Somewhere Only We Know

by Kris RL

Summer of 6th year? The wizarding world is at war with itself, and secrets, hidden pasts, biological fathers, staged deaths, broomstick rescues, band T-shirts, funerals, stifled laughter, new truths, and an old rivalry's new best friendship come into play

6. The Son of the Minister

Disclaimer: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

Spoilers: I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

Somewhere Only We Know

Chapter Six

The Son of the Minister

That very next morning, Harry's eyelashes fluttered open. It was seven, said the clock of enchanted beads of sand floating in the air by the elaborate candelabra beside his bed. Seven o'clock meant he'd only had about an hour of sleep. Puzzled as to why his body's alarm clock had woken him up so early, he turned his groggy eyes to the right for some sign or answer. The curtains were all thrown open and excessive, bright sunlight was pouring into them. His eyes closed, immediately, and he groaned, loudly, throwing his face away from the light that had, perhaps, just felt like it had given him a punch in both of his eyes, having not been prepared for the sudden action of the curtains, "I'm blind."

"Good morning, Mister Cliffdale."

Harry slowly sat up on his elbows, his eyes squinted. Uh... what? Who in the hell...? There was a man standing at the foot of his bed. He was a dark man, with brooding eyes and daunting features. His cheeks were sallow and angled, and he had the appearance that, once, as a younger man, he was quite the looker. But, age hadn't seemed to change him that much aside from a few wrinkles. He just appeared to lack the luster of... anything positive. He was holding a large book and folder in front of him, his eyes locked straight on Harry's. So, he sat up, slowly, with his hands helping the way behind him, "Good morning," he returned.

The man nodded his head, once, "Sir, I am Jackson Fritoan, the Minister's assistant."

Harry watched as he placed the book and folder down on the edge of the huge, four-poster bed, "Right, Mister Fritoan—"

"Please, sir, call me Jackson." A toothy, broad smile spread across his miserable face.

"Sure, Jackson," Harry replied, awkwardly looking down at his own body. He had never changed out of his robes the couple of hours before, having just fallen asleep right on the bed, tired after a very, very long day. The day before seemed hazy, now, but the night he had just experienced was as clear as anything. He looked around, suddenly, up above his bed and to the high, vaulted, carved wooden ceiling. He was Judas Cliffdale. He had to speak like Judas Cliffdale. He had to dress like Judas Cliffdale. He had to be Judas Cliffdale—not for his sake, for the sake of every wizard who needed him to... save them. His eyes shot right back up. "Jackson, if that's all, could you please excuse yourself? I have some things to tend to."

"Oh, right, right, sir, I was sent to tell you that Mister Malfoy requests your appearance at breakfast."

Harry watched him go. Great, breakfast. His stomach growled at the very thought of food as he tumbled off of his bed, ungracefully. If the Minister's Assistant had come in to, personally, tell him that he was invited to breakfast, this undoubtedly meant that something of a larger seriousness was going on. Instead of walking toward his wardrobe closet, where he had yet to put his things away into, he took his steps toward his open windows. His room was on the front of the house, to the very left, so if anything was, indeed, going on, he might have been able to see. He leaned over the edge of the balcony, but then immediately threw himself back into the room before anyone could spot him—thousands! Thousands of reporters and regular citizens! It was a swarm of wizards. He crept back up to the window but stayed in the shadows, in awe.

This breakfast, Harry knew, was being covered by the media.

Once he turned away, Harry walked over toward a large, standing, floor-length mirror. He still wasn't used to his new complexion, but he had already succeeding in owning it. He wore it well. Not that he would ever tell a soul, but playing the confident, cocky, arrogant heir to one of their world's most powerful men was extremely easy for him. Every arrogant emotion that he had ever kept secluded in his body was freely let loose. It felt good to get it out. It felt like he was dancing when he walked into a room and people turned to look at him—and all because of his name. But, it wasn't the name Harry Potter. It was a name that had been cherished for generations—it was Cliffdale, whose roots were ingrained in the inner societies where such arrogance could be portrayed and not looked down on, "This is going to make it or break it, Cliffdale," he said to himself, taking steps closer to the mirror. "You are Judas Cliffdale. You are—"

"Cliffdale," interrupted a booming voice, as the door to Harry's room swung open, causing Harry to jump back from the mirror, having been enjoying the silent calm that soothed his nerves. He was already turned around, his hands clutching his sides. His top lip rose, and he growled. Draco smiled, smug, as he sauntered into the room, leaving the door open. Behind him, he could see in Potter's mirror, walked in five women and one man. He turned to look at them, once he was stopped, and then back to the intense expression on the still-unfamiliar face of Harry Potter. "Ladies, gentleman, if you could please excuse us."

Harry walked toward them, his eyes narrowed, "You really should, coming in here uninvited," he harshly threw at all of them, who immediately paled. They were all in their early twenties, he supposed, and looked like they had just stepped out of Witchtrendy—which, in his opinion, was overdoing it. There was too much color in his room for seven thirty in the morning—bright colors were the new "season" trend. It almost gave him a throbbing headache, really. He turned away from all of them and started unbuttoning his robe, sensing the bitterness he had been trying to downplay for the last year of his life start to tears down the inner-makings of his chest. It was just trying to get out—and he fought so hard to keep it in, usually. "This had better be good, Malfoy."

Draco, impressed with the fierceness that had come out of Judas, turned to look at the women and man behind him. He nodded at them, once, and they immediately all turned around and hurried out the door. Following them, though slower, Draco, too, stopped at the door. He closed it with his left hand, his right hand placed behind his back, as he watched Harry pull off his robe. He locked the door, as silently as he could, and caught a pair of dangerously intense brown eyes in the mirror. Harry was expecting it, so he turned around, expectantly. In turn, Draco started toward him, again, at ease, "Why, Cliffdale, you look as if you've had a late-night romp—perhaps with a beautiful blonde... woman."

Harry couldn't help but smile. Malfoy was so cocky, no matter what kind of situation he was in, "Hardly," he responded, under his breath, and started over for his trunk. He had to throw an assemble together and quick. He had been supplied with two new, designer dress robes—the designer was so exclusive that he only worked on those who he had personally met with, first. Of course, the real Judas Cliffdale had done that meeting prior to the events of the last couple of days. Anyway. "Does anyone knock in this house? I could have been whacking off, you know—how embarrassed would you have been, then? No, wait, you're Malfoy... you would have been entertained, I don't doubt."

Draco smiled, watching him shuffle through his wooden trunk, furiously, "You're grumpy without sleep, huh?"

"Nice of you to notice. Tell me something I don't know?" Harry stood up and turned toward him with questioning eyes, carrying a shirt in his hands. He turned his head away from the intensely good-looking features of the young man standing across from him. He bolted for the window, once more. "What's going on with this breakfast? What... is that Albus?" Leaned over the ledge, now, of his window, once more, his eyes started to soften and lighten. It figured that Albus Dumbledore would show up when requested to by the son of the missing Minister of Magic—but to the Malfoy home? Harry never thought he would see the day. He turned to look over his shoulder, but, at that moment, Draco leaned over the ledge, too, resulting in Harry being blinded by the sunlight hitting off of his very bright hair. "AH!" He quickly closed his eyes to cope with the new damage.

Draco pulled away from the ledge and took Harry's elbow in his hands, pulling him away, too, hurriedly, because reporters had looked up at them, "Listen—and, and listen carefully. I announced a press conference, when we got back last night, and set it for nine. If I wasn't going to do it, the Ministry was going to do it. My father has disappeared into thin air, and the Ministry isn't going to stop until they find out why. So, I extended my hand, first, and my mother's, before the Ministry could come in an accuse... us, or you. In fact, even I do not know where the hell you put him, but... where did you put him, by the way?"

Harry ignored him, hurriedly running around his bed and back to his trunk, searching through it to find the black dress robe that he had been given, "Malfoy, listen to me," he hissed, grabbing at a pair of gray trousers, instead, that were nicely folded and spell-protected against wrinkles. He turned around, sharply, panicked, his hair a mess and his face flushed. "Please, whatever you do, do not tell Dumbledore that you know who I am. Don't hint at it, don't smirk at it—and, God-willing, do not banter with me—he'll know what's going on if you do! So, act like we're friends—old, child-hood friends and nothing more, nothing less. The last thing we need is for Dumbledore to have you—"

"Wouldn't it be better to tell him, Potter?" Draco whispered back, standing only about a foot away.

"No," Harry assured, as they stood face to face. "I'm doing this my way."

Draco blinked, once, as Harry walked around him, "It's never a good idea to go against Dumbledore, Potter—something I'm sure you know better than anyone."

"I'm not going against him," Harry laughed, under his breath, as he unzipped his jeans. When Draco turned around, he didn't look away, just continued to wait for an explanation. Unbelievable! "Do you mind'?" Still, Draco didn't move, but his eyes became even more serious. "Obviously not!" He pushed his jeans down, annoyed. Anything he had to show was nothing Malfoy had never seen of the human body. "All of these years, you've been assuming that I'm Dumbledore's little puppet. I know you have—it's what all of you thought—all of you. But, what you don't know is the truth. I've never been his puppet. He intended for me to do certain things his way, and it never turned out that way. I do it on my own. I jump into the fire. I take the risks—and I get it done. This time, I'm either going to get it done and live, or die while trying; the second of which seems more prominent as this morning goes on and I ask myself why the hell I'm even here—"

"To get in with Voldemort," Draco reminded him, almost comically, amused at the self-doubting Harry Potter.

"How am I going to get in with him if he knows you don't—"

"But, he doesn't know, Potter," Draco laughed, interrupting the skittish, already half-dressed unfamiliar man. "Even if he did, do you think he'd care? It doesn't matter why his supporters are his supporters, don't you know?" Harry turned to look at him, doubtfully, as he buttoned his trousers. How could Harry not know these things? Or did he, but he refused to believe them to keep himself ignorant to the truths of the Dark Lords' world? There was a decent likeliness that this was true. "Half of the men with him are only with him out of loyalty to their families, not to him. Do you not think he threatens most of his men with fear? He'd kill their wives and children—or husbands and children. He's done it, before. He doesn't let you leave, even if you're not loyal. Those who don't feel him in their hearts, Potter, or believe in his cause... they won't leave him. Fear, Potter."

