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

7. Father Figures

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!

Note: This chapter is a bit (er, a bit meaning twice as long) longer than the previous ones. Also, THANK-YOU SO MUCH to everyone who has reviewed. You guys are great and you rock. I appreciate it very much!

Somewhere Only We Know

Chapter Seven

Father-Figures

It was around six in the evening when Draco and Harry descended upon Hogsmeade, and from the streets of Hogsmeade into the Three Broomsticks. It was dead. There were a few people there, but compared to how crowded the place had been two year prior, neither could understand how the pub had been able to stay open. It was Harry who had to drag Draco along to find a table. They took the table in the furthest corner to the left in the pub.

Six o'clock turned into seven o'clock, and seven rolled into eight and then to nine.

It was at this nine o'clock junction that they had both worked past three alcoholic Butterbeer specials each. As the hours passed on, more and more people had come into the pub. The chatter that surrounded the place was far more interesting than any of the conversation that was made, forcefully, between Harry and Draco.

Draco mostly sat back in his booth, with his eyes staring out the front windows, watching sketchy characters out on the street, while Harry tried to find interesting facts carved into the wooden table top. They had bursts of conversation every now and then, about favorite colors and the like, but, they both knew that everything Harry said in response to Draco was based on a lie. Hogsmeade, even more than the Malfoy estate, was suspect to prying eyes and ears. Maintaining identity was key.

But, as soon as nine fifteen rolled around, Harry had become extremely agitated. The pub was now crawling with dark wizards everywhere he looked. It wasn't as if they had any reason to be awkwardly looking at Harry, nor Draco. Judas and Draco were hardly innocents in the wrong pub. The only people brave and stupid enough to go trenching out into Hogsmeade, now, and even Diagon Alley, were those who had no reason to be afraid of Voldemort or Death Eaters, which meant that most of the people out were of dark magic or had ties and connections to Voldemort.

Draco leaned up over the table, his arms crossed under his chest. He had been watching Harry struggle with the night. For some reason, Draco hadn't wanted to leave. If they left, the only other place to go was back to his family's property, and he wasn't interested in that. Harry didn't seem to be, either, because he hadn't hinted at, or made the effort to hint at, leaving. But, Harry finished his Butterbeer way more quickly than Draco had. He downed his alcohol, but Draco never said a thing.

However, now, slightly buzzed and feeling brave, warm from his last sip of Butterbeer, he smirked, "Fun birthday, thanks."

Harry had been staring back at him, waiting for whatever he had to say. But, he didn't bother to stop his genuine laugh, "Yeah," he agreed, not apologizing. Whatever Draco had been planning back at the Malfoy estate, for his own birthday, was probably better than them sitting there, nearly in awkward silence for three hours, snacking on tortilla chips, sweetly mild salsa, alcoholic Butterbeer and some carbonated beverages in-between. He sat back against his booth, his hands laying out on the table. He stared down at them. "I never figured you to be a brooding drunk. You seem more like the—"

"Tipsy, giggling fool?" Draco asked for him, with a loud, easy laugh. "That's your loaded hero-complex, again."

Harry squinted at him, leaning up over the side of the table, too. Now that it was dark, their conversations had been coming more quickly and easily. He didn't know why the darkness had eased the tension between them, but it had. He might have assumed it was alcohol loosening their inhibitions, but he knew better. Every time his eyes had landed on Draco, he wanted to start talking, but he knew it would be taken the wrong way. He mostly waited for Draco to make conversation, "That makes no fucking sense, Malfoy. My hero-complex has nothing to do with your elitist-complexion's somber drunk routine."

"Hmm," snorted Draco. But, he didn't retaliate. He just lifted his fourth Butterbeer to his lips. "You're exactly the kind of drunk I pictured you to be," he admitted, but he wasn't sure if he was telling the truth. Harry didn't answer him, just tilted his head with a grin. His face had turned its attention down onto the old, beat tabletop between them. The candles that were lit behind Draco's head, on the wall, and the lights from outside the front of the Three Broomsticks created a dark, yet enchanting, shadow over the unfamiliar features. But, even as he watched Harry, something about him seemed familiar. Even though his features were different, his smile, somehow, made Draco forget every other feature on his face. He grinned, too, as he took a sip from his dripping glass.

"I'm not drunk, Malfoy. I handle my alcohol well—"

"Bullshit, don't feed that to me! You've been ordering Light Butterbeers—don't think I didn't notice."

Harry snorted with loud laughter, throwing himself back against his booth seat. His hands left the table and roughly rubbed over his face, though he was still smiling. It wasn't like Draco was lying. Harry had been drinking Light Butterbeer, he had a cover to be protecting, and it would have been easier to forget that if he were downing the same sort of powerful drinking liquid that Draco was. He had, however, not realized that Malfoy had seen him motion to the bartender to make his drinks Light, "All right, fine, you've caught me." His hands parted at the center of his face, making shields on either side as he leaned his elbows onto the table, staring opposite of him. "I'm not much of a fun drunk, really, you wouldn't be impressed. I slur my words and cry."

Draco, intrigued with this honesty, smiled, "You cry? Does your hero-handbook come with certain guidelines on that?"

"Well, I don't know, Draco, I haven't gotten that far in it," Harry returned, dropping his hands down, again. "Lush."

Draco chuckled, freely. Noting that Harry's fourth Butterbeer was already gone, now, he sat straight up, "BARKEEP!" He called, with his left hand up in the air. The bartender looked over at him, immediately. The only person who had been calling the bartender "Barkeep" was Malfoy, and it seemed that the man didn't have a problem with it, often bringing Harry and Draco their drinks, personally. Malfoy, being who he was, had people at his every beckon wanton. He saw Harry look over, too, paled. "Give me two of your strongest Butterbeers, and keep the barrel out—we'll be wanting a lot more of it!"

The bartender gave him a nod before he turned away, as did most of the other curious bar-floats.

Harry rested his cheek against his left palm, staring at Draco, "Fine, I'll have one, if that will make you happy."

"You're doing things to make me happy, now? I wonder what you'll be doing once you've chugged what I've got coming to you," Draco chimed, his eyes glazed over with honestly. He felt good. He felt loose. And, Harry wasn't loose enough, yet. Butterbeer had very different alcoholic ranges.

Students and kids had the lightest Butterbeer there was. It didn't have any alcohol in it, at all. Harry had been drinking the lightest Butterbeer above that—hardly enough to get even a five year old tipsy. There were about seven degrees of alcohol that had separated Harry and Draco's beverages.

Harry was still staring at him, not bothering to look away. He wasn't rolling his eyes, scoffing, and he didn't appear at all annoyed. Grinning, and knowing that Harry was more than willing to escape his entire world for the rest of the night, Draco leaned closer, curiously enthralled.

Harry pointed at him with his right hand, still resting on his left palm, his elbow on the table, "Was that a come on?"

"I don't know, I'll tell you at the end of the night."

Harry closed his eyes, breathing with unrestricted, unbiased laughter. His left elbow gave way. His palm slipped away from his cheek, and he collapsed a small cove down on the table, made with his arms. He lowered his face into the small, waiting circle. He felt warm, physically. He wasn't overheated. He just felt content, but he was extremely on edge. He wasn't arguing with Draco, because he had no reason to. He could place an enchantment on himself, anyway, before he started to drink heavily. This way, nothing would slip out that shouldn't have. It was a Cliffdale spell, one no one but the Cliffdales, and, now Harry Potter, knew. It tricked Veritaserum—that's how powerful it was. He was someone else, now, even as Harry Potter. His friends had betrayed him the year earlier, aside from Ron. Malfoy had been his closest ally, somehow, and it was about time they just... bonded. He looked up from his arms, his eyes glinting.

Draco smiled, freely, "I don't like how you're looking at me—what?"

Harry lifted his head up, slowly, and pulled his arms under the table, "You know, Malfoy..."

"Dramatic pause, nicely played, now get on with it," Draco returned without missing a beat.

"This whole flamboyant, gay thing you have going on, is it real?"

At the smirk on Harry's face, Draco felt a little intruded on, so he glowered, "I already told you. No."

No. Harry stood his head, "No, no, I don't think that's true. I think you are gay."

"Oh, Jesus, are you going to try and convince me that I'm gay? Don't waste your time, I've heard it all."

Harry sat up, very straight. Draco's alarmingly casual tone pulled him in, "You've heard it all?"

"Come on, you know how I am. If you know, the whole school knows. You don't think my friends have gone over this?" At Harry's silence, Draco pressed on. Perhaps the Light Butterbeer really had been taking a drastic effect on Harry, because his eyes were very glazed over. They followed every single eyelash flutter that Draco had given, some of them purposely just to see the way Harry reacted. He was leaned over, almost weakly. His cheeks were flushed red, even from the candlelight's bright glow. He was being completely open to conversation—nothing either one of them had ever been when regarding each other, not even Draco.

Harry's shield, for the first time ever, was down in front of Draco Malfoy.

At this, Draco's heart skipped a beat, his cheeks flushed, and he quickly took advantage of the situation. If Harry Potter was all ears, Draco was going to give him a night he was going to remember—and it was only just beginning. "Don't you think Lucius itched at his head when I came home on the last day of holiday wearing eyeliner? I'm not gay. I'm a little feminine. It's as easy as that."

Harry was massaging his cheek bone with his palm, "You said you were in love with Potter."

"Not in love with! Admired, envied—in a completely platonic, straight way!" It was almost an automated response.

Harry only looked down at his hands, now, on the table, "You'd do him, don't lie."

Draco gasped, in disbelief. Potter was definitely under the influence. He frowned, a little put off, "Would not. Never."

Harry looked up at him with a doubtful smirk hinting at the corner of his mouth, "I bet he'd have done you if he knew—"

"Oh, fuck you," Draco cut him off and pulled his eyes away, furiously, trying not to be bothered by the laughter.

Harry had only been teasing him, just trying to get a rise out of him. Getting an innocent, friendly rise out of Draco was something he had never done, nor had ever imagined doing. But, he had done it without much effort. Draco had lost his cool very quickly, his eyes having turned from Harry, fully. He was looking over other people, now, his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance and defeat. No, he shouldn't have been so bothered so quickly. He could dish it out, but he couldn't take it? Was that how Draco Malfoy was? Or was this just because he drinking? Or, did it just have to do with Harry Potter, himself? The topic of Harry Potter? He couldn't help but feel eased and confident, still watching the pretty profile in front of him. He didn't move his eyes away, examining over the flawless skin and soft translucently radiant complexion. How did he make himself so pretty? Growing up, he had been a good-looking kid, but had always looked a little obnoxious, with features too intense for a young face. But, now, those features had shifted into their adult shapes, and his face had transformed so beautifully.

Harry coughed, loudly, and tore his eyes away from Draco, trying to forget he had just been admitting that Draco was pretty. Damn Butterbeer! Okay, well, it wasn't like Harry couldn't compliment a man on his looks. He acknowledged good looking men all of the time—but it wasn't in such an awe-inflicted way as it had just been. He sat up very straight, again. He kicked, hard, against Draco's foot, "I was just kidding, Christ."

Draco looked back at him, blankly. Ouch! His poor foot, "We should leave."

Harry rolled his eyes, resting back against his booth, staring at Draco very condescendingly, "You're a hypocrite."

