It was here. Friday. Opening night. And still the entire school was at odds! Slytherins and Ravenclaws had worked together to perform a tag team on the Gryffindors, who, even with Hermione's brilliance and the twins' mastery of the art of mischief, seemed to be steadily losing ground. After all, they couldn't operate on every front at once and the Hufflepuffs might as well have been Switzerland for all the help they provided. Hermione had no use for neutral parties in her war.
Harry couldn't remember having been so stressed even the morning before his OWLs, and he'd bet that the morning of his NEWTs would feel like a ride in the park after this. Time and again over the last four days, he'd wanted to stand up and scream, let each and every student know what an absolute waste of time all the fighting was, scold the professors for failing to stop it all, even now when it had so clearly gotten out of hand.
But he stifled the urge. All the fighting, all the little hexes and charms sent to torment another student, and yes, even an egg in the back, had forcefully pulled Harry to one conclusion: it wasn't going to stop unless he did something.
And he couldn't make himself do it.
He knew what needed to be done, Lisa had told him more than once. It was for entirely selfish reasons that he couldn't do it. Rejection hurt, he knew that well enough, but he'd never cared for someone as deeply as he realized he did for Draco Malfoy. If he was right, as Lisa's new friendship seemed to prove, then Harry would find himself in for an experience more humiliating and painful than any other to date.
But if he was wrong?
That question, that slight hesitancy, kept Harry from deciding what to do, kept him standing on the sidelines and watching as things deteriorated from bad to worse in only hours. Once or twice a day, he'd become a victim, hit by some stray hex or other, and find himself in the hospital wing listening as Madame Pomfrey complained to herself about teenagers and rivalries and immaturity as a whole.
But Friday, that so important day before opening night, the fighting took on an edge of excitement, as if every individual could somehow tell that tonight and perhaps even the next two nights before the play closed, would be the last of the vicious squabbling. Because after Sunday night, there would be no more need for the students to associate with one another. The Slytherins could return to looking down on the other houses, the Ravenclaws to their books, the Gryffindors to their pride and the Hufflepuffs, well, they could breathe a sigh of relief that they were in no more immediate danger of being forced into an unwanted war.
As Fred and George had made clear the night before, when Harry had asked them why they continued to allow themselves drawn into something that had become about so much more than petty pranks. "Someone's got to win," Fred had insisted, not bothering to lift his eyes from the shells he was carefully crushing beneath a small black stone.
George had nodded his agreement. "And we not ones for quitting, Harry. You know that." He tipped a grin at Harry. "Unless we've got something better to move onto. But it's been decidedly dull around this school up 'til that ruddy play of yours. I'll be sad to see it over." He'd turned his attention back to his papers, reading the instructions and passing to his brother a handful of dried fig leaves, supposedly the most important ingredient in whatever concoction they were cooking up. At any other time, Harry might have been surprised that they'd been allowed to make a potion using the common room's fireplace, but he couldn't work up any shock. After all, the entire common room looked like a base camp, he'd thought with disgust and had retreated to his dorm room, burying his head beneath the pillow with the vague but unreasonable hope that it would all just go away.
But that had been last night. This morning, Harry stared blankly out the window near his bed, overcome by the realization that in only hours he would be performing in front of nearly all of Hogwarts. Somehow, in the rush of preparation and study, making war and hiding from his own doubts, he'd forgotten that. So he sat atop his coverlet, hardly moving and thinking entirely about the strange shapes nervousness took in his belly.
"Alright there, Harry?" Seamus asked around the toothbrush dangling from his mouth, stumbling out of the bathroom as he tried to shove his arms through the uncooperative sleeves of his shirt. Had he been in a better mood, Harry might have laughed at the sight, but he couldn't work up the humor just now. He settled for nodding. "Well, you don't look it," Seamus called over his shoulder as he finally finished dressing. He shoved his hands through his hair, making the pale strands stand on end, then spun on his heel to look at his friend. "You look like you're going to be sick."
Harry pushed himself from his bed, following Seamus out of the dorm and down to the Great Hall. His stomach protested at the thought of breakfast, but at least sitting at the table with a plate of food would give him the appearance of normalcy. "Looks weird out here, doesn't it?" Seamus asked as he claimed a seat, reaching out to load up his plate. Harry nodded his agreement. The Gryffindor table stood mostly empty, not an unusual sight of late. Most of his dorm no longer trusted the food they were given, choosing instead to partake in the snacks the twins swiped from the kitchens. As his gaze wandered over the empty benches, Harry realized he missed the simple pleasure of eating with his friends.