"I knew that," Harry responded, pulling his shirt off over his head, quickly. "You're different than them."

"I'm not," Draco replied. "I'll pledge to him. I'll have to do it, tonight. It's my destiny. I can't run from it."

Wait, what? Slowly, Harry's body turned around from his wooden trunk that was branded all over with the initials "J.C." and "Judas Cliffdale", still slightly bent over. He withdrew his position until he was standing straight, still without a shirt. It was his destiny? Pledging to Voldemort? That wasn't a destiny. That was a death-wish. It was stupid. It was idiotic. It was... not something that Draco Malfoy ever had been. Draco had never been unintelligent. He was smart. He had pride. He had a lot of qualities that most people envied—and, yet, here he was talking about fear and saying he was just going to give into it, too. That easily? It seemed that he had been fighting so hard to stay away from Voldemort, and now he was talking as if hope was lost, "Malfoy, you're not pledging tonight."

Draco laughed, but it came out as weakly as he felt, "I have to, Potter. I have loyalties to my family's honor."

"Your mother," Harry's voice went up, "would rather DIE than see you pledge. No one wants you to pledge." And, honor? What kind of honor was it to be a known murderer? Fine, so his family were purist elite, and they despised anything to do with muggles. To them, anyone with a speck of non-magical relatives or ties was worth nothing. They were scum to, and nearly spit on by, Malfoy's society circle. Harry wasn't going to stand there and let Draco try to tell him that he was just going to pledge—it was ridiculous. "Honor?"

"You don't understand." It sounded bad, sure. "They all expect me to, even my mother. It's... inevitable."

Harry pulled a dark-brown button-up shirt's sleeve over his right arm, and then over his left. As he walked toward Draco, his eyes squinted in bewilderment, his hands pulled the sides of the shirt tighter around his sides so they met in the center of his chest, "If you pledge to Voldemort, Draco," Harry started, quietly, not pulling his eyes from Draco's. He stopped when he was about a foot away from the like-sized seventeen year old he had grown up loathing. They stared right at each other. Draco was waiting for what he had to say. Underneath the iciness and usual fire of his nearly-silver eyes, something else was brewing there. It was something that Harry didn't think he would ever come close enough to identifying. But, Harry couldn't think of anyway to threaten Malfoy, and he certainly didn't have time to figure it out. There was one ultimatum that, ultimately, everyone in Harry Potter's life was going to have to decide. "It's me or him."

Draco blinked, "What?"

Harry hesitated for a moment. "It's me or him. If you pledge to him, I'll kill you."

Draco snorted with laughter, "Potter, what are you... you're serious."

"Like you have to pledge to Voldemort for your family's pride, I have to pledge to myself for the same reason," Harry said to him as he finished buttoning his shirt. He tucked the bottom of the shirt below the low-rising trousers that were fitting snugly against his body. Who wore pants so tight? Of course. Malfoy. And Cliffdale—both of them had an unique dress-style. He kept his eyes on Draco's, as he finally stopped fiddling with his outfit. He swept down and grasped his dress robe from the end of his bed and pulled it into his large, open palms. "Death Eaters, for whatever reason they come to be that way, are my enemy. They are a strong army that stands behind a seemingly immortal man. Individually, they might be weak and have the wrong loyalties—but, together, they've killed everyone I have ever cared about, Malfoy. You'd pledge to him because you're afraid of what he'd do to your family. I'll pledge to myself because I have no more family to lose—but all of my friends do, and our whole entire world has everything to lose. You know the prophecy, Malfoy—I'll kill him, or he'll kill me. And, in the meantime, I'll kill any death eater I knowingly ever set my eyes onto, including you."

Draco turned around and left, neither having blinked at each other, closing the door quietly behind him.

At five minutes to nine o'clock, Harry ran down the front entry stairs, not fully paying attention. He knew he was late, and he didn't want to miss making the entrance he was probably going to make with Malfoy. At the bottom of the stairs, he abruptly stopped and grasped onto the bottom railing spiral, as if to pace himself. Standing in front of him was the entire Minister's cabinet, all shaking hands with each other and discussing, quietly, things amongst themselves. How Harry had managed to miss the commotion of these people, and the overwhelming amount of camera flashes by the press, he wasn't sure. But, now, the hall had quieted to see who he was. Flustered, he forced a tight, gritted smile. What a horrible entrance, "Good morning, ladies, gentleman."

Draco, standing amongst the Ministry's finest, looked Harry over, "Good-morning, Judas."

Harry bowed his head, walking away from the steps, calmly, "I've had better, Draco. I assume you'd agree."

Draco stepped out in front of the line of Department heads, as Harry walked toward them. He outstretched his own right hand, as a formality because the press was watching. No one had ever, obviously, known that there had been a strong friendship of childhood when Draco and Judas were young. There had been old rumors that they were friends, but they were talked down because the "obvious" fact that the Malfoys and the Cliffdales were too strongly opposed to each other to have their boys play together. His entire palm was met, strongly, still walking into it, as was Harry.

They both stopped, their bodies about five inches from touching, their hands buried between their chests.

Camera flashes had attacked the already bright entrance hallway of the Malfoy estate.

Harry's handshake was firm. Impressed, Draco allowed the handshake to linger, "I would."

What a smarmy, brilliant little manipulator of the press. It was easier than ever for Harry to comprehend the charm of Draco Malfoy—something he had never knowingly admitted to anyone, not even himself. He was a gorgeous creature—quick-witted, sarcastic, and... aristocratically delicious to any pair of eyes, even those that had been glaring and cursing him throughout the years. He had a way about him, even if it was just the way he shook a hand. Harry, just as impressed, clasped Malfoy's hand tighter to his own, still shaking. He leaned in the couple of inches, but spoke loudly, "What's that? You smell lovely, Draco."

Draco's laughter came up in his throat like a roaring lion—and Harry heard it, but no one else did.

They both had their own agendas and plans to play out, here, and it started with that very morning. Face to face, now, though, Draco was smiling to himself, and Harry was doing the same, their eyes both narrowed at each other in a friendly, suspicious, amused way. They were looking forward to whatever it was that the other was going to be doing. If there was one thing that would keep light-hearted between them, it was the entertainment that would be found trying to decipher the other's angle—Draco through political handshakes in front of their entire press media and Harry through a small lean in to be a bit closer to Draco Malfoy—two powerful young men on the political rise with a rumored past. A past, indeed, but no one knew that the history between them was far more deep and complicated than could be suspected.

Draco cleared his throat, finally releasing his grip on Harry's hand. Harry's hand did the same thing at the same time, though they were still looking at each other. Draco motioned his left hand out beside him, as it to make way for Judas Cliffdale to walk, to guide him into the dining room where he knew to be about two hundred international reports waiting for the press-conference/breakfast of their ministry, Draco Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy and Judas Cliffdale, "After you, Judas."

Harry began to walk around him, coolly, not even giving a blink of attention to the media, purposely.

Draco turned around with him. Smugly, his hand placed on Harry's upper back to guide him.

When Harry caught Draco's eyes, for a split second, they were sharing an identical evil grin, but it wasn't on their mouths. It was in the fleeting glance between them. They were going to manipulate the medial, and no one was going to know. They had public profiles to mold—and the more together they were on it, the closer they were, the way they walked, the way they looked at each other, the way they talked to each other... it was all going to be analyzed, now. Judas Cliffdale moving in with Draco Malfoy was just as controversial as any of the actual current events of death and disappearance.

As they walked into the dining room, it immediately exploded in a thunder of media persons.

They stopped.

Harry looked to his right, at Draco, holding his hands behind his back.

Draco looked back at him. But, he then smiled as Harry stepped away from the entrance doors.

"Ladies, gentlemen," Draco insisted, suddenly, raising his voice over the commotion. His hands rose in the air, in front of him, and the attention of the media immediately fell upon him, though the camera flashes hadn't stopped. He lowered his hands when the silence had taken over the room, and the Ministry members entered the dining room to the right of him, joining a standing Albus Dumbledore around the elegant, fancy table. "I have asked you here and expect your full cooperation. I know this is an opportunity for you, as members of the press, but I must ask you to respect the reasons why I've called this meeting of heads of our Ministry, Albus, and myself and my mother. This is a very difficult time... not only for my mother and I, but for Judas Cliffdale, as well. I ask you to respect his privacy as much as you will ours."

Draco's hands placed together in front of his chest. The room was silent.

Draco bowed his head, grateful, "With that, ladies, gentleman, please sit down. Get comfortable."

The chairs around the gigantic table were all pulled backward by an enchantment. Harry tried so hard not to look at Dumbledore. He had never had to try and ignore the man. It was physically impossible to do, and Harry had never realized it. It was almost as if there was a magnetic drawl that came from Albus. But, as the Ministry members began to greet each other, Dumbledore was being greeted very warmly by everyone around the table. Harry didn't sit down in his chair yet, not knowing where, exactly, to sit. The only chair left, by the end of the table, was the one at the head of the table—opposite only to Draco's chair at the other end of the table. Oh, no. He looked over his shoulder to see what was going on.

Malfoy was watching him, half smiling.

Harry looked away from him, not annoyed. There was a respect between them in a way respect had never existed, before. Draco had taken up Harry's entire plan without a complaint or threat. He had his own motives, but Harry didn't know, exactly, what those motives were, yet. Calling this meeting, of the most powerful men and women in their world, as a seventeen year old, was a brave move. Yet, Draco seemed older than seventeen by theory. The way he carried himself and spoke to his elders, his age was not an issue. He was respected by the most powerful wizards, clearly, as Harry stood behind his chair, taking in the men and women sitting down and looking at Draco with equality in their eyes. But, Harry and Albus were the only ones who remained standing.

Draco looked between them, as he reached his own seat, "Please, gentlemen, is there anything I can do?"

Harry forced a very Judas-Cliffdale like laugh, "Proper manners, Draco Malfoy. You never seat yourself until your host has seated himself, or don't you remember anything from charm-school?" He flashed a bright, extremely phone smile. But, no one was familiar enough with the always-hidden Judas Cliffdale to know how to distinguish different facial expressions and smiles. Harry looked at Albus, for the very first time, allowing himself to. "I am, however, not surprised that you're still standing."

Dumbledore's smile was charming and light, his eyes twinkling at Harry, "Nor I, young Cliffdale."