Draco's left eye twitched. He kicked the back of his left foot against the front of the solid wooden plank that was the foundation of his booth seat. He did this to relieve the frustration he was feeling, "That was something I already knew, so forget it being an insult or a conversation starter—I'm annoyed with you, and I want to leave."

"Fine," Harry immediately spat, their eyes locked. "Get the fuck out of here, Malfoy, I don't care."

Draco clenched his teeth together and shot forward, suddenly, like a bullet, "I can't fucking stand you—"

Harry stayed where he was, absorbing in the seething expression and words coming to him, "I'm sorry? Goodbye!"

"I didn't ask for you to come along and screw up my entire life—"

"Fine," Harry said and started to slide out of his seat, to the left. "If you won't leave, I will. Go, go out, alone, and get yourself murdered."

Draco stared at him, as Harry stood up, glaring coldly at him, "I bet you're hoping I will! I hope Voldemort kills you, I swear I do. I do, I fucking really hate you."

"Don't, Malfoy. Go back home to your mansion and continue to whine about how Harry Potter ruined your entire life, you no-good, whining, ungrateful, disgusting, fuck-faced, liar of an incest-produced bastard. We're done, not that we ever even began."

Draco stood up, too, pushing his glass off of the table with his right arm as he did so. It smashed onto the ground. But, it was so noisy that no one noticed, not even the table to the left of theirs, or the one in front of it. Harry didn't look down at the glass, nor did Draco. Go back to his mansion and whine? Potter was a bastard, and he hadn't fucking changed. He thought he was so much better than everyone. And, what was that about hoping Draco was murdered? Even for an insult, that was going way beyond a line that should ever have been crossed by Harry fucking Potter. He slipped back down at the booth, giving up. Fine, Harry could leave. Draco didn't care, not right at that moment, "Yeah, I will. That's the only thing I'm good at, apparently. In the mean-time, don't ever step into my mansion, ever again, you lonely, miserable, filthy mud-blood—now, fuck you and get out of my site before I slash you." He grabbed at a tortilla chip, dipped it in salsa, and then glanced back at the still immobile Judas Cliffdale, who was staring at him. "Go, go save the world for us bastards of incest. While you're at it, why don't you continue to support the tainting of pure blood—of magic—just for the sake of your precious little muggles—they're just making us weaker. You're just making us weaker."

"That will always be the difference between you and I—you're selfish, concerned about the sanctity of your magic, and I could care a FUCK about that when people are being murdered by people with the same mindset as you," Harry nearly shook with fury. "And, THAT, Malfoy, is why you and I were never friends, because you've got the Hitler complexion, which, by my moral scale, is a whole LOT fucking notches of worse than a hero-complexion."

Draco only saw Harry once he was outside the Three Broomsticks, in the dark, with his hood pulled over his head. But, he wasn't satisfied. He was furious. He smashed his tortilla chip down onto the table, beneath his palm. The crackle of the breaking chip did nothing to make him feel better, nothing at all. Fine, he was a product of some sort of incest. He never EVER thought into the mechanics of it. Cornwell and Narcissa were hardly immediately cousins—and hadn't even known at the time, because Cornwell hadn't been Cornwell Black. He'd taken his mother's name, having been shunned by most of his family for some big event that had happened in the past—but, by God, it wasn't like... like... they... GOD. Furious, Draco slid out of his seat, dropped a few galleons on the table, and charged out into the night to find some desperately-needed fresh air.

Once Draco was outside, things didn't get any better. It was dark, now, and every wizard had their cloak pulled up over their head so their faces couldn't be seen. He had pulled his own hood up over his head before he had even stepped out of the Three Broomsticks. Truth was, Draco wasn't safe being out by himself. It wasn't safe for anyone, least of all the son of the missing Minister. But, though the people who would have been a danger to him were on the same side as his father—Death Eaters—if Draco was taken in, he would be fed to Voldemort and forced to do service—something he had been already lucky enough to by-pass because his father had been around. Things were different, now.

There were still stores open, so the street wasn't too dark. He walked in the very center of the dirty and cobblestone road, being careful to avoid alleyways and very dark gaping holes between buildings. He didn't know where Harry had gone, and he would have been smart not to even give a damn, but, somehow, he was looking. He was looking for Harry fucking Potter, the bastard whose drunk character was now a, very CLEAR, MEAN drunk. He had snapped over such a small situation, and he had sputtered some crude things, "Son of a bitch."

It was only about five minutes later, while Draco was walking by a small, disgustingly dirty pub that his eyes caught onto a figure from inside. The person's hood was down. The grime on the window hardly made the details of Judas's face clear, but he knew it was Harry. There was a wash of relief that swarmed over him. He was all alone. Not just that night, walking in Hogsmeade, but in general. He had his mother, but she was in ten million different places as it was. But, Harry... he couldn't just let that go. He was in it, now, and he couldn't keep fucking it up—not that the whole shebang in the Three Broomsticks had been HIS fault, but... he shouldn't have been so defensive against the gay questions. His loyalty to Harry was hardly going to fade—and they both knew it. It had been built on its own, over the years.

Wait—who was Harry with, anyway?

Draco didn't waste a moment as he grabbed at the wobbly door handle of the pub. He walked in. It was crowded, surprisingly, even more than the Three Broomsticks had been. But, here, the crowd was much different. There were people their age there—and, was that Weasley? WEASLEY? He wondered to himself what Weasley's mother would have done if she knew Ron was there, albeit by himself, it seemed. But, he wasn't the only innocent-looking customer. It, then, occurred to Draco that the place most likely to have been filled with dark, dirty wizards was exactly the last place dark wizards would go looking for innocent people craving a Butterbeer.

The pub was small, but the bar was long. Harry was sitting on a stool, backward, his feet pulled up. His left arm was lounged out across the edge of the bar. He was deep in conversation with a blonde—a female blonde. Annoyed and without any shame whatsoever, Draco strode over toward them, his eyes curiously taking in the figure of this blonde woman. She was in a dark robe, as was everyone else, but, somehow, the way the material lay across her body just screamed of curves. And, Harry, or Judas, was just lapping it up, listening to this woman talk, not giving a fucking damn what she was saying, and it was so obvious.

Draco pulled the hood off of his head as he strolled across the pub. His hair seemed to be the brightest detractor there was, in the whole place, because people from every direction glanced at him as if he were crazy for being so bright when their world was so dull and gray. But, it was his hair—he couldn't help it. He let his hood drop, and when he was within ten feet of the bar, every single pair of eyes turned from Judas to Draco. Attention, also, came from Harry, whose mouth immediately twisted and eyes lit on fire. "He's gay," Draco informed the young woman beside him, calmly, before he turned his full attention back to Harry. "Extremely, extremely gay, and you're wasting your time."

Harry's cheeks sucked in, fast and hard, his eyes shooting away from Draco and to the young woman.

The blonde tossed a nervous hand through her long, curly hair. She looked at him, confused, "You're... gay?"

Okay, he had two options. Deny or confirm Judas Cliffdale's sexual orientation. He looked at Draco, coldly, and he answered the girl, "Sure. I'm gay."

"You're gay?" She shrieked, loudly, as if she thought she hadn't heard correctly, collecting more attention from others.

Draco looked away from Harry, without blinking. Okay, good, at least the son of a bitch had a direction, now, and one that was, at least, somewhat true. Judas Cliffdale, that Draco had known, was bisexual. At least he hadn't gone off and denied it for his own sake. But, still, he was lounged out, with his hood down, his face incredibly hard. The expression had not wavered for one single second since he had set his eyes on Draco. But, Draco had a Potter to be protecting, though he didn't want to be. He had made a wordless pact with him—therefore, things were going to have to change. Still buzzed, Draco's attention was now straight on the young lady sitting beside Harry, annoyed, "Are you done throwing yourself at him? I'd like to sit down."

Harry's eyes only lurked in the darkest corner of the pub, "Don't move, don't give him your seat."

Draco seethed at the girl, rather than Harry, and his hand dove into his pocket, "Ten galleons for your seat."

Needless to say, the stool was immediately unoccupied, and Draco paid up, "I swear—"

"You swear," Harry interrupted him, coming out of his own silence. "Get out of my face, Draco."

"I would if I could, and if you had it your way, you'd think I'd rather be in your crotch. Shut up for a minute."

Harry did silence himself, swiveling around on his barstool. Though what had happened in the Three Broomsticks outraged him, it had also cleared a small bit of tension that had been lingering since Draco found out who he was. It wasn't possible for them to forget the extremity of their past, together. Regardless of how they had grown to respect each other, they also had never had to live or deal or talk to each other. They dueled back and forth and shot insults at each other. Becoming friends wasn't possible while there were still questions lingering about who they actually were to each other, and who they had been to each other. He had been trying to overcome the fact that Draco's opinion had always been that pureblood was the sole base of magic and anything that tainted it should have been axed off. But, that couldn't be ignored, seeing as how, basically, the whole entire situation was based around that one damn, elitist belief.

Draco eventually sat beside him, both of them silently facing the awe-struck face of the bartender. Remembering where he was, and why, Draco cleared his throat, "Give me your strongest Butterbeer, would you?" And, he wasn't carded. Everyone in the news was aware when the Minister's children's birthdays were occurring. For some reason this enthralled many people. To Draco, it was stupid and pointless, but at the end of the day, he knew there would be presents waiting on his front porch from random admirers. It wasn't so bad.

When the bartender turned to get his drink, Draco finally glanced to his left, "They didn't know."

Harry, with only one-forth of a glass left of the strongest Butterbeer in the world, sighed of destruction, "Who, what?"

"Cornwell and my mother, they didn't know."

Harry couldn't help but glance back at him. Though, Draco quickly looked away, as if electrocuted, "Didn't know what?"

"Oh, don't make me say if, fuck-face," Draco bit, loudly, but was then given a hard punch on his arm by Harry.

But, somehow, Harry was laughing, then, sighing with defeat, "Drop it, we don't need to talk about it, anymore—"

"No," Draco quickly interrupted him, turning his entire upper body to Harry. They were close. Draco had moved his stool over before he had taken a seat on it. Why had he done this? Because he knew what they were going to end up saying too each other was more personal. The quieter the words, the better. Even if Harry had nothing to say, Draco did. He had a lot to get off of his chest. If anyone else had ever said to him what Harry had said to him, Draco would have thrown down with his wand and his hands. It would have been on. But, this was different, and he wasn't sure, fully, yet, why. "No, I'm not done."

Harry blinked, and then, he looked down into the last contents of his clear mug. He deserved it, "Okay, give it to me."

"No, I'm not going to do that, either," Draco returned, staring at the unfamiliar profile. "I don't know why I like you so much." And, Harry quickly found his eyes, looking bewildered. Draco gave him the same look, back. Well, he wasn't going to lie—especially not while he didn't feel the need to, his alcohol having been greatly loosening him. Annoyed with Harry's expression, Draco grimaced and scowled. "I do, and had you been anyone else twenty minutes ago, after saying what you said, you never would have seen the light of day, again—but, you're you. I'm me. Whatever the hell happened to us in the past, or however in the hell we got here... to this exact moment... there was a reason. Just like I don't know what that reason is, I don't know why in the hell I find you almost impossible to hate—and maybe it's because I've spent most of my last seven years hating you, and I've been drained of the energy for it. Here's the thing, and I'm not going to call myself pathetic for admitting this to you, because it's the last thing I have ever imaged myself saying to you, but—"

Harry was following his eyes, morosely, "Just say it."