He sighed and pushed his egg across his plate with the end of his fork. It was yet another depressing thought that he'd be better off pushing to the back of his mind, for a while at least.
Backstage was a flurry of excitement. Hermione had helped Harry into his finally finished costume and now, halfway through the play, the tunic seemed unbearably hot, though Harry knew the light fabric couldn't really be to blame. His nervousness about performing was stifling him, and even worse, the twins had claimed seats front and center, a sure sign that they had something planned for the performance.
"You did a great job, Hermione," Harry told his friend. She stood next to him, taking a short break with her clipboard clutched in her hand. She smiled at him and nodded, then turned away, tossing orders to her crew in a stern tone that allowed no arguments, even from a Slytherin. Not that Harry was paying any attention. Draco was on stage, commanding the attention of the entire room with the same charisma he'd displayed time and again in rehearsal. But it seemed wrong somehow, as if something was off and had been since Samson and Gregory's entrance.
It was as though Malfoy no longer cared about the play, was only acting because he'd been committed to it. His performance was still heads above the others on stage, but Harry could tell that it was only because Draco Malfoy refused to not succeed, even if he no longer gave a damn.
It distracted him, not quite enough to mar his acting and Harry carried on. Doing poorly would mean that the time he'd spent with Draco would have been a waste. But it was in the back of his mind, and between scenes his eyes hardly strayed from Draco. The Slytherin was completely ignoring his existence, and anyone else's. Only Pansy Parkinson was allowed into his realm, and even she looked a little worried, going so far as to pat the blond on the back in what Harry might believe was a comforting manner.
He tried several times to speak with Lisa, but she merely shook her head and walked away, or turned a struck up a soft conversation with Cho or Terry. When the time finally came, for Tybalt and Romeo to fight onstage, Harry could feel the anticipation in the room, could hear the gasps in time with each thrust and parry, until Draco fell.
It hurt! His heart hurt, and Harry held back his tears, almost forgetting his final line of the scene as he let Justin push him away. "Oh, I am fortune's fool!"
And he felt it. Everything had gone so wrong. He couldn't fix things with Lisa, and the situation with Draco was no better. Hermione's compliments on his acting went mostly unnoticed, and though Harry heard the sighs from the girls in the audience each time he leaned close to Lisa, it only frustrated him more. He breathed a sigh of relief for the break the next few scenes would offer him.
He would have appreciated talking to someone about now, but the same off-stage rivalry that offered such color to the feuding in the play was still in full swing back stage. Cho glanced at him once or twice, but Harry knew trying to talk with her, or any other Ravenclaw, would be just short of useless. A loud clanging sound echoed from the other side of the stage, and Harry looked up, ignoring the players on the stage, only slightly distracted, to see Hermione quietly but forcefully scolding an embarrassed Dean and Seamus.
Harry shook his head, chuckling softly. It was only then, with Lisa onstage giving voice to all of Juliet's uncertainties, that he looked over and realized that Malfoy was staring at him. And as soon as he did, the blond turned away, so quickly that Harry might wonder if he'd imagined it. But there was Pansy Parkinson, casting strange glances at him over Draco's shoulder.
He didn't think, because thinking only made things worse for him. He didn't plan out what he was going to say, because then it always came out wrong. He only walked around the back of the curtain, quick strides full of a purpose that he couldn't define, because that would mean acknowledging what he was about to do. He took Pansy's place at Draco's side just as the girl was heading back onstage for her scene with Hannah and Terry, the Capulet parents.
"What do you want, Potter?" Draco asked and the coldness of his tone almost made Harry change his mind.
"I need a favor," Harry started but the Slytherin interrupted with a snort that caught him by surprise.
"I believe I've said this before, but you're a Gryffindor so I suppose you need repetition at times. I don't do favors," Draco bit out, hardly bothering to even look at him.
Harry didn't let it bother him though. He couldn't. So he surged on ahead. "Then consider it a continuation of our lessons," he returned, not particularly caring who overheard. "I need more practice."
Draco did look at him then, brow raised in disbelief. Then he turned back to the stage, where Pansy was announcing Juliet's death. "It's a bit late," he remarked dryly.
"I hope not," Harry muttered and Draco shifted back to look at him, brows furrowed together. But Harry wouldn't let him say anything else and reached up to grab the edges of Draco's tunic, pulling him down and pressing their lips together. It was only a few seconds, but Harry's self-consciousness kicked in and he let Draco go, stepping back and clearing his throat a bit. "Right. So... good practice," he mumbled and turned on his heel. That didn't go as he'd hoped, and the opposite side of the stage was looking more inviting by the second.