"Sir," Harry greeted back, with a nod of respect, then tearing his eyes to look back at Draco. "Please, sit."

Draco's left eyebrow hooked up, but he didn't say anything just yet, because some of the other ministry members had quickly stood up, including one man who had wobbled and scooted his chair back so loudly that even the press was chuckling. Brilliant, Potter! Draco bowed his head about a forth of an inch, only to Harry, hoping no one else noticed. He was trying to give Harry his props—this was going to be a breeze if they kept playing off of each other so innocently. What exactly was going to be a breeze? Fooling their entire world with lies and deception. He cleared his throat, loudly, "A little hasty, though polite, Judas Cliffdale, using manners as a way to make yourself look better than the ministry members." Oh, challenge!

Harry smiled, genuinely, enthralled with this, "Oh, I think we'd both agree that's not too hard, anyway." HA!

Heads around the table snapped down to Harry in a domino-effect, eyes furious and set on fire. Everyone was now standing, once more, clearly waiting for Draco to take his seat as to not appear rude when Harry and Albus had so eloquently made their respect for Draco, as their host, evident. But, when the eyes finally all flickered to Harry, Judas Cliffdale had taken a seat, first, not looking at all distressed over his own words. He pulled out a fabric napkin from above his plate, threw it out into the air until it was unfolded, and then placed it on his lap, looking directly at Draco, who emulated taking a seat.

Oh, fucking brilliant, Harry Potter. Nicely played, "Judas, respect is in order for Ministry officials."

"Oh," Harry said, loudly, completely unshaken. "They have my respect, but I do have an opinion."

Draco's eyes lit on fire, trying his hardest not to laugh, "Judas, I know you're on edge..." But! Unspoken!

"Yes, let us not dwell on my bitterness with the Ministry. Where's Lucius? Oh, that's right, they've lost him."

Draco pressed his lips together, taking in the reaction around the table.

None of the ministry members responded, too appalled and offended, clearly speechless.

"That is why we're here, young mister Cliffdale," spoke the only other seated-figure—Albus.

Harry looked at Dumbledore, said nothing. He looked back at Draco, wildly, "Is it? I'm just here for breakfast."

The room exploded with laughter. The media was in chortles, chuckling delightedly. The tension immediately died and the lighter-hearted ministry members all began to pull their chairs back, manually. But, Draco continued to stare at Harry while the room around him was still chortling with honest amusement. Harry was looking right back at him, unfalteringly confident in the reaction he had gotten. But, his stomach felt as thought it had been sucker-punched, so he tore his eyes away and looked down at his plate. The morning before, he had been looking at the very same plate when he'd found out that Harry had been murdered. His eyes slowly rose, and he looked over his shoulder, at the door, almost as if, somehow, summoning his father to walk through the door. And, the door, that had just been closed, swung open.

Everyone at the table turned his or her attention toward the doors.

In walked Cornwell Black.

Harry was in awe. Now, the times that he had seen Cornwell, he was dressed like a muggle with a beard to rival any of a mountain man. In the face, Black had been smoldering and passionately intense—perhaps an added benefit of the beard. The man who was standing, now, perfectly still, had no beard. It had been shaved away, smoothly, and there didn't appear to be any shadow on his chiseled lower jaw. His muggle clothes—flannel shirt, jeans and old, beat boots—were replaced by an exquisite, flowing dress robe in such a bright, intense red that Harry's gut felt a little anxious. The presence was clearly unexpected, due to the silence of the ministry members. But, that was nothing compared to the surprise on Draco's face—his mouth open, his eyes docked onto Cornwell as if frozen in a moment. It had seemed, at first, that Draco hadn't immediately recognized Cornwell, but Harry was sure that was no longer a problem.

Harry cleared his throat, pulled his napkin from his lap and placed it over his empty plate, again. He pushed his chair back and stood right up. Cornwell, who had since been looking at the blank, overwhelmed Draco, turned his head away, completely, and walked straight toward the table whilst the camera flashes and whispers of reporters started to shake the hall. The beard, Harry wondered, as Cornwell's eyes landed on him, first, because he was the only one to stand, had, possibly, been on the man's face since before Draco was born. Without the beard, it was clear that the similarities between his and Draco's faces were more than just that way but related coincidences. Truest to the fault of the look in Cornwell's eyes, Harry could claim the first solid-emotion he ever had from a Malfoy—well, of Malfoy's stature in society, "Cornwell, good morning."

Cornwell nodded his head at Harry, "Judas, polite, as always, it's a pleasure. Good-morning to you, as well."

Harry watched as the expressions around the table began to falter. It was clear why when their eyes took in Cornwell's stunning face, and, slowly, curious eyes started to drag toward Draco in an unobtrusive, gape-mouthed way. No one said anything for a long moment, because things were being put together too quickly. Looking at Cornwell was like looking at a dark-headed, more intense version of Draco, down to the very same chin and jaw—trademarks for both of them. And, Draco Malfoy was stuck to his seat, his hands clutched over the sides of his chair—which had just been pushed back.

Harry watched, anxiously, as Draco rose to his feet.

Cornwell looked back at Draco, "Draco, I need a word."

Draco cleared his throat, "A word with the ministry, Cornwell?" His own voice was shaky. Shit.

"No, actually," Cornwell replied, toying with something in his hands. "In regards to Harry Potter's will."

Harry felt his stomach drop. Oh, SHIT. He palmed his hand over his mouth, chewing on the corner of it.

Draco blinked, but he couldn't help but laugh as Harry quickly took a seat, again, seeing this out of the corner of his eye. But, Draco didn't look at Harry. No, this was far too interesting of a situation to randomly look at Judas Cliffdale. However, he was in the middle of a very important press conference and knew it would be exceedingly rude to excuse himself when he had been the one to invite the willing members of the Ministry into his home. They were there to discuss the disappearance of his father, and Draco had to appear to have that as his first priority, though it was not. He knew perfectly well who his father was taken into custody by, and that was enough for him for the time being, "Anything that has to do with Harry Potter's will, I doubt, has to do with me—"

"Well, that is where you'd be wrong," Cornwell cut him off and held out the envelope. "See for yourself."

Draco cleared his throat as Cornwell walked to him, the envelope presented out in front of him. He took it, looking around the table. None of the Ministry members, to his utmost relief, appeared annoyed that this was happening. No one seemed too impatient. He slid his finger against the inside fold of the letter on the back of the envelope. It was not branded to a close. His eyes flickered upward, knowingly, to Harry. He was drowning himself in pumpkin juice, slugging it down. What in the... this was interesting, "I hope this isn't a howler sent by him from beyond the grave. You know, it'd be just like him, to have the last word."

The ministry members exploded with laughter. Even Dumbledore laughed.

The only person who did not laugh was the stiff, brooding Judas Cliffdale at the end of the table.

Draco unfolded the letter, not paying it its full respect. His eyes scanned, but then, they stopped, fully focused. Why would Cornwell be the one to deliver such a letter to Draco? Who had given it to Cornwell? Harry had a will? Draco didn't even have a will. What, what was it that was in his will? Nothing good, of course. If anything, maybe a Quidditch snitch, or something of the sort—to remind him of the many times that Draco lost. But, no, no, there was no such thing on the paper. ...the succession of the items contained by Mister Harry James Potter have been claimed, by Potter, himself, to the ownership of Draco D. Malfoy upon his death—sudden and prompt—and wishes for the terms of this document to remain between Draco D. Malfoy and Harry J. Potter and no one else in-between... His eyes examined the top of the letter. Last revised, October thirty-first of that year? This had to be a joke. However, he couldn't react, because he was too overcome by the amount of intensity and bewilderment. He knew it was too dangerous to look right at Harry, so he, instead, turned his full attention to Dumbledore, and then Cornwell, and then back to Dumbledore. Both of their faces, he imagined Harry's, as if trying to talk through them to Harry. "What, why would he... why would he... I mean, it's me."

Dumbledore was staring at Harry, his eyes dark.

Harry was still chugging away on a newly full goblet of refilling pumpkin juice.

"Albus," Draco hissed, first. Blue eyes met his own. They were very intense, and it surprised Draco. Asking Dumbledore what he knew about the will was nothing unusual for anyone in the room. Albus was the closest thing to a mentor that Harry Potter had ever had, and it was a known fact by everyone—hearing it by word of mouth, personal experience, media-talk, or from reading the papers. No matter how inappropriate it was to discuss it right then, Draco was too emotionally distraught to avoid it. "What do you know about this?"

"Nothing." And, it was the most honest thing that Draco had ever heard out of Albus Dumbledore's mouth.

Nothing?

Draco then looked at Cornwell, "How did you get this? Surely, the Ministry has it's own copy?"

"I found it tucked under a plant by my front door this morning. It was post-marked through me to you."

That morning, hmm? Draco's eyes fell down onto the letter, which he was still holding in his open, content palms. This was very interesting, indeed. Harry had tucked it by Cornwell's plant the night before, hadn't he? He wouldn't have been that hard to do so, as he had been by himself for at least five minutes before Draco had joined him outside. But, why would Harry give it to Cornwell? That was suspicious, and not only could Cornwell become suspicious of Judas and question why he would have received it for Draco because Harry Potter didn't know who Cornwell Black was, but why hadn't Harry just given it to Draco, personally? He finally set his eyes on Harry, silently, staring at him chugging, yet still, from his goblet, while the men sitting on either side of him on the sides of the table began to chuckle at him, encouraging him to stop, "Judas, what do you know about Harry Potter's will?"

Harry blinked into his goblet. When he lowered it, the whole room was watching him, "Me? Oh, nothing."

Draco sure hoped Harry knew what was coming to him, "How did you get your mother's wills?"

Harry blinked, placing his cup down very quietly, though it still reigned supreme over any other noise in the room. At the mention of his mother, Maureen, it seemed like everyone had held their breath. But, Harry had never received his own mother's wills, and he had never, yet, realized it—not even when he was writing out his own will. He had started doing so in the September of the last year, the sixth year. Death loomed on his horizon every minute of every day. Originally, everything had been passed on to Ron, and a couple of things to Hermione, but with one duel that he and Draco had shared, alone, which left them both beat and oddly respectful toward each other, he had changed his mind. Draco had everything in the world. Ron did not. Rightfully, Harry had wanted to give all of his possessions to the only person who would have found them sentimental—and, that had been Ron. But, Harry knew Ron would find Draco Malfoy when he found out that Draco was entitled to his things—a part of Harry's plan. Of course, there were other reasons, genuine, sensitive ones, that Harry had signed over his lute to Malfoy. There had been a connection between them, by the end of the year. His tools he had acquired over the years, he knew, would be beneficial to Draco—who had many attempts to kill him and never did, but rather returned every other day, sometimes, to duel with Harry in the middle of the night—with no words spoken other than hexes and curses. They always both left beaten, battered, and knocked down a few pegs by the other.