Draco took a huge, deep breath, and bravely hissed, "What you said, it hurt."

Harry was sitting up straight, his arms extended on the bar. He didn't know what to say.

By this point, Draco wasn't even looking at him. He could only imagine the ever dumb-founded look, "But, I'm going to excuse you for what you said, because you were ignorant to the facts of the situation and what happened. I have to, however, tell you some of what DID happen, because I'm so mad at you that I need you to understand that I am not, not, a product of..." He didn't want to mention his mother by name, or even by mother, because anyone could have heard as a passer-on. He, also, didn't want to mention Cornwell, because mostly everyone from the old-school generation knew the story with the Black family and their banishment of Cornwell. He didn't bother looking at Harry. This was hard enough as was. He had never told this to anyone. "I don't take it you never heard the story of what happened to him—I mean, why you were so surprised when you heard his last name, yet had never heard his first?"

Harry turned into Draco and looked between their shoulders, "Wait, come on, the table in the corner is empty."

The bartender had just placed Draco's Butterbeer down, and Draco was already five gulps in.

Harry slipped off of his barstool, first, and heard the clunk of Draco's shoes meeting the wooden floor behind him. When Harry had first walked in, the pub had turned silent in a matter of twenty seconds. It was because he was Judas Cliffdale. When Draco had walked in, it had taken less than ten seconds. The two of them, together, at the bar, had produced the last five minutes of a very quiet pub and very thunderously suspicious, gossiping whispers. Naturally, as soon as Draco had walked in, Harry had looked around for a table—the one in the corner having been, coincidentally, open. The corner was dark, very dark, and this was a good thing.

A few seconds later, Harry slipped down onto the dark, wooden, and black, velvet-cushioned booth-seat built against the wall, and Draco slipped in the seat opposite of him. They were sitting in front of a window, though it was incredibly dirty and almost impossible to see through. He watched, silently, as the bright guide of Draco's hair was blanketed by the hook of his cloak. At this, the black darkness covered Draco's usually luminescent face in dark shadow. Harry covered his own head with his black hood and leaned forward to imitate Draco's form, until their elbows, on the table, were about three inches apart, their noses six or seven, "He wasn't even on Sirius's family tree."

And, Draco dived in, "Cornwell's mother was a muggle—one night stand with his father turned into two, and then months after that. His father refused to acknowledge him for the majority of his young life, or so he was led to believe.," Draco immediately answered back, not surprised by this having been Harry's first attempt at answers. "My mother and Sirius were cousins, you know that—I assume you know most of the bloodlines. But, Cornwell was the cousin no one knew about. His father, after having a terrible incident with his first love being murdered, rebelled against magic, swore it off. He moved to muggle London and met Cornwell's mother. Cornwell used to tell me that it was love at first sight between his parents. They boned, spent a few marvelous months together, and he was about to ask her to marry him, not having yet told her about him being magic, of course not—and that's when his father, my great grandfather, if you will, stepped in, along with the most powerful members of the Black family, and pulled his father back into magic—basically brainwashed him, threatened Cornwell's mother, set her up to look like she was stealing things from his father, and all of this horrible bullshit—so, Cornwell's father, eventually, was so blinded by what his family had done, that he left her—went back into magic, not knowing, of course, that Cornwell had been conceived."

Draco spoke very, very quietly. He had been told this story only twice in his life. Cornwell didn't talk about his own family very much. He had never, of course, understood the extremity until he was old enough to appreciate what Cornwell had been through. One of the only fond things that Cornwell had ever spoken about Lucius, to Draco, was that he had a wonderful family that Draco was going to be blessed enough to be part of.

Indeed, most of Draco's immediate family, as a Malfoy, was the same family that had thrown Cornwell's life into disarray. They would never, EVER, know that Draco was Cornwell's son and not Lucius's, not only because his mother and birth-father were distantly, er, related, but because Cornwell's reputation had been stabbed at every instant it could have been by that very family.

"Cornwell grew up as a normal kid in London, good manners, polite—same as he is now, I suppose, or so I've been told," he started in, again, continuing on. There was something inside of his body that was shooting off fireworks. He had never told this story to anyone, before. He, for once, was telling the actual family history of his birth father. He had shivers, and it excited his very fingertips and all of his blood.

"When he turned eleven, he got the Hogwarts letter. His mother knew nothing of magic, nor of Cornwell's father's knowledge of magic—and, she had even less knowledge on the whereabouts of his father, Airchelles, to begin with and had absolutely no way of contacting him. She, like many muggle parents who get the letter, thought it was some sort of prank set forth by Cornwell or some of the neighborhood kids who, coincidentally, didn't like Cornwell because he was a pretty little boy with good manners—anyway, she ignored the letter, until, one day, they were sitting outside on their front-stoop, and the headmaster of Hogwarts, at the time, himself, showed up with the letter. Cornwell had been the only child who had not been confirmed to be attending that year—"

Harry, enthralled and in awe, gazing at Draco, constantly, while he whispered, frowned, "Why was the headmaster—"

"I'm getting there," Draco cut him off, quietly. But, Harry did not look offended. He just closed his mouth, his left eyebrow hooking up in amusement. But, Draco allowed a few seconds to gain more of his breath back and to let the beginning of the story settle. Actually, the only reason he stopped was to take a few more gulps of his warm Butterbeer—hot damn, it was good. He swallowed, groaned, and leaned in to Harry, again, closer.

"The Headmaster was a Black, Cornwell's grandfather's brother. He had been one of the family members to pull Airchelles from Cornwell's mother. He had, though, no idea that Cornwell was a Black. Upon appearing on Cornwell's doorstep, and with one look at Cornwell, he knew. Not only do they say that the Black family has something recognizable about them, in their eyes, like some sort of magnetic affliction—but, he also looked overwhelmingly like his father in the facial shape and jaw—something extremely trademark, if you haven't yet noticed. When he saw Cornwell's mother, it all came back to him. And, appalled with never having known about Cornwell, he was furious. He took Cornwell and his mother under his wing—them not having known that he was who he was in actual relation to their specific situation. He introduced Cornwell to Diagon Alley—to magic."

"Eventually, he confessed who he was in relation to Cornwell. Naturally, Cornwell's mother had finally realized him to be one of the men she had seen around Airchelles those twelve or thirteen years earlier. Furious, for having been lied to by Airchelles and by the Headmaster, and having had to raise Cornwell as a single mother while she learned that Airchelles went on to greatness, leaving her behind and believing her to have been a big mistake in his life, she decided she didn't want to put Cornwell through it. Then, she learned the reasons why Airchelles had been pulled away from her, from Cornwell—the politics—the issues of muggles and purebloods and the controversy not only in the Black family, but in the whole wizard society. After this, she didn't want to put Cornwell through the experience of being a known mud-blood, bastard son of one of the most powerful men in the ministry, at the time."

Draco took a deep breath, "While she and Cornwell had been oblivious to who the Headmaster was, he had been explaining everything: the politics, the families, the school, the locations—everything. She refused Cornwell's magic—and, though they say that most muggle parents who deny their half-blood children's magic actual refuse their children in a psychological way down the line—Cornwell says he never felt anything but love and compassion for his mother. Even as an eleven year old, somehow, he understood. And, as the years went on—twelve to thirteen, thirteen to fourteen, fourteen to fifteen—"

Harry was gape-mouthed, "You mean he never went to Hogwarts?"

Draco nodded, "Up until his sixteenth birthday, Cornwell barely gave a blink to Hogwarts or his blood-line. He was magic, and, can you imagine being magic and, not only not knowing how to use it, but not even giving a damn that you had it in you?" Draco asked. He had always been in awe of the person that Cornwell had been. He had heard many stories from different people in his family about Cornwell, though they were usually all extremely flawed. But, Cornwell had always answered the questions when Draco had asked him for information. There had always been one thing that Draco couldn't comprehend—and that was Cornwell's knowledge of being a wizard and never even caring.

"Cornwell is such a trip, though, Malfoy, I don't have any trouble believing he was unaffected by what he was."

Draco, at being called Malfoy, felt slightly slapped. Here he was talking about his family—the Blacks. And, Harry had called him by Malfoy. And, for the first time in his entire life, he didn't FEEL like a Malfoy—he didn't even acknowledge the word Malfoy, at first, for what it was. Malfoy. It was, almost, like just a word. But, guilt crept over him at this sudden epiphany in the moment. Denying Malfoy was denying Lucius, and Lucius, though evil and corrupt to most people, was his father—a loving, nurturing, proud man who had raised Draco with laughter and kindness. And, Draco thought he was a pretty great guy. He had been raised, very well, by three very different, yet loving, parents. He cleared his throat, "Yeah," he continued, ignoring his guilt. "On his sixteenth birthday, he was standing in his kitchen with a friend he'd met years earlier at a park in London. A knock comes on the door—and, he answers it."

Harry, after about five seconds, took Draco's Butterbeer from him, laughing under his breath, "Come on, tell the story!"

Draco let Harry take the now-empty glass. He took in a deep breath, inhaling the stuffy air of the pub into his lungs. Somehow, even with the thick air, it felt fresh. He felt fresh. He felt liberated. And, it wasn't because of the alcohol—okay, well, maybe just a little but. But, Draco knew that this freedom-fighting inside of him was mostly produced by the story he was telling to Harry Potter about his birth-father's past—a father that Harry Potter was, in some ways, related to—but not by blood. They both had ties to the Black family, and both of their ties had existed in father-figures.

"Cornwell opens the door, and a man is standing there. Cornwell says he had no idea who the man was, at first. But, he always added that he must have been so brain-dead that morning, because it had been like he hadn't been able to identify himself in a mirror." This received Harry whispering, "Airchelles!" to Draco, who nodded in agreement without sarcasm about the obviousness of who had shown up at the door. "He's standing there, just waiting for this man to say something, or do something."

"Cornwell's mother was a work, so she wasn't home. It was just Cornwell and his friend. His father just stares at him, completely silent, and holds out a letter—it's a Hogwarts letter. See, Cornwell's uncle, the Headmaster, had been extremely wounded that Cornwell hadn't attended Hogwarts. He had tried to get the rest of his family to welcome Cornwell in—by the way, none of them ever knew Cornwell by name. They only knew him as a bastard son with dirty blood—anyway, they had refused for Airchelles to find out that he even had a son. And, Cornwell's great uncle had been sworn, by a bonding-charm, not to say a word."

"Well, he was on his deathbed around the time of Cornwell's sixteenth birthday. Cornwell, who eventually went to see his great uncle on his death bed, told me that it was the man's heart that had broken. He hadn't been able to take lying, anymore, so he had summoned Airchelles—his nephew, late one night, to his home—and told him not to tell not a soul, and to come alone. He had given Airchelles a letter to deliver to Cornwell—not, however, telling him that Cornwell was his son. He had sworn to his family that he would not have been the one to tell Cornwell, but they had never said Airchelles couldn't find out on his own."

"While Cornwell didn't recognize the similar features in the man, his father knew that Cornwell was his son from the second that Cornwell had opened the door," Draco continued, quietly. "Airchelles had never been a typical Black. He worked well within the ministry for equality. He had no resentments toward muggles, obviously, after having fallen in love with Cornwell's mother. He pretended in front of his family, for a long time, that the whole incident had turned him against muggles, completely, which had been exactly what they had wanted to hear."

