't . . . what do you mean?"

Mr. Hagrid huffed. "You'll have to figure that out for yourself, now won't ya?"

Before Harry could press him, Mr. Hagrid was shooing him away. "Off you go. I've got work to do. And you've got prickly plant things to do. Come round tomorrow if you like and I'll let you tend to Buckbeak."

"Thanks, Mr. Hagrid. And, um, thanks."

Mr. Hagrid nodded and turned back to his work.

Harry started the slow trek back, wondering what Mr. Hagrid had been trying tell him.

DDDDDDDDDDD

The leaves were long and glossy, the green of them a brilliant lime. Gold flecks dotted their centers, the variegation looking like sprinkled fairy dust instead of mottled cream. The stalk was tall and graceful, standing impossibly straight. Regal. The small, waxy flowers at the end in profusion were popping like white starbursts and crackling with fire in their ruby-red throats.

Harry's fingers ran along the edge of the leaves, not daring to touch any other part, mesmerized by the plant, completely baffled as to what it might be. How he wished he'd had something like this in his little garden behind the Dursleys' house. He'd have kept it secret, coveting it, not caring a whit about the jasmine and four o'clocks' jealousy.

His eyes fluttered closed, remembering his garden, remembering a time when his plants had been his escape. How had he gotten so far off track?

Plants didn't expect things, but people did. Even Harry had come to expect things, to hope for them. He missed the simplicity of his life from before. Somehow the bad parts seemed bearable now, covered as they were with the pleasant haze of distance and time. Sure his room was small and his aunt and uncle unbearable. Okay, he didn't get to eat that much and there were, of course, Uncle Vernon's fists and moods to contend with. But he was invisible for the most part. No one cared a whit about his life or his future. When he escaped, he escaped totally. That wasn't so bad, was it?

There were times when he wanted that again. There were times when he even longed for it. That terrified him.

And what of Draco? Mrs. Malfoy? Professor Snape? What of them if Harry were to go back to a life less lived?

"They don't matter," he said aloud, his fingers still tracing the edges of the leaves, shoving away the voice that told him that was his greatest lie.

"What doesn't matter?"

Harry started, knocking over a few clay pots in his surprise. He scrambled to his feet and turned around. "You startled me."

Professor Snape's eyes lingered on the broken pots. "So I see."

"I'm sorry about the pots."

"No harm done."

Harry nodded and fidgeted with the hem of his jumper while the silence stretched. He looked up and saw Professor Snape surveying the greenhouse.

"You've done some cleaning," Professor Snape said.

"I got done with the cuttings. Figured I'd sort things out."

"Where are the cuttings?"

"In the far corner. Best light in the greenhouse as near as I can tell. I was very careful moving your things."

"So I see." Professor Snape walked over to the cuttings and inspected. "And the empty pots?"

"Here. In the back. Near these, erm . . . other plants."

"You mean, near my failed experiments."

Heat crept across Harry's cheeks. He dropped his head.

"You've done a good job. Thank you."

Harry shrugged. "Nothing really. Just moving some things around, stacking empty pots."

"Nevertheless, you were not required to do so and you've done it on your own. That deserves a moment's thanks."

"Yes, sir."

Professor Snape moved around the greenhouse, inspecting things, making comments here and there. Talking about everything except what had happened earlier in the day.

It was a strange dance they were doing, but one that Harry knew quite well. There were times when Aunt Petunia seemed almost sorry for some of the things Uncle Vernon did. She never said as much, but after particularly difficult nights, she sometimes gave Harry pudding or commented that the kitchen floor was especially clean. It was as close to an apology as he ever got. He supposed that's why he'd cleaned the greenhouse, it was the only apology he knew how to give in situations like this. Especially after what Mr. Hagrid had said.

"I see you've found my pleurathalis marthae hybrid, Professor Snape said, gesturing to the white flowers that had captured Harry's attention earlier.

"Yeah. I found it with the other . . . erm, I found it here in the back."

"It's all right. You can call it what it is—one of many failed experiments."

"But it's beautiful."

"And yet, still a failure."

"Why? Why is it a failure?" Harry heard his voice rise and was disgusted by his whinging. No wonder Professor Snape thought him a child.

"Because it didn't do what I needed it to do. Therefore the experiment was a failure."

"Just because it didn't behave the way you wanted, it's a failure? It did something different and look at it, it's just as—just as good as if it'd done what you wanted."

"I know that, Harry."

"Er, what?"

"I said, I know. I know that it's fine the way it is, even if it didn't do what I wanted, or meet my expectations."

"Oh. You do?"

"Why do you think it's still here? Obviously cared for and not wild and overgrown like these others?"

"Oh."

"My experiment was a failure. The plant wasn't. Do you understand the difference?"