A balance of power had slowly settled between them in result of those duels.

"Through my father. Wills always fall into the hands of a father."

Draco paled.

Harry looked up from his pumpkin juice, his lips parted open. Oh, no. That should not have come out. He quickly looked at Cornwell, "But, because your father is gone, of course, as of last night, it's no surprise Cornwell received them this morning. He was like a father to you growing up, if I do remember correctly. Lucius probably put Cornwell's name down in receiving the wills on the event of his disappearance or death when you were six." When he was done speaking, he was sure he had everyone convinced. He had spoken nonchalantly, calmly, as if every single syllable coming out of his mouth was true to the most accurate faith of his knowledge. A few people were looking at him as if he had no finished, so he leaned forward a bit, as if to clue them in. Obviously, these few people had not had children or were not thinking clearly. "When you reach the age of six, your parents fill out all of the appropriate forms in case of death or disappearance. They put down names of close friends or family, such as Cornwell. I worked under the Department of Obituaries when I was fifteen, going on sixteen—"

"Intelligent as you are, that's impossible. Only at the age of seventeen can a wizard work for the ministry—"

"I didn't work for our ministry," Harry interrupted the smug woman. "I worked in America with working papers."

Before they could continue to glower at each other, Draco sat back down, again, loudly, still overwhelmed.

"What is it, Draco? What has he left you?" Cornwell asked, still standing, his hands folded in front of him.

Draco looked right up at Harry, silently, yet did not answer Cornwell. What if this was fake? But, Harry had drowned himself in so much pumpkin juice that he doubted it was. Cornwell sounded genuinely interested, even slightly worried. The issue of his relationship with Cornwell was too much to analyze, too. He would end up a basket case of emotional confusion if he continued to pile on any more issues into his already up-side-down, "Having grown up specializing in the Dark Arts, Judas, do you think this could be fake?"

Harry's eyelashes flickered up from his now-filling plate. He was so hungry that his stomach was growling out at him without apologetically. He hoped no one else could hear. His mouth was beginning to water at the appearance of mountains of food starting to rise up on plates around the table, "It depends. What has he given you?"

Draco dropped the now re-folded parchment onto his plate and sat back, completely, "Everything?" Why?

"Everything?!" The gasps of awe went around the table. "Good lord! That's a house! And, another fortune!"

Cornwell cleared his throat, which silenced the gossiping ministry members, "A house? Dumbledore?"

Albus looked the most comfortable in the room, smiling, relaxing back in his chair, "Oh, yes."

Draco started at Harry, completely dumbfounded, "How did Harry Potter acquire a house? Albus?"

Harry was glad Draco had made himself pull his eyes away.

"The Black family home, Draco."

Draco pushed his chair back and rose, upset, "What?"

Harry felt his face begin to flush of warmth, of color, and he, too, looked at Albus, "The Black estate?"

Draco glared at Harry, immediately, for playing along, for playing innocent.

Harry continued to pale when the fury in the unfamiliar eyes was billowing.

Cornwell stepped a bit closer to the table and cleared his throat, awkwardly, "But, how? Why? I don't..."

"Sirius, Cornwell," Dumbledore responded at ease. "Surely, you remember James and Sirius's friendship?" Cornwell didn't say a thing, nor did he hardly even move. He and Draco were looking at each other, as if confused, across the table. Draco was holding up his letter, again, and Harry watched, feeling an angst starting to boil inside of him, as the silver eyes of the Slytherin skimmed back and forth, at a rapid rate, down the contents of the letter. Surely enough, where Harry knew most of the larger possessions to be listed, Draco's eyes stopped. He looked back up, this time to Harry. He was very, very suspicious, but why?

Harry looked away from him and back to Dumbledore, keeping calm, "Black left his possessions to Potter?"'

Dumbledore smiled at him, "Precisely, young Cliffdale." He held up his goblet at Judas, bowed his head, and then sipped. "I do not find any surprise in that of Harry having written out his will. Considering, Draco, the extremity of your relationship with Harry Potter in his last few months, I wouldn't think you'd be too surprised to know he'd written out his will. He hated the idea of dying, you know—yes, please, more pumpkin juice, thank-you, dear," he regarded the self-serving pitcher as it poured into Dumbledore's goblet. It then curtseyed at him, cutely, while Dumbledore watched, in silence, as if completely enthralled, in respect to the pitcher. He picked up his goblet, once more, took a sip, and then smiled back at Draco, genuinely. "He was opposed to the idea of dying—not because he was afraid, but because he wasn't yet accomplished enough for his own self—and practically thought he was immortal, often finding ways to sidestep plans and orders that were in place to protect him and then successfully coming out on top—his protection having often gone eschewed over his own instincts. He had been lucky, thusfar. Do you understand what I might possibly mean, Draco?"

Harry looked away, trying not to laugh. Dumbledore knew, "I was under the impression that you and Potter did not get along," he said, reverting back to the role of pretending to be stunned, just as everyone else was at the revelation of Dumbledore saying there had been an extremity in Draco's relationship with Harry Potter which suggested that Harry and Draco had some sort of a deep, intense relationship, whereas the papers had all stated the exact opposite—that they were always feuding and trying to kill each other. It had evolved into much more than that. Nothing between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had ever been that simple. "All right, Draco?"

"Fine," Draco returned, icily, not looking at anyone but Cornwell. "Please, join us for breakfast."

By the time noon rolled around, Harry had excused himself from the breakfast. It hadn't been planned, solely, for breakfast, so he came to find out. He knew, as he walked out the back doors of the Malfoy estate, which he had not seen, really, in full detail when it was bright out, that in the dining hall, the masses of media were being excused from the estate and the serious topics were going to be discussed. Draco had some sort of plan. He had something extreme to gain, a great many of things. Harry didn't know which to pick to peg to Draco.

Regardless of how he appeared on the outside, a decade's work of the most powerful identity switching charm, he was still Harry Potter on the inside. Every step he took in the Malfoy's manor was never met by full confidence. Sometimes, he would forget that he looked different on the outside, and panicked for a brief second before he realized he was safe to prying eyes. A sense of danger, just for being there, hadn't left his body, and he was sure it wouldn't. He had an entire world to protect, and he had to do it under the magnifying glass. He wasn't exceedingly confident in the effort, and, as he sadly stared out at the lush, lavish lawns before him, he admitted this to himself.

Draco peaked around the corner of the open glass doors. Harry was standing a good ten feet in front of them with his hands on his sides, his feet planted to the ground. Slowly, he approached, having excused himself to the toilet. Harry had excused himself out of the conference about an hour after breakfast had finished and hadn't since be seen by anyone, not even the house-elves who had been keeping track of Harry on Draco's request, "All right?"

Harry turned around, quickly, his hand halfway to his pocketed wand.

Draco tilted his head, awkwardly, but Harry said nothing. He dropped his hand, again, and looked away, "You're jumpy."

"You'd be, too," Harry responded, quietly, still not looking at him. "What is it, Malfoy?"

Draco blinked his eyes, trying to identify the strained tone. He couldn't, "I was on my way to the bathroom."

Harry's eyes blandly moved toward the direction of the unwanted intruder, again, and his eyes narrowed. Draco was trying to see through him, his eyes peering at the pocket where Harry's wand was sticking out, now, "Don't let me stop you, Malfoy. I was just enjoying your..." Yard? Gardens? Land? No, "national park," he lightly smirked, motioning toward the back gardens and rolling hills and trees that surrounded the estate into it's secluded, private acreage. "If you don't mind, I'd... just like to be alone."

"Oh," commented Draco, very quietly. He stepped backward. "Do you need anything?"

"From you?"

"I'm trying to be decent to you, the least you could do is show me the same decency. God-damn."

Harry turned around, fully, once more, watching the retreating platinum-headed equally-aged wizard. He dropped his hands from his sides, too, and stepped forward as if it would stop Draco from heading back toward the house in such a mood, clearly annoyed with Harry's attitude, "Wait a minute," he offered, stubbornly.

Draco turned around, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw clenched to the left, "What?"

"The air," Harry said, approaching him. "Do you feel that?"

Draco looked away from Harry and, instead, concentrated on the air around them. He smirked, hard, "No."

Harry stopped in front of him. He wasn't kidding. Draco seemed to sense this, dropped his smirk, and started to look more closely out into the back lawn. But, he and Harry didn't lock their eyes together, again, whilst Draco was clearly trying to search, hard, this time, for something he should have been seeing or feeling from the air or the magnificent outdoor gardens. Shivering, Harry slid his hands up his own arms. It was June and he was shivering. Draco's skin, pale and vibrantly glowing, seemed to begin to flush, which was a little frightening as Draco was already quite white, naturally, "Something's looming, Draco," Harry said, darkly, under his breath, standing about five inches away. He walked beside Draco but turned into him so Draco's arm was in the center of his chest. He turned his eyes to look out, too, over the beautiful, sparkling, magical land. It seemed impossible than anything negative could penetrate the scene, but it was there. It was there and Harry was dreading it. He was feeling it trying to intrude his veins and rip at his soul. Sighing, once more, Harry turned back into the open doors. "Looming like a lion, waiting to pounce. Whatever it is, it's going to destroy."

Draco followed him in, but he did take one more glance over his shoulder, "I wish we knew what it was."

"We do," Harry responded, as they walked down the hallway, close, their voices minute. "Sort of."