Draco knew he was beginning to travel off course, so he redirected the story, "Anyway, knowing, immediately, about Cornwell, and figuring that his uncle had been struggling with this knowledge for a very long time—oh, apparently, there had been moments when Airchelles had sensed that something was not right in moments when his uncle was in the room while his other nieces and nephews mentioned their children—anyway, his father basically figured everything out in about five seconds. He gave Cornwell the letter, asked him where his mother was, and if he could speak to her—at which point Cornwell had looked at the letter, noted that it was from Hogwarts, and returned it back to his father, still unknowingly. He told him that he wasn't interested in being part of a world that had destroyed his mother, nor acknowledging the part of his blood that had come from a terrible man, his father, who had come from a terrible family—and closed the door on him."

Even Harry was rubbing his face, in distress, "I couldn't even imagine."

Draco agreed with this very quiet, crackled sentiment, "Airchelles left, stunned and broken. His uncle, having been the only Black struggling with having been keeping the truth from him, was getting weaker. Being who he was, Airchelles had his own pull in the family. He was, basically, the powerhouse voice of the family—always logical, very intelligent. That very night, after Cornwell had closed the door in his face, he rushed back to his uncle and tried his damnedest not to beg for the truth, because he knew it would possibly kill his uncle to break the bond—but, his uncle was already dying, and he hadn't more than about five days to live. He had become very sick, and upon Airchelles' arrival in the uncle's home, his uncle took his hands and stared into his eyes, and told him the truth—all of it, said he didn't care if he died—and, it all came out, about the entire family keeping Cornwell from him—only his uncle still having known Cornwell by name—about the setups, about everything—about how they destroyed everything that his father had ever loved before his family had pulled him back in with all lies and deceit."

Harry was grimacing, his teeth clenched together, his upper lip lifted in disgrace.

"Quickly after, Airchelles called a meeting of the family—and not just the decision-makers, but his brothers, sisters, parents, grand-parents, uncles and aunts, and even distant cousins. He called everyone together, without ever having had to think about what he was giving up. And, he stood in front of them and slashed his entire existence off of the family tree, tore off his Black family crest, threw over all of his Deeds and Trusts in the Black name, and told them all to fuck themselves, basically. His brothers and sisters had no idea what had happened—they didn't know about Cornwell, either. He told the entire, clueless family, then, what had happened. It caused a split in the family. And, to this day, there are four missing Black family members on the last generation's family tree, including Airchelles, his great uncle, and two of Airchelles' siblings."

"Holy shit," Harry hissed, shell-shocked. How incredible! All of the letters of the alphabet had escaped him!

Draco nodded at him, even shivering at the secrets of the Blacks, "Yeah."

Harry, now impatient with Draco's pause, though he had been talking non-stop for five minutes, his eyes always flashing, in the now-adjusted dark, with excitement about even telling this history, growled and lifted his shocked-palms off of the wooden table between them. He had been staring into Draco Malfoy's eyes for the last fifteen minutes, non-stop.

This wasn't the same person. He was not the Draco Malfoy that Harry had ever known. This was a completely different human being—one with stories to tell, one with Black blood, one with silver eyes that had nothing to do with the Malfoy genes, but everything to do with the genes of his mother. He was someone else! He just was! Harry never had any IDEA about any of these things, but this was Draco's life.

Nothing, from that moment on, was going to be gray between them. It was going to be white—or Black! He understood, now, how dense he had been being, for years, to think that a person could only have a few facets that were only visible from the outside. He knew better. He should have listened to his instincts, all of those years, when he looked at Malfoy and saw something other than... Malfoy. No! It was too deep! Too confusing! Too... "What happened, then? How did Airchelles tell him? I can't believe it—I mean, just... come on, tell me."

Draco laughed, hardly at all, his shoulders slouching with ease. This was the best story he had ever, ever told. And, to make it even better, it was true! All truth! All truth! There was still more to be told, lots more, "I just want to stress the importance of the split in the family—it was Airchelles, Airchelles uncle's family, and... Airchelles had more siblings than you've been told—he had another brother and sister, who, after the news of what the family had done to Cornwell, though no one was pleased, decided to take arms with their brother—both of whom, like Airchelles, were not completely dedicated to the politics of the Black family, especially because, at that time, Voldemort had taken in most all of the upper society hook, line and sinker, including their parents, other siblings, friends, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—you name it. They wanted to get away from that. His brother's entire family, as well as his sister, who hadn't yet started her family, were taken off of the tree—off of the record."

"So, basically, there is a whole other side of the Black family. But, most people don't know what happened in the family—it's all glamour, dark arts and strong family bonds. But, the Black family members, from the main-pack, were the ones to make it that way. They never publicly, or even socially, acknowledged the missing Blacks, and to their children, never mentioned the missing Blacks until they became nothing more than a dirty little secret, having just sort of faded away. It was never, ever, really discussed. Even now, no one really knows, not even my cousins, because the older generations want it to be forgotten. Black isn't the most uncommon last name, either, so those who hear of, say, my cousin Sherman Black of Hufflepuff, Cornwell's brother's son, don't think he is related to the House of Black, though he is."

"Cornwell has siblings?" Harry immediately asked, and then grinned. "Cornwell's mother and father got together?"

Draco grinned right back, "Yeah," he confirmed, and it felt good to do so, "I'll get to that, now. Cornwell's father, after the gathering he had called of the Blacks, left that night. He took his most important possessions with him, traded in a good chunk of his galleons and coins, at Gringotts, for muggle currency, and he went back to muggle London. He got himself a hotel room for his things. He stayed that night, but the very next morning, he was back on Cornwell's doorstep. Cornwell's friend had stayed the night that night. He had never asked about what Hogwarts was, or what Cornwell had even been talking about with the man, having been right behind Cornwell the whole time. So, when the morning rolled around, not only was his friend there, but his mother was, too. Cornwell recalls it all, perfectly."

"It was an early Saturday morning, and he and his friend were making breakfast for themselves." Now with a full glass of Butterbeer, again, that Harry had signaled to the bartender for, Draco took a sip rather than a gulp. Harry, however, was slugging it down, his brown eyes glazed over and bright under his dark, long eye-lashes and dark hood. He swallowed his own sip, both of them still leaned in over the table. "A knock comes on the door. This time, figuring its the morning paper, Cornwell tells his friend to grab to door. He's standing in the kitchen two minutes later, scrambling eggs, in his pajama bottoms, a right mess, having been up all night the night before explaining the mechanics of his family history to his friend—minus the magic part. Well, he hears his friend walk in the kitchen behind him, so he asks who was at the door. His friend tells him... his father. So, naturally, Cornwell turns hysterical with laughter, calls him a gigantic arsehole, stops laughing and turns around from the stove—and, there, standing, is his father, holding a tiny pocket-watch that doubled as a mirror in front of his face, so Cornwell sees himself. And, then, Airchelles lowers the mirror a few seconds later, though Cornwell says it felt more like minutes. And, he's hit with it. Cornwell proceeds to do something that the Blacks are known for."

Harry snorted with loosened, bitter laughter, "Murder family members?"

"No!" Draco laughed, too, at this. It was the truth—a twisted truth, but the truth none-the-less. "He laughed."

And, Harry squinted at him. He appeared to be half-smiling, but it seemed that he didn't know if something could be as fathomable, in Cornwell's situation, as laughter. But, Draco had always imagined his father laughing, standing in his old, tiny kitchen, holding a spatula, bare-chested, burning his eggs, too emotionally broken to do anything other than laugh, as if it hadn't been true.

"Yeah, he laughed. He turned back around, turned off his eggs, and then faced his father, again, not having yet... really understood what was going on. He had just been thinking it was a man from Hogwarts who was back to pester him. It was only when he turned around for that second time, and his friend had called his father by the name Airchelles, before he quickly left the room, without looking at Cornwell, that he realized that the face staring back at his was all too familiar. They stared at each other—and both told me it felt more like days than minutes. The first thing that was ever said between them was my grandfather asking for his face back." They both laughed, wildly. "But, around lunch time, they were sitting at the kitchen table with his friend. And, Cornwell has always made it his distinct pleasure by telling me that one of the last things his father said to him that day was about his friend, about that Potter boy, what a nice fellow he truly was, a worthy friend with an honest heart."

Harry went to open his mouth, as if to apologize, but then tore his hood from the top of his head, "Potter boy?" WHAT?

Draco reached across the table and tugged the hood back over the top of Harry's head, amused, "Yes, James Potter."

Harry's mouth was subtly gaping. He didn't know what to do with himself. The last thing in the world he had been expecting was for anything about HIS family to be brought up, much less his father. But, that was when they were sixteen? Wasn't his father best friends with Sirius, then? How come Sirius had never mentioned Cornwell when mentioning James's friends? How come Cornwell's name had NEVER come up? That was an important tidbit that no one HAD TOLD HIM! How horrible! How...! His father had been best friends with Draco's father? Even three months ago, that sort of statement would have made nuns laugh.

But, no. No, James and Cornwell had met in a park, and they had stayed friends? That meant that Cornwell's birthday must have been in the summer, when James had been home on vacation from Hogwarts. How did coincidences like that happen, anyway? How, after knowing all of that, had he and Draco become enemies? Of course, Harry hadn't known that information, only Draco had. But, wait! WAIT. Their fathers had been close friends, yet Harry had, basically, cursed off Draco Malfoy's existence since the very first time they had met. Oh, no. Oh, no. His stomach was boiling with anxiety and guilt. He was shocked. He was just... stunned, confused, and even, frustratingly enough, a little angry.

What Draco had told him, Harry had never even considered being anything other than very fallible. Had his father known that Cornwell was a wizard when they had met? Had he been sent to meet him, purposely? Had—"God, damn, I can't believe no one fucking thought to tell me this—fuck them all—god-damn, I swear—I can't... I can't... Unbelievable! No fucking wonder you hated me so much without reason. I cursed you the first day I met you—nearly... fuck."

Draco laughed, very quietly, staring down at half-full glass with interest. A very eloquent statement, Potter. He ignored Harry's words, because they seemed to be addressed to himself rather than Draco, "Cornwell was furious at James, though."

Harry scrunched his nose up and blurted, "I can't say I'd blame him. I'd want to know if he were a true friend."

"He was," Draco quickly responded, watching Harry's expressions. He was unreadable. There were things that Draco could read on Harry's real face. But, this was Judas Cliffdale's face, where he could read even less. He wasn't in an upset mood. He was just stunned, now, his hands rubbing his jaws, both of his elbows on the table, staring at Draco as if he was expecting it to be a lie, though he knew it wasn't. But, Draco didn't mind.

Draco had had the pleasure of visiting the day Cornwell had met Airchelles, in Cornwell's Pensieve. He had decided, that day, three years ago, that no Potter was bad. He had decided that James Potter seemed like an okay-guy. There had been a very dreary day where Draco was spewing over breakfast about how much he hated Harry, how much he hated everything to do with Harry Potter, though Lucius and his mother had cheered him on, laughing as though the hate was innocent. But, Cornwell hadn't seen it that way. He had shown Draco moments between himself and James, like the night James had spent over before the morning Airchelles had shown up. And, Draco had never, ever had a friend like James Potter was a friend to Cornwell Black, and he had never been a friend like Cornwell, either.