But he didn't make it. A hand on his arm spun him around and Harry found himself with Draco's arms wrapped around him. "Merlin, finally," were the only words that registered in his mind before Draco Malfoy was kissing him.
It was completely different than any they'd shared before, those short tastes nothing compared to the feel of Draco's mouth on his, tongue begging entrance and Harry parted his lips. And there was that delicious taste, that overpowering flavor that was Malfoy canceling out anything and everything else. Harry didn't hear the gasps from the half of the audience that could actually see them, didn't hear the clatter of Hermione's clipboard hitting the floor across the stage, or the strange sounds of both Terry Boot and Malcolm Baddock stumbling over their lines.
He didn't even notice the obnoxious sound of someone clearing his throat right behind them until Draco lifted his head and sent a death glare Voldemort himself might have been proud of straight at the interloper. "Far be it from me to interrupt two such lovely gentlemen as yourselves from providing me with such a great show," Seamus didn't sound at all intimidated, and Harry turned in Draco's arms with the hopes of rectifying that, "but we do have a little something that needs finishing." He pointed at the stage where the streets of Mantua were waiting for Romeo's lovesick monologue.
"Go on," Draco ordered, but it was lacking the usual coldness and Harry could see a glimpse of a smile at the edges of the boy's mouth. "Hurry up."
Harry smiled then, because he could tell that Draco was as impatient for him to come back as he was. So Harry went out on stage, ignoring Ron's frozen shock as he stood next to a speechless Hermione in the wings, and performed his lines.
Badly. And quickly. He couldn't help himself, or the happiness that rose from every word, no matter how heartbroken Romeo was supposed to be. Because he wanted Draco Malfoy and Draco wanted him just as much. The audience laughed when he took the poison from the Slytherin playing the apothecary and nearly ran off the stage, throwing his arms again around a smiling Draco. They laughed again when he returned to stage, a bit more disheveled and too excited to appear even the slightest intimidating when he told Balthasar that he'd rip him apart if he stayed to watch.
Even Hermione giggled when Harry didn't bother to let Zacharias Smith finish Paris' lines before simply leaning forward and "stabbing" the boy. The Hufflepuff paused for a moment, then shrugged, shouting out "I am slain," and falling to the floor. Harry sped his way through Romeo's death, aware that he was skipping lines. But he couldn't remember them just now anyway and Trelawney would appreciate his 'show must go on attitude', he was sure.
Lisa laughed in is ear when she leaned down, only pretending to kiss him. "Well done, Potter," she whispered before leaning back and grabbing the dagger from his side. "O, happy dagger. This is thy sheath. There rust and let me die." And she fell to Harry's side, both of them struggling not to laugh, because she sounded no more depressed than he had.
It was torture, waiting for the play to end, and as soon as the Prince quoted his last words, "For never was there a tale of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo," and the audience broke into laughter and applause, Lisa shoved Harry from the table. He hit the floor with an "oomph", but scrambled to his feet, heading back for Draco.
And when the cast took the stage, bowing and clapping, the absence of the two male leads was noted and the spotlights adjusted to light up the wing, where a Slytherin stood wrapped around a Gryffindor. Hermione reached out and tapped Ron's chin, pushing closed the mouth that had fallen open. Lisa cheered, giving an uncharacteristic high five to Pansy before jumping down from the stage and barreling into her own boyfriend's chest. Seamus leaped on the table and shouted, "Harry Potter loves Draco Malfoy!", followed quickly by several whoops that ended when he let Dean pull him from the table.
Trelawney and Binns stood at the back of the room, unsure how to handle the situation. But the audience was on their feet and cheering, so Trelawney deemed it a standing ovation and gave herself a pat on the back. She'd known all along that Harry Potter would be the perfect Romeo and now had bragging rights for the next term.
But Harry didn't notice all the excitement. He had an armful of Draco Malfoy, and really, who could think like that?
At least until Fred accidentally activated his and George's potion, sending students running every which way from the stench stronger than any dungbomb could put out. But even then, Draco was laughing and holding his hand like he'd never let go. So Harry figured it was still pretty perfect.
A/N: Don't go thinking it's the last chapter! I have an epilogue. Yay! Anyway, thanks to Caldonya, Mougumougu, LyricallyInspired, cyiusblack, AlineDaryen, SunshineAndDaisies, Ibbet, purplerawr, Lady-Umbreon, poodlehair92, globalfaerie, Lia-Lily, farwalker, Horseygirl7, PrincessPurity, and paintupurple for the reviews on the last chapter. Also thanks to izma09 for reviewing 17, and bklynlopez for reviewing chapter 1. Thanks everyone!