Draco kept his eyes on the floor, "I feel cold. Do you feel cold?" Mmmhmm was the shaky answer. He suddenly stopped and reached his right hand out. He grasped the back of Harry's robe as his left hand rose to his own mouth. He put his fingertips to his own lips. Harry, who had been about to say something, closed his light pink, full lips. Slowly, Draco's eyes whizzed around the hallway, his eyes searching a full 360 while he turned his head. It's not that he was expecting to see anyone, but he never knew who was listening. He pulled Harry closer to him, at ease, still holding his fingers over his mouth until the tips of their noses were almost touching, and Judas Cliffdale's eyes were hurriedly searching his for answers. "Cold, in June! We must need a hug, old friend!" Draco said, loudly, and pulled Harry Potter right against his body, tightly, both of his hands grasped into the back of the elaborately designed black velvet dress robe. But, he immediately put his lips beside Harry's ear, his hand clutching the back of Harry's head, just in case anyone happened to be watching. It would seem like a friendly, intense hug. "No matter what happens, we should meet somewhere tonight. Somewhere neutral. If someone is listening, your room is suspect, as is mine. As is this house."

Harry said nothing, his eyes looking down at Draco's shoulder. They finished the embrace with forced smiles.

Draco cleared his throat, stepping backward with ease, "Well, I'm about to head back into the meeting."

Harry began to follow him. He yawned, covering his mouth, "I think I'll come back with you."

The safest place for Harry Potter, for the first time ever, was in the company of a Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.

"Oh, and Draco?"

Draco turned around, about ten feet in front of Harry, in a hurry to get into the bathroom, "What?"

Harry's hands slid into his pockets, nervously, and he smiled—a genuine smile, "Happy birthday."

Draco smiled. He said nothing, just turned away and then turned the corner to the bathroom.

It was some three hours later when Harry ran down the front steps of the entrance hall of the Malfoy manor, rapidly running away from a tiny, foot-sized dragon that was flapping its wings and spewing fire. He was, however, just in time to meet the entire group of Ministry officials who were all bidding their last farewells to Draco. But, Harry, loosing ground on the tiny dragon, who was scarily quick and jumped three feet in the air at times, didn't care if he was going to be intruding in a rude way. Because of the commotion, by the time he reached the middle of the steps, most of the ministry members had looked over, "MALFOY! MALFOY, GET THIS THING—HEX IT! Ah! IT GOT ME! IT GOT ME! I'm hit! I'm hit! I'm going down—fuck!"

And, Harry, with the bottom of his robe on fire, fell dramatically onto the floor after he had tripped off of the bottom step. He nearly jumped onto his palms, skidding backward across the floor as the tiny dragon flew off of the bottom step and landed about three feet from Harry. It tilted its tiny, dark red head, and its dark orange eyes appeared suddenly innocent. When it moved an inch closer, Harry pushed his body backward, lurching, on his hands and his heels.

The dragon spewed fire, again, and hopped two feet closer.

Draco stepped away from the group of snickering ministry members. Jesus, Potter! How many scenes could he make in a day? Draco, never having pinned Harry to making these type of entrances, looked over his shoulder at the ministry members, truly embarrassed for himself, as well as Harry—or, Judas Cliffdale. Wherever the real Judas Cliffdale was, raised to be elegant and graceful in all situations, he was probably squirming with anger at Harry's portrayal of him. His eyes narrowed as he walked toward Harry. He pulled his wand out, "Pufflyflit, I told you not to hide in Judas's room, didn't I?"

The small dragon looked up at him, shamefully, and then back at Harry. It scrunched its tiny, seemingly harmless, nose.

"Pufflyflit? PUFFLY?" Harry asked, exasperated, as Draco stepped between he and the small dragon. Harry, knowing it was way too late to try and escape the situation with dignity, crawled onto his knees and then jumped onto his feet. He stood behind Draco, glaring at the tiny dragon. He was obviously Draco's pet, or something of the sort. He was so innocent looking, this little thing. But, boy, had Harry had a surprise when the thing had hid in the covers of his bed and decided to start spewing fire at him when he had been trying to take a nap. He brushed his hands together, as if to rid of the dirt. He scoffed, just to be Cliffdale-like about it. "As in soft and innocent? As in completely opposite of this fire-spewing... thing! Pufflyflit, unbelievable."

Draco turned around, smirking harder than ever, "You can't defend yourself against a half-foot dragon, Cliffdale?"

"I didn't want to hurt it! It's too cute—purposely, I suppose—stupid, innocent, big eyes! You could have killed me!"

Draco just stared as Harry pushed him out of the way, having been the divider between the two. He didn't know what to do with himself, and he couldn't pull his eyes away. Harry was rolling up his sleeves, glaring at the tiny dragon. Oh, God, this was an ACT? Good lord! Pufflyflit seemed to sense that Harry wasn't going to hurt him, probably with one look from Draco, who was only smiling at him in a very good-natured way. The tiny dragon, connected to Draco, them having been together since Draco was a boy, knew Harry was no threat. He looked away from the dragon and back to the ministry members, feeling his face fill with warmth. They were all chuckling, but some were at least trying to hide it. He pointed at Harry, carelessly, as if this were no big deal. "Judas doesn't like dragons, see. He's been this way since we were kids."

At this point, Harry was bouncing around Pufflyflit, punching his fists into the air as if preparing for a fight.

Draco, amazed, shook his head and had to blink his eyes to keep from seeing Harry Potter doing these things.

"Right, well, he's... always been eccentric, hasn't he?" Asked the acting Minister of Magic, who had been appointed.

"No," Draco answered, with a grin, as he glanced back at Harry. He smirked, "He's always been out of his mind."

Harry spun around with his arms outstretched on either side of him, as if he had nothing to hide, "Spoken like a true best friend, Draco—the truth never slips past you!" He leaned forward, and as he did so, his right arm pulled into his chest, his left arm still up in the air. He bowed down, over his right arm. His left fingertips wiggled in the air before he pulled himself right back up until his spine was perfectly straight. He sauntered away from the tiny dragon, toward the ground of high-ranking officials. He offered his hand out to the first woman, who instantly took it, her eyelashes fluttering to an excited heartbeat. "It was nice to meet you. Would you mind if I walked you out? Oh, my, that is a lovely wrap, miss?"

The woman weakly murmured her name.

Draco, still facing Pufflyflit, was nearly speechless. The time Harry seemed to be having was that of a good time. He seemed so at ease being this... character. It was such a change from who Draco was used to seeing. Even having been pretending to Judas, so far, when he had been around Harry, he had been the same intense, brooding, completely complex favorite son of their world. But, now he was out of his element. Very, very out of his element. Slowly, he turned around, too, his eyes fixedly examining Harry, wondering what had gotten into him. Something had definitely changed.

"Oh, you're the head of the Department of Health! How splendid! Tell me, is the male anatomy as complex on paper?"

This was Judas Cliffdale, leading this woman out the front door, their arms linked.

Draco's lips were softly agape, disturbed by the newly awed sensation rippling through his body, through his chest. Having already said his salutations to the ministry officials, before Harry and Pufflyflit had come thundering down the entrance hall's grand staircase, he hadn't anyone to snap him out of his slight daze, because they were all walking out of the front doors, following Harry and the woman outside and onto the front steps. He followed them right out, silently.

Harry, along with four men and the woman he had been talking to, were gathered on the top step.

Draco joined them, his eyes down on the cement step platform.

"Draco, again, thank-you so much. You're such a wonderful young man," offered the woman Harry had spoken to.

Draco forced a light smile. But, inside, he felt anything but carefree and light. The realization of the last two days had finally hit him right in the gut, fully. This was Harry Potter standing beside him. Draco needed answers. He needed to know where his father was. He needed to know what they were going to do with him. He needed to know every single one of Potter's moves. He was in this, now, and he wanted to be in it, fully. If he was going to be lying to his mother and to their entire world, he wasn't going to do it half-ass. It was a very serious, dangerous situation. He couldn't call Harry Potter, again. The risk would easily ruin everything if found out or overheard. Whatever Harry Potter was doing, it was big. He had faked his own murder. He had torn fear through the hearts of all wizards clearly standing on the side of Good and light. He was risking big-time. No fucking wonder he was always brooding. He had a job to do.

Draco wrapped both of his hands around the woman's, "No, thank-you, Marcy." Oh, it was so forced.

Harry was humming beside him, quite cheerfully.

One of the men glanced from Draco, about to have said something, too, to Harry, "What is it?"

Harry's eyes had been locked onto Draco's profile, "I'm so happy, because today, sir, I found my friends."

Draco blinked, dropping the woman's hands in his. He looked right at Harry, noting the melody. Oh, no.

The man chuckled as he and Harry shook hands, "Had they been missing, young mister Cliffdale?"

Harry chuckled back, expertly, but he knew he came off too arrogant. He toned it down, "No, sir, they're in my head."

Draco's eyes fell down onto his feet, his top teeth pulling over his dry bottom lip to keep from snorting with laughter.

The man blinked at Harry and then forced a smile, as if he were trying to figure out if Harry had been being rude. He forced a small laugh, but when he dropped Harry's hand, Harry could sense that he did it gladly. He turned stiff in Harry's direction, though he shouldn't have if he'd known where in the hell Harry was coming from. But, Harry's only duty, at the moment, was to portray himself as Draco Malfoy's best friend. He looked back at Marcy, the Head of Health at the ministry, and smiled at her, flashing pearly white teeth that had never been quite so perfect, before. He was getting used to them. They were flawless. In fact, he had been looking at his new image in the mirror for a good thirty-minutes of the last couple of hours. He couldn't help it. Judas Cliffdale was just so pretty.

Marcy, a woman who was in her early thirties, admittedly flushed, and then blushed, right in front of them all, shy.

Draco suppressed the urge to laugh as he looked back at the man who had taken a hold of his hand, "Good day, sir."

"I'll see you Sunday morning!"

Harry jumped on the chance, clasping his hand on Draco's shoulder, "Sunday morning is everyday for all I care!"

Draco wanted to slap his own forehead, laughing so hard inside, "Judas, really, now is not the—"

Harry squeezed his shoulders, his eyes purposely enlarged with innocence, "And, I'm not scared! Light my candles—"

"TIME," Draco quickly interjected him with a sharp nudge of his elbow to Harry's side, talking over him.

Their eyes met.

"But, I'm in a daze, Draco."

Draco turned to Harry, fully, entertained. He said nothing, however. Potter quoting Nirvana for Draco's sake? Strange.

"Why are you in a daze?" Asked Marcy and one of the four men who had not yet spoken.