"Cornwell had questioned it. They met in a muggle park, both with their mums, when they were little boys, and neither knew the other was magic, nor did their mothers. Cornwell was so upset with James that James urged to be given Veritaserum to prove he hadn't known. He wasn't lying. He had never even told his school friends about Cornwell, including Sirius and Lupin. Every summer that James came home, he and Cornwell were together nearly every day—eventually, Sirius got suspicious, followed James one day when he was staying with the Potters on holiday, and... well, Black met Black, but Sirius didn't find out during that summer that he and Cornwell were related. James ended up telling him two summers later, though." He paused.

It was incredibly silent, and he and Harry were just staring at each other, as if incredibly alarmed by what was being said. Draco had never told this to anyone. Saying it out loud made him realize just how startling it must have been for Harry to be hearing. "But, the best thing about Sirius, as Cornwell always told me, was that, even when he was spending the summers with the Potters, there would be days when James would say he had to go somewhere, alone, and... knowingly, Sirius always just let him go, without saying a word, like he knew there was someone else out there that James, leading up to that summer before he found out about Cornwell, was with. And, then, after he found out about Cornwell, it was the same thing. Later on, of course, Cornwell told me that Sirius had always felt that James had a split personality when it came to the muggle and magic worlds, and that was what slated and imbedded James Potter as cool, eventually, to both of them, because not only was he pure-blooded, but he was completely enthralled into the muggle world, too, as if he owned it and was part of it, though he hardly was. He was a very different person to Cornwell than he was to Sirius, and vice versa."

Harry swallowed the last of his Butterbeer, in silence, and placed his glass down just as silently, "Your birth."

"Yeah, you look like you're having a little trouble digesting."

Harry blinked at him, but then gave a sheepish. blank, yet knowingly amused, smile, "A lot of trouble, actually."

Draco didn't push the subject, but rather continued with the whole entire point of why he had started reciting the history of the Black-family side of his blood, of his birth father's side, "Cornwell ended up going to Hogwarts for his sixth and seventh years. Unfortunately, he was sorted into Slytherin, to the displeasure, yet complete logic to one James Potter. Just, I want to add one more thing about James Potter," he quickly whispered, leaning even closer. Harry was blinking so idly, almost as if he were a little baby animal innocent to the world, his brown eyes so open and inviting. "I said there were two James Potters. The James Potter who was James Potter to my father, his loyal best friend who he spent every summer with, and there was the James Potter, cockiest institution at Hogwarts—that was, of course, up until the first day of his sixth year, in which his Muggle and Wizard worlds collided with Cornwell at school with him. Thus, creating the perfectly balanced James Potter that the world has heard so much about, who lost his arrogance and cockiness upon the arrival of Cornwell."

"Sirius was his sense of adventure and risk, but when Cornwell was there, even though he was a Slytherin, James stayed very true, and vice versa. Cornwell was his sense of... sensitivity, sensibility. They even ate many meals a week together those last two years—can you imagine? A Gryffindor, especially one like James Potter, eating at the Slytherin table?" And, Harry was smiling so much, looking down at the table, almost as if trying to hide his delight, that even Draco's cheeks started to hurt., though he was only smiling a tiny bit. "What?"

Harry clasped his hands over Draco's, very suddenly, his hands possessive and curious. He couldn't help it. It had just happened. Their hands had been right there the whole entire time. He would have been lying if he said he wasn't interested in at least showing Draco some sort of affection for just blurting out a truth about Harry's own father, James, that Harry had never heard about. He was grateful, though still a bit loopy from the story. He had been a little choked up—not that he would ever admit it, "If I get sorted into Gryffindor, will you let me come eat lunch with you?"

Draco smiled at him, nodding, biting over his bottom lip with his top teeth. Harry's hands were extremely large and extremely warm. Soft, too, and surprisingly dry. But, it was a nice contact between them. A contrast, as well, with Draco's very white, pale skin and Harry's tan tone. They weren't holding hands, of course. But, it was a good sign that Harry had been the one to show the affection.

It wasn't Draco that was going to hold them back as trying to be friends or, at least, people who treated each other with decency. It would be Harry. But, no, they were both grinning, now, searching each other's faces very suspiciously, out of no where. It was a cute moment, Draco decided, before he shrugged his shoulders up about an inch and leaned in an inch closer, as if to tell Harry the biggest secret yet, "I'd even let you'd eat lunch with me if you were in Hufflepuff, ssshhh!"

Harry snorted with laughter, but it came out very childish and full of brightened spirit, "Hahaha, Malfoy! Hufflepuff!"

Draco grinned, "Did you want to hear the rest of the story or not?"

Harry nodded, but he didn't move his hands, "Yeah, but can I ask you something first?"

"Er," Draco first murmured, nervously, but then shrugged, What the hell, he had nothing to hide, now. "Sure, go ahead."

Harry squeezed Draco's hands, lightly, with his own, entranced, suddenly, "Are your hands extremely cold or are mine just REALLY hot?"

They started at each other for a long moment, before Draco looked down, curious. He hadn't noticed it, but Harry was right. Against his hands, his stimulation was extremely hot. To Harry's hands, the grasp was extremely cold. But, Draco wasn't sure how to answer Harry, because he wasn't sure, himself, who was hot and who was cold, or if it was abnormal. But, well, Harry's hands, now that he concentrated on them, were extremely, extremely warm over his own. It felt nice, almost like a bonded protection between them. They were about the same size, too, it seemed, their hands. He looked up, drunk, blitzed and happy, "I think yours are just hot, and mine are just cold."

"Oh, okay," Harry answered, agreeing as if the answer were scientific fact. "On with it. Your conception."

Draco couldn't help but laugh. Harry was definitely more than buzzed, now, his voice smaller and meeker, "Right," he continued on, not wanting to, yet, start making fun of Harry. That would, of course, wait until Harry was falling all over everything. Draco would freeze frames of the clumsiness with his wand and show them to Harry the next morning, just for kicks. Oh, no, that was evil. No, no, it wasn't evil. It was perfect. He laughed even harder as Harry rested his cheek down on the pile of their hands, though it was only his own skin he was resting on. But, he pulled his head up, and he was grinning with shiny, perfect teeth. Draco looked at them. "I do have to admit something to you before this goes any further."

Harry looked him over with his eyes, sweeping animatedly, "Tell me, Malfoy, tell me. Tell me, and then tell me."

"Yeah, you can handle your liquor really well," Draco teased, very quietly. But, Harry didn't respond, just resorted to kicking him, very lightly, under the table, on his shin. It didn't hurt. It felt more pleased and satisfied, if anything. A kick in the shin, though it was soft and sloppy. He knew Harry was waiting for the rest of the story about how Draco's parents became to be Draco's parents. He surged his face forward about another inch, and the tip of his nose nudged the tip of Harry's. But, Harry was smirking, so Draco pouted, not being able to be smug. Damnit. "Judas Cliffdale, you're really, really sexy, and if I were really, really drunk, I'd snog you."

Harry moaned with loud chuckles, his head hitting the wooden table, "I am not surprised. I am pretty sexy. Smoldering."

Draco ignored him, pointedly, "Cornwell's mother slept in late that morning, because it was her day off. She only came down the stairs at about one in the afternoon—which had given Cornwell and his father six or seven hours to have been talking. Cornwell tells the story so much better than I do, and I can't do it justice. But, he told me one that one of the best moments he ever had in his life was when his mom walked into the kitchen, in her sweats, her hair a mess, with no makeup on and saw Cornwell's father. He said she was so white that the color of their old kitchen walls—white—were so jealous that they turned blue with envy." Harry howled with drunk, nearly adorable—not quite, no, not quite adorable—laughter. Amused at Harry's change in demeanor, as the minutes were wearing by, Draco couldn't help but voice a laugh, strangely, directed right at Harry. But, Harry didn't care. "Well, basically, Cornwell's father had everything to apologize for. But, Cornwell says that as soon as she got a hold of herself, it was like she had suddenly been given a momentary moment of magic, because she had been so overcome that she couldn't even find resentments toward him—of course, she then had to sit down and be fanned with paper-towels, but..."

"They fell in love, again? How many siblings does Cornwell have? How many cousins do you have?"

"Yeah, they fell in love, again. They were only thirty-two, thirty-three. He has four other siblings. And, a lot of cousins."

"Do they know about you? I mean, that you're Cornwell's son?" Harry asked, worriedly, deeply, completely open.

But, at this question, Draco's eyes fell to their hands, again, and he forced a laugh, "Are you kidding? No. No one does."

"I do," Harry urged, quickly, and sporadically lifted up their hands a few inches above the table. "You have a James Potter!"

Draco coughed, his eyelashes fluttering in surprise. That was not expected, "No, I—"

"No," Harry assured, easily, right back to him, "I am your James Potter, and you are my Cornwell Black,"

Draco couldn't help but grin, once more, laughing, "As long as you don't go off and get yourself murdered, okay."

In any normal situation, and if he hadn't been blitzed, Harry would have taken a bit of pain from the comment. Every time someone had mentioned him, in the context of his father's death, a huge stab of guilt swallowed his body. He tried to ignore it, most of the time, and tried to make up for it by making it his mission to make sure his parents' deaths weren't in vain. It wasn't though he didn't genuinely feel he had to avenge their deaths, but, sometimes, the weight of their world, literally, hurt his shoulders, and he was ready to collapse and crack, especially after the previous year and all of the betrayals and deaths he had foregone and seen. He sighed, lifting his right hand up from between them. He placed his palm on Draco's forehead, and, for some reason, had the urge to push it back. So, he pushed Draco back a couple of inches, but Draco said nothing, as if he wasn't even bothered, "I am about one Butterbeer away from doing and saying many things I shouldn't. I think it'd be best if we get out of here before the late-night crowd shows up. Nasty bunch, really."

Draco clasped his hand around Harry's wrist and pushed it down. It fell, "You've been in here, before?

"Yeah," Harry murmured, but didn't extend a better explanation. He held up his empty mug. "One more for the road?"

Draco smirked at him, doubtfully, "I think you've had about enough. You just said so."

Harry fixed his eyes, suspiciously, onto the pulled-together, proper posture of the person opposite him, "Hi."

"Annnd, that would be our cue to get you out of here," Draco murmured, under his breath. Now, unlike Harry, Draco did have a bit more experience, obviously, with alcohol. He handled it better—not, of course, to say he wasn't drunk. He was. He just wasn't as drunk as the blatantly glazed-eyed boy looking back at him. He had never pictured himself being more capable of alcoholic soberness than Harry, who was—wait a second! He squinted back at Harry, leaning forward. "You're really quiet when you're drunk."

"No," Harry responded, weakly. He blinked in a very drowsy, miserable sort of way. "I'm just depressed when I'm drunk."

"Even when you're drunk, you're still a somber, sorry, moping mess. What a horrible trait," Draco sympathized without trying to be sarcastic or vindictive. But, Harry didn't curse him off or try to come back with anything. The only thing he did was meet Draco's eyes with a very sad, almost knowing, frown. Awe, Potter, stop it. Feeling his own body fill with something that resembled pity, Draco sighed. He slid out from his seat, suddenly, and stood up. A rush of blood flushed over him, and he felt like he was walking on air. He walked the couple of feet to Harry. "You can get up, can't you?"

"I'm not that amateur with my alcohol, Malfoy," Harry quickly threw at him, but then fell silent. "You're being nice."