"I—"

"You should take care of it, I think. It's too beautiful to stay locked up in here, neglected. It needs good light, daily misting with water and a thorough soak once every three weeks. Nitrogen is incredibly important, so its soil must be cultivated lightly with a variety of minerals. The flowers must be pinched off as soon as they're spent and at the end of the blooming season, the lower leaves must be removed. Do you think you can remember all of that?"

Harry nodded, wide-eyed.

"Good. I expect you to take very good care of it. I've always had a soft-spot for it. You'll take it with you this summer and look after it—regardless of where you spend your summer," he said before Harry could interrupt with more questions about Chile. "It's rather delicate looking, I know, but it's as hardy as a conifer in some respects. It can live anywhere."

"Yes sir."

"All right, then. Off to bed with you, I think. Tomorrow we'll start on my next experiment."

Professor Snape didn't wait for a reply as he swept out of the greenhouse, trusting Harry to lock up for the night. Harry turned back to the pleurathalis marthae and fingered its soft, lower leaves, grateful for Professor Snape's apology—the only one he likely knew how to give, as well.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

One moment, Harry was walking down the corridor, thinking about everything he still had to look up for his literature essay. In the next, he'd been yanked into a broom cupboard, pushed against the wall and devoured by Draco's lips.

"What the bloody hell?" he managed to ask in between kisses.

"Wanted to surprise you."

"How'd you know--stop that--how'd you know I'd be here?"

"Simple. Near the end of the holiday and I knew you'd leave your literature essay to last."

"Bollocks," Harry said, trying to push Draco away.

"All right, and I saw you walking up and down the corridor, completely oblivious to everything around you. Just how many trips back to our rooms did you make?"

Harry turned away, accidentally burying his face in a musty mop. "Oh, for the love—so you, what, popped in here? Waiting? Figuring I'd show up again?"

"Exactly." Draco's face beamed with pride. He leaned in for another kiss. "You talk too much, did you know?" He pawed at Harry's jumper and tried undoing his trousers, but the space was so small and cramped that he knocked over several metal buckets in the process.

Harry wanted out.

"There's no one here, Draco. You could have just stopped me in the corridor. You could have kissed me there if you wanted."

Draco drew back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"There's no deep meaning to it."

Draco straightened his jumper and smoothed back his hair. His face had shuttered and taken on the sneering quality that Harry disliked. "Great. This again. Well, someone's in a right mood."

Harry sighed. He didn't want to fight. He'd had enough tension over the holiday with Professor Snape. He didn't want that with Draco, too.

"I'm just saying, isn't there somewhere else a bit more, erm, comfortable that we could say hello?"

"Like where?"

"Our room, for starters. Blaise and Ron won't be back before tomorrow afternoon."

"I'd forgot that."

"Yes, well, good thing you have me here to do your thinking for you."

"Prat."

"But you can't seem to keep your hands off me, can you? Prat and all?"

"Oh, so that's the way it's going to be." There was an amused glint in Draco's voice.

Harry laughed. "Yeah, it is. You've got to work for it."

"That won't be a problem."

Draco leaned in for another kiss, but this one was slow and confident. Harry groaned and clutched at him harder, bringing him as close as he could. He could feel Draco's erection and part of him urged him to finish them off right there, right then. But the bigger part of him wanted to do this in the open, like normal people in a normal relationship. He was tired of sneaking around and having clandestine meetings in broom cupboards.

"Back to the room. Now," Harry said, his voice rough.

Draco pulled back and opened the door, taking Harry by the hand and tugging him into the corridor, but not before looking both ways, Harry noticed. The minute they were free, Draco let his hand go. The loss of it left Harry feeling cold.

"Have a good holiday?" Draco asked as they walked side by side.

"Fair, I guess. You?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Bloody fantastic."

Harry sniggered. He stopped walking a moment later. "Hey, you're back early."

"Just figured that out?"

"Wanker. Why? Why are you back early?"

Draco looked a bit ill at ease. "No reason. Just finished up early," he said, the evasiveness of it practically smacking them both in the face.

"But that doesn't make sense. You had tickets and things. Hotels. Obscure relatives to see. How do you finish up something like that early?"

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line. "I had to finish my literature essay, didn't I?"

"But you finished that—oh. Oh." Harry smiled, knowing it was goofy and shy, but he'd just realized why Draco was back early. He grabbed him round the middle and kissed him soundly. "You missed me."

"Maybe I did," Draco said, not giving anything away, which only served to make Harry smile even more.

"Want to show me how much?"

Draco smiled in response. It was cool and calculating and made Harry shiver in a very good way. He leaned in and nibbled the shell of Harry's ear before whispering, "You have no idea." He grabbed his hand and pulled him along, promise held fast in the grip of his fingers.