Harry pulled his hand away from Draco's shoulder, whimsically, and started, backward, down the front steps, "Tell them, Draco!" He insisted, motioning his hands out, palms faced upward, for Draco to speak what he had already acknowledged. Rather than looking annoyed, now, Draco seemed like he was trying not to laugh. Not even his eyes were blank and empty, but rather light-filled. He crossed his arms over his chest and tossed his hair a little so it brushed off of his cheek. "Go on, tell them why I'm in a daze!"

Draco looked at the five pairs of questioning eyes. He smiled, finally, widely, a smile he rarely ever smiled, "He's in a daze because he found God."

"AMEN, MALFOY! A-fucking-men!" Harry threw his arms up into the air as he trotted down the steps, coolly. "Amen!"

Draco didn't apologize to the Ministry members. They had expressions on their faces that spoke of astonishment. There was Judas Cliffdale, now going to be known to the Ministry members as a neurotic, cursing, beautiful, strange young man. Instead, having already said goodbye to them, he stepped backward from the small group he had been standing with, his hands held behind his back. He looked them all over, nodded his head down, once, and then turned, completely, unlatching his hands from behind him. He trotted down the front steps, too, to catch up with Harry. And, he did, "I can't believe you."

Harry was laughing so hard, "It's not my fault! I was given instructions to be whoever I wanted to be—"

"He'll kill you, you know, when this all over and done with," Draco interrupted him, referring to Judas.

Harry turned to him, as they walked, still laughing, "If I'm not already dead."

Draco mocked loud laughter, and then stopped, abruptly, to make it obvious that it wasn't a funny subject.

They kept walking to nowhere in particular. They were walking toward the front gates of the Malfoy estate in the distance. The afternoon was quite dark. It was a little rainy, but it felt nice. If it had been sunny, it wouldn't have fit the mood quite so well. Things, while easy on the outside, were not so easy for either of them on the inside. There was a huge gap between them. Neither really knew what to say to the other. It was just as awkward as ever, with Draco wrapping his arms around his chest, as if to protect himself, and Harry fidgeting, with his hands shoved into his pockets, in an attempt to do the same thing.

Draco finally glanced to his left, to Harry, "I want to know where my father is."

"Okay."

Draco blinked, "Okay?"

Harry looked at him, "I said okay, would you rather me tell you no?"

"No," Draco bit back at him, a little put off by flat-out, granted wish of answers, "I just didn't expect you to say yes."

Harry shrugged his shoulders up, awkwardly, "Malfoy," he started, as if to make an attempt at a pact. But, then he faltered in what he wanted to say, as they passed the shrubs that lined the walkway, now passing exquisite gardens that led up to the gated entry way. The gates were magnificent, and as they got closer, Harry found himself more and more in awe. They were made out of some kind of rod-iron, but there was a gold tone in them. There were spikes, at the top, and the Malfoy crest, a crest he had seen on Lucius's robes once or twice before, was imbedded in extraordinary colors that glimmered and suited the same gold tone of the gates, themselves. He turned himself to Draco a little more, giving his full attention. "We've had our differences—"

"We've had more than differences, Harry."

Harry's eyes drifted to his, "Did you just call me Harry?"

Draco flushed, but said nothing in return. He knew Harry wasn't making reference to the fact that someone could have been hearing or listening to them and wondering why Draco was calling Judas Cliffdale by Harry. The real acknowledgment was over the fact that Draco had never, EVER, called Harry by his first name—not ever, not even once after all of their years together. It hadn't been a big deal when Harry had called Draco by Draco, rather than Malfoy. It was different, mostly because it had always been Harry who separated the chance of them being friends, or even acquaintances. He made his view on Draco clear, and he always had. But, Draco calling Harry... Harry? It was almost unprecedented, "What were you going to say?"

Harry stopped walking. Draco stopped a couple of feet ahead of him, and then he turned around, "You called me Harry."

Draco itched at the back of his head, "Don't make a big deal out of it."

Harry couldn't help but grin, suddenly, "If you hadn't been Draco Malfoy, and I hadn't been Harry Potter, things would have been different, you know." Draco didn't look convinced, at all. "No, really. If we weren't us, I think we would have been inseparable from the moment we met."

"You mean, if I hadn't been a Malfoy, at all, and therefore not a gigantic bastard?" Draco asked, unimpressed.

Harry snorted with genuine laughter, nodding honestly, "Exactly! If you would have been a nice, normal kid!"

"Please, the only reason you turned away from me was because I insulted Weasley—"

"No, that's not true," Harry said, after him, as Draco turned away and started for the gates, again. But, the platinum-headed wizard didn't stop, again, no. So, Harry was forced to follow after him, but he didn't mind. The further they got away from the Malfoy estate, and the further Draco walked from the front doors, the better light Harry saw him in. He had never tried to take Draco out of the situation he was in. He had always just BEEN a Malfoy, defined solely by his last name. But, things were different, now, and openly so. Loyalties that had once been were no longer important. He had been betrayed by the people he had always seen in the best light because they were Gryffindors, or because he had grown up knowing them to be decent human beings. But, he had been betrayed by these people, so who was to say that Malfoy, who he had judged solely by name and status, was any worse of a friend than, say, Hermione could have been?

"Don't lie. Weasley was your little sidekick from the moment you two banged heads, you great oafs of boys."

Harry's eyebrows lifted, surprised, "I hear a hint of... what is that, anyway, Malfoy? Bitterness? Jealousy?"

"Neither," Draco bit over his left shoulder, still holding himself tight. "It's the truth, that's what it is."

"It's obviously not true, because we are not oafs. I'd think my physical stature would put that to rest—"

"Oh, I'm sure your physical stature has put many-a-men and women to rest." What? Draco mentally scoffed at himself.

Harry was grinning, hard, enthralled. Draco was being... pouty, "If I'm not mistaken, we decided that was your department."

"Right," Draco agreed, with a loud, sarcastic laugh. Once more, he stopped, abruptly, to signify he wasn't amused. He turned around, now, dropping his arms to his sides, his eyes having narrowed a great deal over the last couple of minutes of darting and having pointless discussion with Harry. This pointless discussion hadn't since given him any of the answers he knew he rightfully deserved. "Right, I'm the promiscuous one," he lightly hit at Harry, in a tone that suggested the subject was closed. "Tell me why it was Weasley instead of me."

Harry blinked, speechless. He stopped, "Malfoy..."

Draco didn't move, nor did he make a face, "I want to know."

"Draco," he said, and then started to laugh, shakily, as he started walking, again, "How could you not know?"

"The same way you can not know about why I despise you so much."

Harry squinted. He stopped, again, and turned to Draco, completely confused, "Malfoy, those are very different—"

"No, they're not. I know why it was Weasley and not me. I was arrogant. I didn't know, at the time, you had the hero-complexion—"

"Oh, for God's sake," Harry muttered, turning away from him with a slightly annoyed roll of his eyes. "I don't have—"

"Oh, please," Draco loudly quipped, standing completely immobile, feet behind Harry. "You not having a hero-complexion is like me not having an elitist complexion. It's who you are, and it was who you were. At the first sign of someone picking on Weasley, you needed to defend, and by God, I'd say your defensiveness turned into quite the prized charm. You and Weasley did end up best friends—"

"I didn't like you because you thought you were so much better than everyone. That doesn't give me a complexion."

"Sure it does. Had you not had the complexion, you would have known that I was better than Weasley."

WHAT! Harry was flabbergasted at the arrogance and self-confidence that was pulsating off of Malfoy. He was gifted with this conceited pull he had over people. He was like a magnet. He easily pulled people into his world, into confrontation, just for his own amusement. He didn't have to try to make people like him. He seemed perfectly okay when people did not, indeed, like him. Harry knew exactly the way that Malfoy thought about such issues. He thought, if someone didn't like him, it was much better off that way, like it was meant to be that way. But, saying that he was better than Ron, saying that HE was a better person than Ron, was a huge, gigantic laugh, "You're so lucky we're not in a place where I could hex you."

Draco, unaffected, smirked, his hands on his sides, "You honestly think Weasley was the better choice for a friend?"

"Why don't we think about this," Harry spoke up, loudly, obnoxiously. His fingertip placed on his chin, pretending to think really hard about what Draco was asking. He had to be kidding! He approached his equally-aged... mock-of-a-friend, his green eyes squinted, intensely. "First of all, have we forgotten who YOU are and who I am? Your father was after me. Therefore, us being friends was always a sham placed into your head by your father. I would have been used. Malfoy, if I had come over to your house for a holiday, like I have at Ron's, I never would have left because your father would have murdered me—or, even worse, given me up to Voldemort while I was sleeping. Second of all, your head is so big that we never would have gotten along. Third of all, you're a Slytherin, and I'm a Gryffindor—enough said. Fourthly, your sarcasm conflicts with my sarcasm. Lastly, you're too pretty to have been by my side fighting—you're too much of a pansy-ass to ever have stuck by my side in battle." He paused to take a deep breath, his eyes finally meeting Draco's from having been flying around in the air above Draco's head. He was surprised, and a little uneasy, at the very unimpressed look Draco was giving him. "However, to your credit, and not to take anything from Ron, but you're way too smart to have been able to walk into certain situations that Ron and I have—blindly."

Draco tilted his head, his arms crossed over his chest, "Are you done, yet?"

"I think so," Harry laughed, intrigued by the knowing, skeptical tone of voice opposite of him.

"Excellent, then why don't we take a look at history, shall we?"

Harry grumbled, "I don't think I have a choice—"

"You're right, you don't," Draco cut him off, starting to circle him, looking him over. But, Harry didn't like this, so he turned around with Draco so they were always face to face. He continued to walk, knowing that, eventually, Harry was going to get very dizzy. "History recalls that the very first time we met, you didn't know who I was or who my father was. You didn't like that I was arrogant and had insulted that monstrous giant you called your friend—therefore beginning my acknowledgment of your hero complexion," he retorted the first claim. "If we had been friends, you would have known that I was always against Voldemort. I liked using him to scare you, but I never supported him. My father wouldn't have turned you over to Voldemort. He would have tried, but, by then, if we had been best friends, like you and Weasley, I would have staked out and hid with you until we could have found somewhere else to hide. Little do you know, my loyalties to you, as my enemy, have always been greater than you'd ever expect—greater than the loyalty I've ever had to a friend, to anyone—imagine what they would have been like if we had been best friends. I would have been possessive and protective as all hell."