"Tell anyone and I'll hex your face," Draco lightly quipped right back, with a friendly smile. It wasn't like it had to be forced. He was just kidding. And, when Harry looked up at him, he was laughing with an odd expression etched onto his face. Harry had been laughing a lot, and that was nice. But, Draco couldn't help but miss the old face of Harry Potter. This was someone else, and, this someone else wasn't the full Harry Potter. His personality was a little different. It was like Harry didn't even know who he was supposed to be, anymore, "Need help?"

Harry heavily rose to his feet and only answered when he had, with a cynical laugh, "Not yet."

"You know," Draco observed, when they were on the street a few minutes later, walking very closely and slowly. Harry looked incredibly distressed, like he had been having a hard time even existing. He would stop, squint, and then walk. Then, he would stop again, mutter something under his breath, and begin to walk, again. It was then, when Harry was walking incredibly well, that Draco realized it was Judas Cliffdale's body that had a very high intolerance to alcohol, which was not surprising. It was Harry, himself, his soul, who had been sort of drunk. Yet, his body didn't seem to be. In fact, when he strolled, there beside Draco, it was almost sickening how much Draco had knowingly watched him slug down and how little of an effect it seemed to have on him.

Harry turned to him, to his right, his arms folded over his chest, "No, I don't. What should I know?"

Draco grinned a little, "I was just about to say that your wittiness had left the building. I was wrong."

Harry came to an abrupt stop, just to check his own reflexes. He knew, now, that he wasn't drunk, and it was boggling his mind. In his old body, Harry could down about two LIGHT Butterbeers and be tumbling over things. But, in Judas's body, multiple mugs of the strongest Butterbeer on the market had barely affected him. It was a strange, strange sensation, because, for many different reasons, Harry WANTED to be drunk. He wanted to escape, just for one night. He wanted to be fuck-faced around Draco Malfoy. But, no, not even that could work out. He couldn't get drunk. How ridiculous. He growled, loudly, and tugged his hood down, harder, over his head. He turned into Draco, once more, as they began to walk, again, "My vision is twenty-twenty, I feel like I could probably balance on a rope five feet in the air, my mind is completely clear, and I have absolutely no urge to throw myself on you and take advantage of you out of intoxication—not that I would, anyway, but you get my point."

Draco sighed, "I'm glad you said something, because I've been trying to restrain myself."

Harry laughed, quietly, and glanced at him, "You mean about me jumping your bones or my lack of drunk idiocy?"

"Ha-ha," dryly escaped Draco's lips. "Drunk idiocy, and had you jumped my bones, I would have pounded your head in."

Harry stopped in his tracks and turned his full attention onto Draco, wrapping his arms over his chest, once more. Draco turned around to him, with his hands out at his sides as if to ask what they were doing, stopping. But, Harry licked against his dry lower lip. It was a weird sensation, still, because the lips he licked were fuller than the ones he had been wetting his entire life, "Come on, Malfoy, just own up to it."

Draco scoffed, "Own up to what?"

"You would not have pounded my head in would I have kissed you. Be honest with me, fuck you!" But, Harry couldn't see Draco's face. It was still hovered in the dark shadows. The only thing that Harry could make out was the contour of Draco's nose. He had no distinction on what to expect next. Perhaps a hex? Perhaps a fist in his face? Perhaps a laugh? Perhaps a grin? Perhaps a very distant smirk? No? Nothing? He waited another moment. "You're so flamboyantly flirtatious with me. You're not afraid of the insinuations you make. You clearly have an open mind about sexual orientations, yet, somehow, when I bring up something in the same kind of light, you get all shove-off-ish and tense." Come on, Malfoy! Be a man!

Draco started walking backwards, trying not to under or over react, "Rightfully so."

Harry rolled his eyes, "What kind of explanation is that? Stop walking and just talk to me."

So, Draco stopped. Fine, honesty? "Okay." And, he walked toward Harry. But, because Harry was standing closer to a store, it was easy to see his face. He didn't look panicked or worried. Draco didn't know how to read him, especially at that moment, because he looked so honestly interested in what he was asking about. "I have a reputation of being flirtatious with men and women, alike. You're obviously not used to it, because you so adamantly keep saying that you're not gay, as if I am, as if it makes you uncomfortable, and I don't want to keep making you uncomfortable by bringing it up."

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable," Harry returned, honestly. "It never did."

Draco sighed, skeptical, and frowned at Harry, standing about a foot away from him, "I simply don't believe you.."

All right, fine. Harry shrugged, "Okay, and I don't believe you're straight. We'll both live, won't we?" And, he smirked, brilliantly, at Draco, pulling off his hood from over his head. He walked around Draco, with amusement. Granted, Harry never really had a reason to be so paranoid about making sure his sexuality was stated perfectly clear. He only did it for one reason, and that reason was Draco Malfoy's assurance that Harry was not-interested.

Personally, Harry had nothing against anyone who was gay or bisexual. He didn't, necessarily, cross off the male gender from his list of contenders. Well, one contender. Though he wasn't attracted to Draco, or any male, on a relationship level, he couldn't deny that Draco was extremely beautiful, and he never had denied it. In fact, it was one of the reasons so many males at Hogwarts despised Draco. He was just too pretty, and the girls fawned all over him. But, Harry had never been resentful toward it. He had always seen right through Draco's flamboyant little act, but he had never been sure what exactly rested beneath the mask.

Draco spun around, behind Harry, "You stupid, cocky bastard."

Harry grinned as Draco attacked him from behind.

But, it was innocent, because seconds later, Draco was back at his side, walking with him, "I am really not gay."

"I am really not inclined to believe you," Harry returned, imitating Draco's incessant reasoning as fact.

But, Draco didn't argue with him, immediately. He lifted his left arm up, between them, to Harry's shoulder, "You really should keep your hood up," he said, seriously. It had been bothering him. It was very unsafe for either of them to be out, even in clocks and hoods. Without the dark veil that blanketed their heads, darkly, and their faces, they were even more at risk. The two of them, basically, were all alone in the world, yet, somehow, were two of the most powerful young men, It was strange, really, how there was this power that they both held within them, set forth by family ties, family names and legends, yet all of those ties, names and legends were not around them, anymore. They had no loyalty to anyone—except, maybe, to each other. As far as how Harry truly viewed him, Draco wasn't sure.

Harry smiled to himself as Draco tugged his hood up over his head, and withdrew his hand, "I could have done that."

"I was just looking for an excuse to touch you," Draco lightly threw at him, purposely. "Go jack off, now, love."

Harry laughed, animatedly, his eyes on the ground as they walked, his hands in his pockets, "Checkmate, Malfoy."

"Wait, look," Draco suddenly sputtered, under his breath. Up and down the street, there were men and women posting up posters on the bricks and windows of buildings. The poster, however, was what actually caught his attention. He wrapped his left hand around Harry's elbow and tersely pulled him toward the right. There was a huge picture of Harry Potter on these posters. But, Draco immediately stopped when he realized what they were.

And, then he realized something very stressful and horrible when he read over the text. It was Harry Potter's funeral announcement. But, Harry wasn't dead. Harry was... alive, and behind him—but, his body? He glanced over his left shoulder, as Harry shook his elbow free and passed him to get to the closest poster. Hesitantly, Draco followed.

Harry had once informed, him, already, that he had been killed. But, Draco had no idea what that entailed, now. Was his body gone? How had he been transferred into Judas Cliffdale's body? Or had he? Wait, how had Harry died, anyway? And, why was everything so confusing? He knew absolutely nothing about the situation, as he stood there, five feet behind Harry as Harry stood in front of a gigantic poster of himself, his hands placed on either side of the poster on the store window he had been spell-bound to. He wasn't moving.

Awkwardly, Draco's eyes flitted up to the words written over the poster-Harry's head.

Join in the celebration and remembrance of Harry Potter's life.

Harry's heart had broken open. Seeing this, he couldn't help but inwardly wish he would have been drunk. It was his funeral announcement, and they were being posted all over Hogsmeade by a team of cloaked Ministry officials. His funeral. Oh, no. He was dead. He knew he was dead, but this was... oh, JESUS. He rubbed his left hand over his face, his right hand slamming over his own face on the poster, furious. His funeral! He would never have his body back. It was nearly impossible.

It was all too complicated, and Harry had never learned exactly, how, he had come to be in Judas Cliffdale's body, while Judas Cliffdale was still himself. He hadn't had time to get the mechanics, just the rules. As good-looking and fun as it was to be Judas, in Judas's body, with his stunning, pretty face, when he looked in the mirror, he yearned to see a different face—his own face. And, there, there it was, on a poster, with blinking eyes hiding behind black, round glasses and messy, ridiculously black, tousled, thick hair. But, no. Never would he wake up with those teeth, again, or those lips, or eyes, or cheeks, or nose. He still had his body frame, but he did not have his old face. He murmured with pain shaking all over his body.

"Get away from there," came a very hoarse, quiet voice.

Harry immediately turned around. Draco was standing about a foot behind him, but Ron was the one who had spoken. He had taken his hood off, and it was a very stupid move. Ronald Weasley was a target, and everyone knew it. But, Ron wasn't talking to him. He was talking to Draco. But, Draco was just standing there, perfectly still, glaring out at Ron from behind very long, dark eyelashes. Strangely enough, Harry was more perplexed at the color of Draco's eyelashes rather than the situation. But, that quickly changed, and he glanced at Ron. It hurt too much, so he quickly looked back at Draco, "Come on."

Draco didn't move, "I wasn't going to do anything to it, Weasley."

But, Ron's mouth was in a hard, dark twist. He was pale. Gaunt. Dead, "Get away from it."

Harry's eyes, beneath the hood of his cloak, and in the dark, began to well with furious, hot, prickling tears. Shit.

Draco snapped, suddenly, and stepped forward, "Fuck you, Weasley, like I can't feel bad about his death."

"You shouldn't," Ron spoke, barely in a whisper, as Draco closed in on him. "If I weren't so bloody drunk off my arse, I'd be pounding your face into the ground. You shouldn't even talk about him to me. You've been talking about his death for years."

Draco pulled off his hood, immediately, with deadened, weary eyes. He stared at Ron, very angrily. No, Weasley was not going to tell him how he felt. He was not going to bother Draco with stupid school-stereotypes, "Do I look happy?"

"Why is it that you suddenly feel horrible? You made his life a living hell."

Draco seethed, "Fine, think what you will, but, let me tell you something before I go," he whispered, getting very close. But, Ron didn't make an attempt to go for his wand. He didn't stutter. He didn't do anything. He was very, very stony-faced. Draco had no doubt, now, while he stepped forward to meet Ron, standing about seven inches from him, that Weasley's entire personality, right at that moment, was warped and miserable. He had lost his best friend—and Draco respected it. He wasn't going to gloat, and he had no reason to.

Harry meant different things to both of them, even if Ron didn't know it. They hadn't ever been this close, either, nor even within five feet of each other without wands drawn. Something blurted out of his mouth, but he wasn't sure what it was until he was done speaking. "Though you will never understand it, my relationship with Harry was no less greater than yours. You were his best friend, and I was his enemy. I'm not happy he's gone, no matter what you think, and I can stand here, innocently, and look at his picture if I damn well WANT to—did you hear me insulting him? No. Did you hear me saying anything disrespectful? No. And, for that, fuck you, Weasley, for always having been his god-damned friend. And, I'll definitely be at his funeral, and if you try to give me a hard time when I'm there—well, just don't. Oh, and, unlike what you and I have, and unlike anything you could probably suspect, I respected Harry—stupid fucking Potter. I did, and he knew it—so fuck you, and if you ever try to tell me how I feel, again, I'll slash you."

Harry, standing about three feet behind Draco, was about to have a panic attack, his palms sweaty. Ron, Malfoy, and his funeral announcement being posted all over Hogsmeade, on huge posters, all in the same night? It would have been a wise idea for Harry to have pulled Draco away when he had approached Ron, for the sake of Ron's safety, but, somehow, Draco had blocked him out, as if he weren't there. But, the way Draco had, literally, blocked Harry away from being able to see his face, or Ron's face, had unnerved him. It was clear that he hadn't meant for Harry to hear what he had said, but he had, because he had wandered closer, without shame.

Harry had been worried about Ron's safety, because, Ron, like the rest of the world, had no idea how intensely of a respected bond had sewn Harry to his enemy, and his enemy right back, "Ahem."

It was Ron who broke away from Draco's eyes and glanced at Judas.

Harry was speechless for a long moment. Ron knew it was him! He was see-through! He...! He had no idea. He sighed to himself, in his brain. He wanted so badly for Ron to see through his new face. He wanted so badly for Ron to, somehow, pick up on all of the emotion that Harry could feel sweeping out of his soul and toward his best friend. Ron was staring at him, but not in a friendly way. Tensely, Harry forced a small, discontent smile, "I'm sorry. You're Ronald Weasley, then?"

Ron squinted at him, as did Draco.

Slowly, Ron nodded his head up and down, "I am..." He paused, and then frowned, angrily. "Why?"

Harry quickly shook his head as if to assure him that it was nothing bad, "Draco mentioned you a couple of times the other morning. We were talking about Harry." It was very strange to refer to himself in the third person. The guilt on his conscience was unbelievable. He felt ready to collapse to the ground with weakness. He looked at Draco, but with kind, open eyes, rather than vicious ones, as if to signify to Ron that when he and Draco had talked about Harry, it hadn't been mean or disrespectful. This way, he hoped, things wouldn't be so tense. He didn't want Ron to think he was going to be picked on or threatened by him. He glanced back at Ron. "He said you and Harry were best mates—showed me an article, too, from the Daily Prophet with a picture of you two in it from a couple of years back." Added ego boost. "I'm really sorry for your loss."

There was a long pause.

Ron finally blinked, his arms crossed against his chest. He leaned forward a bit, "Er, who are you?"

Did it matter? Sure it did. Any friend of Draco Malfoy's who was expressing genuine regret over Harry Potter's apparent death needed to be thoroughly examined. Harry knew this was the case, and it was appropriate. Ron was curious. This was a wonderful thing. He cleared his throat and pulled his hood down to his shoulders, very nervously, and forced a light, discouraged smile. It was a much more vulnerable situation, suddenly, for Harry, because he was without his cloak's hood, standing in front of his best friend and next to his best-enemy.

Draco was staring at Harry's face, consistently. Oh, Jesus. He was just staring at Weasley, and Weasley was staring back in some stunned, distorted way. It was clear that Harry was looking at Ron as Ron, and Ron was looking at Harry as Judas Cliffdale, without having needed being introduced as so. He sighed, however, to break Harry out of his shy, emotional staring phase, "Weasley, this is Cliffdale. Judas, he's Weasley." Because, he couldn't call Weasley by his first name, NO! Not to his face!

Ron's eyes flickered back to Draco, and he glared, "What a fine introduction—"

Harry's nose twisted, fighting with himself, "Anyway," he interrupted, pointedly, "we're sorry for your loss."

"Yeah," Ron returned, distantly, and then turned to leave. But, he did stop for a second. "I'm sorry for yours, too."

Harry could only nod at him, not wanting to lie any more than he had to. He forced a light, friendly smile. When Ron turned away, with his hood pulled back up over his head, and disappeared back into the Three Broomsticks, he turned around to Draco. He was staring at the Harry-poster, again, in front of it. Reluctant to spend any more time than he had to, staring at his own face he was never going to have back, he still stood at Draco's side. His eyes flickered from his own familiar green eyes, and, instead, settled upon Draco's. He was still without his hood. He was looking straight into the green eyes, as they blinked. Harry lifted his left arm up, between them. He took the resting hood from Draco's back and lifted it up until he dropped it back over the bright head, returning the earlier favor. Instead of withdrawing his left arm, he dropped it over the broad shoulders, watching the reaction to the poster. He suddenly frowned, 'What's wrong?"

Draco was staring down at the cobblestone below their feet, "I will be seeing that face again, won't I be?"

And, he looked right at Harry, with very sharp, questioning, demanding eyes.

Harry coughed a little, first. The answer made Draco jerk, his eyes furious, "It's complicated—"

"Make it easy and answer the fucking question," Draco bit him off, his nose snarling. The answer was obvious, now.

Harry's free right hand tensely squeezed the back of his own neck, and he looked down, strained, "No."

"No?" Draco questioned, loudly, clearly not accepting this. "I don't understand." He paused. "I would like to."

Harry glanced at him and crudely, loudly, growled, "He was murdered. He's dead. His body—dead. No heartbeat."

Draco could only stare as Harry dropped his arms from his shoulders, gave him a cold snarl, and turned away. Wait a second, how in the fuck did this work? How did he have Judas's body, and where was Judas? Draco did not understand, in the slightest bit, what was going on, and he really wanted to know before he ended up blurting something out to Harry, like he just had, that upset and offended him. Well, it wasn't like Draco had known! For God's sake, he was Harry fucking Potter in someone else's body! How was it possible for anything to be impossible at that point? All he had wanted was an honest answer. Well, at least he had gotten it. He turned around and followed Harry down the street, "How was I supposed to know?"

Harry turned around, furiously, "Because I already fucking told you, yesterday! Or the day before! Sometime!"

Draco's cheeks sucked in, "Calm the fuck down, would you? It was just a question."

"But, it's not just a question." Harry hissed, and stopped, abruptly. He shoved Draco, and then pulled him closer. "It's my entire face—my body, my hands, my freckles, my eyes." His teeth clenched together. But, Draco was just staring at him, open-mouthed, his eyes so innocent. But, he wasn't innocent. He looked that way because he didn't know what to say, which, also, was a lie. Because, there were plenty of things to say—but, those things just didn't do justice to the situation. Harry's hands were buried deep into the chest material of Draco's cloak, clutching. He gave Draco's form a small shake, but didn't let go, staring at him, nose to nose. But, Draco was waiting. And, Harry finally broke a small barrier of distress and misery. He choked a small cry, but tried to hide it while mentally cursing his emotionally drunk heart. "It's my scar," he seethed, "It's my dad's face and my mom's eyes, and now I've got none of the only things that connected me to their faces, physically—I've got nothing."

"That's not true, you have pictures."

"Pictures are 2D. They're not on my face when I look in the mirror every morning and see them," Harry snapped.

Oh, okay. Grumbling with a childlike awkwardness, Draco put his hands on Harry's sides, as it to steady him, stabilize him and pace him. Granted, Potter was going to lose it, one of those days. There was no doubt about it. Even just being informed of Harry's life, of his expectations he had on himself and the expectations others placed on him, sent shivers up his own spine. Harry had no family. He had no friends, anymore. He couldn't have Ron. His entire existence was set out to be murdered or be a murderer. Lightly, he squeezed at Harry's robes, staring into his eyes. Were those tears? Oh, no. Not tears. But, Harry's eyes fell down, weakly. His body nearly went with them, but Draco nudged him, hard, "Let's just get back home, and then you can crawl into your bed, and... do whatever it is that hero Gryffindors do to make themselves feel better."

Harry glared at him, "Don't make that into something."

Draco merely chuckled, but kept his lips tightly pressed together. Who thought he would ever be the one looking out after a drunk, emotional, messy version of Harry Potter? Certainly, Draco had never deemed this plausible, "I meant crying."

Before they went back to Hogsmeade's Broom-Check-Closet to retrieve their brooms that they had checked in, Harry walked to one of the posters of himself. He tore it down, being careful not to rip it. He hugged it to his body. Though he was not drunk, his emotions were still heightened. He was feeling very vulnerable, much more so than he had ever felt. He wanted his poster. He wanted his picture, just in case he ever forgot what he looked like. It was a reminder. When he passed Draco, he felt his cheeks flush, "Malfoy?"

Draco followed him, carefully, only about a foot behind, careful to make sure Harry didn't wobble or collapse, "What is it?"

Harry turned around, with his poster clutched to his chest, "I'm a little Draco-gay, I lied. You're rather... sexy. No, pretty. Yes, pretty, that's exactly the word I was looking for." He rambled the last part to himself, mostly.

Stopped, immediately, Draco laughed, blinking fervently, "What did you just say?"

Harry shrugged at him, "I'd snog you, I would." He grinned. Oh, yes, the Butterbeer was definitely settling in.

"Right," Draco could only respond with, staring after him as he walked away. "I'll mention this in the morning."

Harry turned around, again, this time with a gigantic, sparkling smile and huge, bright eyes, "I'll deny it—won't remember!" It was true. Though his body was not drunk, his soul and mind and feelings were definitely under the influence because those qualities were his, and he didn't have the tolerance that Judas did. He didn't have any walls built up against drunk, emotional outbursts. But, luckily, he had never been an obnoxious drunk, so he didn't get too loud or mouthy. But, he had finally blurted out something enough that was honest. He smirked, strongly, happy with shameless bliss. "I'll miss you, you know."

Draco, humoring him, as they walked, though extremely enthralled, frowned, "Where are you going, dare I ask?"

Harry turned to him, his eyes very serious, "When I finally die. I mean—my soul. I'll miss you. If it's possible to miss a person, wherever you go after death."

"You're not going to die."

"Yes, I am," Harry sighed, and glanced at Draco. "One very lonely seventeen year old boy saving the world. I must die."

Draco's eyes followed after him. He must die? Good lord, "Don't you think you're being a tad bit dramatic?"

Harry turned around, "Ut oh, Draco Malfoy is calling me dramatic."

Draco smiled, oddly satisfied. He sauntered toward Harry, brushing his palms down his heavy, hot cloak, as if to take Harry's words as compliments rather than insults.

They started to walk together, again. Harry paid attention to the road ahead of them, but Draco mostly kept his eyes down on the ground.

"I never finished telling you about my parents."

"I know," Harry returned, quietly, too, deeply, and glanced right at him, with meaning. "I was waiting until we got back."

"What, you're going to bother me when we get back to the estate, too? The tables have turned. I never thought I'd see the day."

Harry grinned. He mocked the same kind of arrogant smirk that existed only on the face of Draco Malfoy. He lifted his left arm up around Draco's shoulders, again, still clutching his gigantic poster to his body with his right elbow. He leaned in, closer, not giving a shit how he came off or what he was doing. He liked being flamboyantly happy. It was easy. It wasn't hard to do. And, instead of every damn little issue being over-analyzed by his own mind, it was a nice change. It was a wonderful change to have someone to just shoot-the-shit, so to say, with. He clutched Draco's shoulder in his hand, fully, "I never thought I'd see the day where I would be walking by your side, down the main strip of Hogsmeade, set on the path back to your estate. I never thought I'd see the day when I would be more open about your sexuality than you are."