Harry was staring at him.

"Third, the only reason you think we never would have gotten along is because your head is just as big as mine, no matter how you try to deny it. You may not be arrogant in the way that you think I am, but you're perfectly content in your abilities. Had we been friends, our conceit added together would have meant school domination. We would have balanced each other out—to put a twist on your good-versus-evil speech from yesterday, I would have been smug conceit, and you would have been innocent conceit. We would have made the perfect team." He stopped circling Harry, uncrossing his arms from his own chest. He widened his eyes a bit, giving a pause for Harry to interject about anything he had so-far-yet stated. But, the brown eyes of Judas Cliffdale were laughing, and he hadn't a word to respond with, at least not yet. So, he continued. "Fourth, you're about as much of a Gryffindor as I am. You're brave, that's why you're a Gryffindor—that whole courage bit. But, I don't doubt you'd have been put in Slytherin had you not had your hero-complex on so tightly that you could have strangled yourself the day of sorting. Fifth, you've always loved my sarcasm, even as my enemy. How else could you have developed that wry, charming bitterness, Potter? You got it from me."

Harry was standing, now, stuck to his very spot, while Draco began to swallow him, once more, in a slow, drawn circle.

"And, here we are, half of your friends having betrayed you, about to address the loyalty to you, as your school nemesis, that I would have had in battle." The last issue Harry had so lightly inflicted upon Draco was the least carefree issue of all. While Harry had just been responding to Draco's original question about how Weasley had been a better choice than him, Harry hadn't taken it to be too deep or serious. He had a habit of doing that. In the halls of Hogwarts, the classrooms, the Great Hall, and even in lavatories, whenever he had glanced at Harry, a dark, very intense shell coated over his face. Yet, when he had spoken to his friends, the intensity had never shown, which meant it had never been alleviated. Having probably been used to seeing Harry everyday, his friends were used to the look. But, Draco saw it for what it was, and he always had. Every year, the darkness on Harry's face had gotten darker, deeper, uglier, and nastier.

Draco stood in front of him, silently. Their eyes were locked, almost in a way that they were battling. But, he took a step forward, closing the two feet between them until it was one foot, and then a half of a foot. There was a vulnerability about Potter that, perhaps, only Draco could see. It was something Draco FELT that he could see. He didn't think he was wrong, and he never had, by seeing this look. It was there. It just wasn't apparent to everyone. Harry wasn't just Harry Potter to Draco. He was Potter—which was a completely different person than Harry (as his friends called him) or, to the world and enemies, Harry Potter. There was only one person who called Draco, Malfoy, in the exact same way—and it was Harry, "As for my loyalty in battle, I suppose we'll find out in due time, won't we?"

"By the time battle roles around, I probably won't be here. We'll be back at Hogwarts," Harry muttered, avoiding Draco's eyes.

Draco half smiled, "Won't you have to be sorted?"

Harry's eyes finally shot up into Draco's, intensely, "Yes, I will, but even so—"

"Even so, Judas Cliffdale is my supposed best friend, whatever house he's in. I won't leave your side, Potter, and I'm not going to, now, so I suggest," he started to hiss, under his breath, as his hands placed down on Harry's broad, toned shoulders. He fidgeted with Harry's collar with his right hand's fingertips. He smoothed down a small wrinkle with his palm, then, on Harry's chest, with a smirk, and suggestively glanced back up at him. Harry was so rigid, staring at Draco as if he were mad. But, when he saw Draco's smirk, he growled. This caused Draco to chuckle, but only to himself. "I suggest you get used to me, Potter. Like I said, you're all I've got, and I'm all you've got—and by the end of this, we're only going to have each other. If my loyalty is an issue, take a look around. You could have killed my father, for all I fucking know, and I'm standing here, with you, and only with you, having walked into your entire fiasco just as blindly as you're looking at me right now. I'm here, aren't I? Have I said a word? No. Am I going to? No. Am I going to help you? Yes. Am I going to be by your side every god-damn step you take, even if you're so tired of me that you're thinking about killing me off?" He paused, snapping Harry's collars up, sharply, his eyes staring right into Harry's, which were, somehow, a tad bit flickered with the very familiar shade of green. "Fuck yes. And, do you know why?"

Harry didn't wait for him to answer himself, again, "Because we want the same things, Draco."

Draco was silent for a long minute before his mouth started to twitch with a rare smile, "Precisely, you learn fast."

Harry reached up between them, with his hands, and gave Draco a small, prompt shove, "Oh, and I'm still not gay, Malfoy. Get the fuck offa me."

And, when Harry turned away, they were both laughing.

They walked, together, back toward the house.

When they reached the steps, again, all of the ministry members, having been escorted out in carriages, they had passed on the way back to the house, Draco charged up about five steps and then sat down on the sixth. Harry, standing on the very bottom stop, on his tip-toes, his hands buried into his pockets, squinted at him, "I'm really not gay, you know."

"I know," Harry answered, but he wasn't sure it was the truth or a lie. "We're supposed to be flamboyant, aren't we?"

"Yeah," Draco answered, distantly, watching as the carriages parted through the gloriously opened gates.

"What, did I hurt your feelings when I pushed you away?" Harry peaked up, from the steps, to Draco.

Draco's eyes slowly found the brunette, again, and he smiled. He pushed himself up, "Yeah, that's it. Dream on."

Harry laughed, at Draco's heels, following him up the stairs until he closed the door behind him, "Let's do something."

Draco turned around, "Us, do something? You mean together?" Harry rolled his eyes. "I've never heard something so—"

"Yes, Draco," Harry droned, walking past him and toward the dining hall, once more, "it's unfounded and absurd!"

Draco grinned, trailing Harry by a few, cool, independent feet, "We could play with Pufflyflit."

Harry turned around, laughing. He stopped, happy to hear this topic being brought up. For a moment, it fell silent. Draco was standing there, about ten feet away, his hands at his sides. It had never occurred to Harry that Draco would ever play with anything in an innocent, loving way. But, the way he spoke sounded very caring and adoring. He must have had a lot of affection for Pufflyflit. But, the terror-inflicting, bite-sized version of a Norwegian Ridgeback was the very last thing that had made Harry turn around and stop, without even having told himself to do so. It sounded like Draco had never uttered such a sentence in his life. He sounded child-like and sweet, innocent and not at all jaded or bitter. He sounded like someone else. And, Harry, overcome by this version of Draco, for those few, disbelieving, fleeting seconds, could only find the strength to nod, "Yes, tell me all about Pufflyflit."

Draco had already flushed, "Look, I don't—"

Harry walked toward him, ignoring the sudden reinstallation of adult coolness, "I want to play with Pufflyflit!"

Draco's lips, a mess of confusion and embarrassment, collapsed together with... appreciation, "Potter—"

Harry walked around Draco, grabbing his wrist, "C'mon, let's go find Pufflyflit! What is he, exactly?"

Draco was being dragged toward the staircase, but he didn't struggle too hard, trying not to feel too—oh, damnit—touched that Harry was being so persistent to find Pufflyflit, now, so that they could play with him. Draco hadn't even realized that the words had come out of his mouth, originally. It had come out so sweetly, almost like he was seven years old, without a drawl or a dull tone. He did have a voice underneath those shields. He used those tones with everyone, friends and enemies alike. But, he only let his unguarded voice free when he was alone, or he was just waking up, or when he was extremely, extremely drunk on alcoholic Butterbeer. He tugged Harry back from the stairs, "I don't want to—"

Harry, on the bottom step, turned around, "No, you specifically suggested that we could play with Pufflyflit."

Draco stared up at him, unaware of what to say. God damn! His mouth twisted in discomfort, "Pufflyflit is off limits."

Harry tilted his head to the right, his face tilted down. He liked the small speck of Draco that had just shown itself.

"What?" Draco finally asked, agitated. The silence was killing him! Ugh, Potter making eye-contact with him was bad!

Harry let go of Draco's wrist, gently, and then gave him a small shove with his hand, "Fine, I'll find him myself."

Draco, in awe, watched as Harry took the steps two at a time, and then disappeared around a corner, "CLIFFDALE!"

"MALFOY!" Harry's voice echoed, distantly, throughout the very empty entrance hall.

Draco was smiling all of the way up the stairs, until he found Harry, who was grinning, lounging against a wall.

Harry's eyes intensely locked onto Draco, as he walked by, as if Harry was invisible, "Do you play Wizard's Chess?"

"What, will I lick your chest?" Draco asked with a huge smirk, as he opened his bed-room door. Convenient, location Potter, really. He pushed the door open and walked through, leaving it just as open for Harry to enter. He walked over to his sitting area and collapsed down into one of the dark couches. The room was dreary and gray, now that the day had faded away into the same sort of fate. He leaned over his knees, knowing by the sound of the door closing that Harry had let himself in and closed the door. He pulled up his robe, over his knees, revealing a pair of gray trousers. He untried his shoelaces. "We'll play a round."

Harry sat down opposite of Draco, admiring the room for its glory, "A round? How about a match? We have time."

"No, you have time," Draco corrected, under his breath, and glanced up at Harry, distracted. "I have a meeting."

"You most definitely do not have a meeting with anyone, don't lie! You just don't want to play me."

Draco looked up at Harry, surprised by the direct feistiness. Kind of cute, Potter, "We already discussed this."

"No, you discussed, and then I left."

Draco pulled his right shoe off, "I'll play you for it. You win, I don't go. I win, I go." Then, the left shoe. "I'll win."

Harry leaned up over his knees, too, looking down at his own uncomfortable feet, "You win, you can ask me anything."

Draco smiled. He pulled the wand from his pocket and swished it at his shoes. A few seconds later, they were hopping toward his closet. The closet door swung open, they hopped in, and then the door closed. But, when Draco went to turn back to Harry, the closet shuddered. He looked over to see what the commotion was, but then he felt his cheeks flush. His door was coughing and hissing something about Draco needing to get some spell-oh-smell odor relievers. He looked back at Harry, ignoring his door, but Harry, leaned over his knees, his hands both untying his left shoe, was snorting with very quiet laughter, his mouth wide open and delighted. He grimaced, "The slightest odor sets her off, even the smell of mud—"

Harry chortled, loudly, in disbelief, "Merlin, shut up, Malfoy! Your feet stink, god forbid! You're a man."

"That's not what his father says," chimed his door, who then giggled as Harry laughed, hard, sitting up straight, again.

Draco picked up the tension ball, that resting beside him on the couch, and hurled it at the door, "Traitor!"

Harry looked over, his mouth agape, as the door turned transparent. The ball disappeared into the closet, "Malfoy!"

"Oh, he does this all of the time. He has quite the temper!"

Draco looked back at Harry, unapologetic, "Ignore her, she just likes the attention." He then faked a cough to his fist, staring at his door with teasing eyes. "Attentionwhore!" His door, offended, turned her proverbial back to him. The inside of the door was now the outside, and the door latches changed sides. He started laughing, loudly, and looked back at Harry. He was staring at Draco like he was some sort of alien. Draco quickly dropped his laugh, as if it had never happened. Potter had never heard him laugh freely, nor had seen Draco's entire face light up and his tone of laugh break strange barriers that were so shocking they were innocent and happy. Then, again, in the same aspect, Draco hadn't heard Harry, either. He cleared his throat, pressing the side of his fist against his lips, as he calmed down. "Don't worry, she'll get over it."

"I WILL NOT!" Muffled his door from the other side of the closet.

Draco chuckled, again, at his door, and chimed, "You know I love you. I was just having a bit of fun! Fun is forbidden!"

Harry glanced at Draco's fireplace, "Do you think the Ministry has opened up the Floo Network in here?"

Draco glanced at him, "They have, I talked to them about it. We could have used it, before. It would have just looked suspicious."

Harry, now without his shoes, looked away from the exquisite, huge, wooden and stone fireplace. It was amazing that one could live like this. The Malfoy estate was stunning. He couldn't help but to think that, years before, the Black home was such as fancy as the Malfoy's home. But, the House of Black had never looked anything like Draco's room, he supposed. It had always been dark at number 12 Grimmauld place, even when there were candles lit. But, Draco's room, dark as the Malfoy's name was, was void of all negatively swirling vibes. It was a beautiful, very large, very clean room. His eyes flickered to Draco, wondering what he was thinking about, his eyes staring down at his socked feet so intently. Harry didn't want Draco going to his meeting. He didn't want Draco, no matter how beneficial it would have been to Harry's cause, to get involved with the ranks of Voldemort, certainly not yet. Whoever Draco had been to him in the past was nothing compared to who Draco was to him, already. He was the only confidant and friend Harry had, and he didn't think anyone else in the world would have been better suited—not one damn other human being. He grinned, leaning over his knees, again, with his elbows resting on them, "Cornwell looked good."

"Strange, wasn't it?" Draco suddenly chirped, looking right up at him. "He was wearing robes. And, he shaved."

Harry grinned, "I know, he looked like a different person. Did you see the way he looked at you?"

Draco squinted, awkwardly, feeling strange, suddenly, but he didn't move, "No, how was he looking at me?"

"Proudly," answered Harry, very honestly. "There was this look in his eyes... indescribable. He probably got all done up like that for your birthday." He paused, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. He wasn't trying to force anything, here. It was genuine interest. He liked Cornwell as a man, at least from what he knew of him, so far. He was a lot like Sirius, and it wasn't just their shared last name that made Harry think this. There was a relatively laid-back, friendly, but funny sort of personality that came off of him. He had had a great sense of humor, even the very first time they had met. But, he saw Draco try to hide a pleased smile. "Go ahead."

Draco coughed, "What?"

Harry gave a nod with his head, unobtrusively, "Smile."

Draco, taken aback, shot his middle finger up at Harry. It was the only think he could think to do, "Don't."

"Don't think that I should insist to see you smile? You want to, you know you do. Do it, I won't tell."

Draco ignored him, but not nastily so. He just looked back down at their feet. Harry's shoes, dark brown ones with shiny soles, were glistening, somehow. He looked over his shoulder to see that there was a tiny speckle of light that was making the shine so enthralling. One of the candles on the end-table at the end of his couch had lit itself. It flickered for a moment, as if someone were blowing on it, before it stood at straight attention, solid and unfaltering. His eyes moved back to Harry. It didn't feel like summer, anymore. It felt like evening or nighttime in the fall or winter, both of them wearing robes that were too heavy for summer but perfect for colder weather. He leaned down to Harry's shoes and nicked the one that was closest to his reach. He pulled it upward, "If I win, I get your shoes."

Harry laughed, unguarded. Sighing, he leaned over his knees even more, "Why would you want my shoes?"

Draco tossed the shoe back next to the other, "Are you kidding? I can sell them on WEBAY."

Harry laughed even harder, acknowledging the insinuation. WEBAY was part of the Wizard Wireless Connection Network. It stood for Wizard's Evolution of Buying Anonymous Yada. It was where most wizards now bought their supplies for cheap. It had really sprung into their culture the year before. The whole process had been too complicated for Harry, and he had stuck with the idea of going to stores to actually buy things. He always said that WEBAY was just a way that their society was going to rid of wizard-to-wizard communication relations, but that was only because, secretly, he couldn't figure out the damn system for the life of him. He'd get frustrated with the outbidding procedures, and, eventually, gave up trying, all together, at buying the latest Harry-Potter wad of gum that someone had been selling for ten galleons. TEN GALLEONS for a supposed wad of gum that Harry had spit out after a Quidditch match the year prior. "In that case, where's Pufflyflit? Not only is he a tiny dragon, but he's also the Minister's son's Pufflyflit! He'd be worth a fortune!"

Draco laughed, finding himself more than comfortable in the conversation. He sat back, relaxed, "I'd kill you."

"You really love that little terror, don't you?"

Draco glanced at him. Silence fell between them, immediately. Had Harry Potter just asked him that? "He's not a terror."

Harry, flushing, rubbed his hands over his face. He was being personable with Draco, here, in a way he never was with anyone. It brought out a different side inside of Harry to see that Draco was reacting differently to things than he had ever thought possible. He had heard Draco laugh, really laugh. It was still tingling in his mind, like it was going to settle there until the next time he heard it. He grinned, finally, to himself, unrestricted, and leaned back against his cushion, too. Draco had very, very big, dark, comfortable furniture. He dropped his hands down on either side of him, giving up, staring opposite at the other man. This was who he was going to be around, now. And, it wasn't so bad. It really wasn't. He had decided earlier in the day to make things as easy on Draco as possible. It hadn't been his choice to get involved, therefore he shouldn't have had to deal with Harry coming in and frustrating the very specific fuck out of his already hectic, loyal-less life, "He is a terror. He lit my robes on fire—"

"Such damage he did! Your robes are flame-resistant! All he wanted was for you to stop so he could examine you!"

Harry's nose twisted, "You mean, him jumping out from under my bed was—"

Draco threw his head back, and stuck his arms up into the air straight above his head, "I would have loved to see that."

Harry smiled, but Draco didn't know. It was better that way, because it was a very real, very content smile, "C'mon," he said, as he pushed himself up. It was abrupt, but it, too, was much better that way. At the quick movement, Draco's head snapped back in place. His body was lounged out against his couch. His arms were relaxing at his sides. He rested his head right back on the cushions, his eyes extremely skeptical of what, exactly, "C'mon" entailed. But, Harry had ideas swirling in his head. They had already decided that, that night, they would need to meet somewhere neutral, and what better opportunity was there to go out looking for this place, or for any place, than Draco's birthday? It was an occasion that needed to be celebrated. "Don't look at me like that, I have plans for us."

Draco pushed himself up, groaning heavily, "You sound too excited to be talking about Wizard's Chess."

Harry turned away from him after swiping up his shoes, "We're going to Hogsmeade."

"Hogsmeade?"

Harry sat down on the side of Draco's couch, pulling his right leg over his left so he could put on his shoe. However doubtful Draco's tone was, Harry could see through it, easily, because of the slight look of intrigue that was etched onto the famous Malfoy—er, Cliffdale—features. He shook his head to himself, in awe of all of the new information he had been digesting over the last few days. He was going to take Draco Malfoy out to Hogsmeade for his birthday. And, if he wasn't going to go willingly, Harry was going to drag him. He was of age, now, which meant alcoholic Butterbeer which meant it wouldn't have to be consumed illegally. He shoved his shoes on and then stood up. He was feeling too lazy to bend down to tie his shoes, again, so he lightly swished the tip of his wand down by his hips. The laces tugged, strongly, and got to work.

Draco stood in front of him, finally, "I think it's not a good idea, not right now. It's dangerous, Harry."

Harry clasped his hand over Draco's shoulder and leaned in, his eyes on fire with excitement and mischief, "Exactly!"

Draco growled as Harry threw himself away and turned in a circle, looking around frantically, his hands outstretched. He said nothing as Harry cautiously approached the fireplace. He started looking around, trying to appear casual. But, it was obvious what he was doing, and they both knew it. He was looking for Draco's Floopowder. Eventually, after many small pots had been opened to emptiness, little trinkets and potion ingredients, Draco finally surged forward, "I swear, Potter, for someone as accomplished in the art of mystery as you are, supposedly, you're oblivious to the most obvious of hiding spots." He grabbed at the center pot on his fireplace mantel. He pulled it down and shoved it into Harry's hands. "Plus, we can't go in robes, we'll look like idiots. We want to blend in, not stand out as Judas fucking Cliffdale and Malfoy fucking Potter. And, I have to tell my mother I'm leaving."

Harry, standing alone and still by the fireplace, watched as Draco walked toward the door, "Why?"

"I don't want her to think I've up and disappeared, too, do I? Stay here, I'll be back."

Harry was laughing. He pointed at Draco with one accusing index finger, "Wait a second."

Draco turned around at the door, "What?"

"You just referred to yourself as Malfoy fucking Potter."

"No," Draco disagreed, as he turned his bedroom doorknob. "I referred to us as Malfoy fucking Potter."

Harry rolled his eyes, "You added that fucking in there for a reason, didn't you? Just for giggles."

"Yeah, for giggles."

Harry clasped his left hand with his right and doubled over in mock-pain.

Draco squinted at the door, knowing it wasn't real pain. Oh, Jesus, what now, Potter? He was laughing, already, though.

Harry pulled his hand up into the air, "What... oh, wait...! What! RIGHT! HA! BITCH!" He flipped Draco off.

Draco snorted, closed the door behind him, and set off down the hall. For the first time that week, he laughed very freely.