Draco growled, giving Harry a shove away from his body, but Harry hardly budged, "I am not gay!"

"The tables were lovely before they turned, weren't they?" Harry asked, suddenly, and shoved his poster against Draco's chest, pulling away. He withdrew his body from the warm crutch he had been walking against. He saw that they were approaching a small square at the center of Hogsmeade. It was a rectangular fountain with seats around it. There were still people milling, many of them, all with their hoods down. He hurried toward the blissful commotion of a crowd, brave and feeling invincible. He was Judas Cliffdale! He was Harry Potter! He was... dead, but alive! He was alive, but dead!

Draco hissed, "Hey! What the hell—Cliffdale, where are you going?" He hurried after Harry, in a jog, battling with the poster as he did so. He followed the quick, agile frame that darted through the dark figures. Some of the figures grumbled at him, as if to ask who dared bump them. Draco kept murmuring apologies for Harry, hurriedly, from under his cloak. But, at last, he stopped, dead, as Harry flew up onto the side of the fountain's cement edge. Oh, no.

Harry tore his hood from over his head and threw his hands out into the air, proudly, "LADIES! AND GENTLEMEN! He bellowed out over the crowd, fearlessly. The silence of the square had already been quite apparent, so he hadn't been actually talking over anyone. However, everyone did stop. But, Harry wasn't afraid. If someone wanted to strike him dead with one look at his face, he wouldn't argue. He needed to be dead with his own body, or he needed to be alive with his own body—but not this body! He was going to use it and abuse it and flaunt it, because he had no other choice.

Draco was open-mouthed, utterly appalled and too cowardly to step up and pull Harry down.

Harry tossed his head, so his hair flew away from his eyes, "I am Judas Cliffdale," he spoke, and then looked out amongst the sea of hooded heads. It wasn't like he needed an introduction. But, he wanted to make an introduction. "I, BOLDLY, am going to go where no Cliffdale has ever gone before—where no Malfoy, or Potter, Dumbledore or Zabini, or any of those names nobly meaningful to you all—I, Judas Cliffdale, as intoxicated as I am, am PROUD, to stand up here and say..." He looked right at Draco, who had pushed himself into the front row and had torn down his hood, his eyes furious, and Harry knew exactly why. He was practically asking to be murdered, right then and there. "I," he sighed, loudly, and looked away from Malfoy, "am gay, and I am in love with my best friend!"

For a long moment, it was silent, but a ripple shot through the crowd, unexpected and thunderous.

Satisfied, Harry shrugged his shoulders, clasped his hands together and boxed, "Right, then. Have a nice night!"

Within three seconds, Harry was being attacked off of the cement block, by a ravaging, furious Draco, "You fucking idiot—you're asking for—they know you—I can't believe you just told people that you—Merlin, you are going to regret this so bad in the morning—come on, MOVE IT, move it," Draco was scolding him so loudly, as he sharply led Harry through the front of the crowd, with his hood pulled up over his head. He had nearly attacked Harry with Harry's robe's own hood. How could he? How could he be so dense? So thick? AND GAY? Making them PRETEND to be gay, in the situation, was hardly anything funny. It just made Harry even more of a target! Gay, and drunk, and Judas Cliffdale! What was Harry playing at?

Finally, Draco threw Harry, rather powerfully, against a brick wall in an alleyway.

Harry, mouth agape, silent, with a scratch down his cheek from Malfoy's ring coming in contact with his face, could hardly breathe.

Draco threw the poster down on the ground, between them, "I'm going to beat you into a bloody pulp."

Harry slipped down the brick wall, "Go ahead, I don't care. It's not my face."

"I don't care whose face it is. I just want you to hurt, and I want you to hurt bad."

Harry scowled up at him, just as angry, now, "What are you in such a tiff about? God, lighten the fuck up—"

Draco kicked Harry, though lightly, in the side, and spit about a foot from Harry's body. It just happened, "Shut up."

Harry gaped at him, once more, in shock, nursing his side with his left hand. Okay, okay. That was all it took for a sobering up. It really, really was. He hadn't been necessarily drunk. He just had no reason to not take advantage and goof off. He wanted to die. He was going to die in the end, anyway. He had no idea what was going to happen. He knew he couldn't have his body back, and that meant one thing, it seemed. Sighing, miserably, and recalling the words Dumbledore had so tersely confirmed to him days before, he pushed himself up on his hands. He approached Draco's back, silently, his eyes narrowed. He surged forward, locked Draco's neck in his arm's grip, and bent down with him, pinning him. He lifted his knee and just as lightly, drilled Draco's side with his knee.

Draco gasped, the wind knocked out of him, as he fell to his knees.

Harry was not surprised as Draco stood up a few moments later. They stood ten feet apart, clueless about the other.

Draco, his hand clutched over his slightly-aching side, innocently looked back at him, "I'm supposed to protect you."

Harry stared at him, incredulously, "No one ever asked you to take on that responsibility. I didn't ask you."

"You don't get it, do you?" Draco suddenly snipped, and stepped closer toward him. "You're all I've got." This time, Harry looked away, as if giving a very small interval in which he was going to allow Draco to speak, freely, about what he was feeling. Oh, and he would have done it with OR without Potter's permission. "You didn't have to tell me, and now that you have, I can't damn well go on about my life as if I don't know. You have a mission to fucking get on with, don't you? I'm not going to let you fuck it up. I understand you better than you think I do—"

"Bullshit," Harry barked at him, heatedly, and turned away, strongly, his hands clutching his sides. "You know nothing."

"Oh, don't I?" Draco asked, right back, without taking another blink. He followed Harry, so he couldn't get away, so he couldn't have his own little personal bubble to feel like he had control of the situation, though they both clearly knew he was annoyed with the fact that neither of them had control. It went back and forth, back and forth, without control. They had not assigned each other positions or stereotypes. They were who they were. "I know that you've lost your entire family. I know that your best mates betrayed you. I know that you don't have a parent to cry to. I know that you want, more than anything, to kill yourself, or have someone else kill you—but, I, as the only one of us who can still see you as you've always been, am going to have to be the one to remind you that—yes, while you have no family, and no friends, you still have Dumbledore, and you still have me—I know I'm no Weasley, as you've made the point of telling me, already. Okay? But, I'm doing the best I can. You trying to get yourself killed is a huge slap in the face."

Draco was standing behind Harry, know, and Harry was facing a wall, like a child, indignant, "I didn't ask for your—"

"My protection, then," Draco interrupted, "is nothing to you, therefore I mean nothing to you?"

"Obviously," Harry chirped back at him, out of the heat of the moment. But, then he frowned, ashamed of his immaturity.

"What is this?" Draco asked, seriously. "What is this called? Are you drunk or aren't you? Or are you being an arse?"

"The second part—the arse," Harry responded and turned around, dropping his arms. "I don't know if I'm drunk. I feel fine."

Draco stared at him, "You need to trust me. And, if you don't think you're ever going to, tell me now."

"Oh, come on, Malfoy, don't do this right now," Harry groaned at the serious, worried, frustrated tone. He walked around Draco and toward his poster. He didn't mean to do these things to upset Draco, he really didn't. But, he did end up upsetting Draco, or offending him, and then Draco took it very seriously. He was too smart to be around Harry, Harry figured. He cared. He genuinely, genuinely cared about what the fuck was going on, and Harry kept reverting back to the place in his mind where Malfoy was just a game, just a dumb school-nemesis who knew nothing about anything that was going on in Harry's life. But, none of this was a game, now, and he was being juvenile. He was going to regret it very much in the morning. With this, he knew that he was very intoxicated. He snatched his poster up from the ground. "Please."

Draco turned around, too, silently, "You need to tell me everything."

Harry's eyes floated up from the ground, awkwardly. Damnit. He fought with himself, "Fine—but, not here."

"Okay," said Draco, walking toward him. "How do you suppose we escape Hogsmeade tonight, alive?"

"Come on, Malfoy," Harry couldn't help but chuckle, as he clasped his hand over Draco's cheek. Such glowing skin! It had pulled at Harry's attention like a magnet. His hand had flown there before he had given it fully-thought-through permission to do so.

Draco, very awkwardly, looked at Harry's wrist, his eyes slanted, "Well, well, Cliffdale, is that your hand on my cheek?"

Harry smiled at him, "I can't touch my friend's cheek?" Draco frowned, very deeply. Harry snorted. "What, now?"

"You're gay," Draco suddenly stated, staring at him with an expression made of mixed realizations and epiphanies.

"Sadly, no," Harry honestly returned and dropped his palm. "I'm not above any other drunk, hormonal teenager."

"Okay, so," Draco proposed, as Harry glanced at him. He seemed sincere. Interesting, "you'd snog a boy, then, too?"

Harry turned around, "Draco," he laughed out. Did he not see this coming? Had he not caught onto the fact that Harry had absolutely no problem with being flamboyant? He enjoyed it very much, "what the fuck is wrong with you? Like I said, earlier, I am not against anything. I'm not gay. I'm not bisexual. So far, I've been nothing but straight. I am a normal seventeen year old wizard at the end of the night. You are the one who thinks I'm so adament about not being gay. I have nothing to hide. I'm not freaked out by the idea of boys kissing boys—especially when they're blasted off their arses, a'right?"

Draco was watching him, confused as all hell. That made no sense to him! "No, that's not a'right!"

Harry spun around from peaking out between the two buildings that hid them, chuckling, "What is wrong with you!"

"Nothing, I'm trying to make sense of what you're saying, but it doesn't make sense! Are you gay, or are you straight?"

"Oh, come on," Harry hissed, up at the sky between the buildings. His eyes fell onto Draco's, heavily, "I'm me."

Draco reached out and squeezed Harry's face between his hands, but in a friendly way, pretending to strangle, "That does not make sense, either! Answer the question!" Grr! But, Harry was laughing, his cheeks squished together between Draco's palms. His lips were made into a little fishy-mouth, pouted and drawn. His eyes were wrinkled, and his eyebrows were twisted in amusement. Wrinkles had taken over his entire forehead. But, he kept laughing, and his face became more and more indented with hilarious cuteness. Rolling his eyes, at Harry's non-answer, he dropped his hands to Harry's shoulders. "Are you going to make me come on to you to get my answer?"

Harry rolled his eyes, "Malfoy," he said, again, and this time more quietly, as if this somehow made what he was about to say more serious. "I'm not gay, right now. One day? Perhaps."

Draco fumed, again, "You're planning on becoming gay? What the fuck? "

Harry was laughing, hard, at the pure frustration smacked across the gorgeous face in front of his, "Stop twisting my words around! I said that I'm not gay. I'm straight, okay?" But, Draco, now silent, was shooting daggers at him. Harry put his hands out between them, as if to carefully soothe the situation. He really wasn't gay, but he wasn't not gay, either. He wasn't decided. He wasn't bisexual. It was all easily summed up. "I don't go by orientations. Whoever I fall in love with, one day, I'll fall in love with her—or him. It'll most likely be a her, but if I actually found attraction to a man—more-so than a woman, and I felt a connection, I might go for it. Do you get it, or no?"

But, Draco was just staring at him, with blue-silver eyes narrowed into half-moons.

"I'm just me. I'm not against the idea of being with a man, but I'm not really interested in it, either. I don't know, maybe I'm asexual—I'm already so screwed up. It's not like I've ever really had time to go on and debate about my orientation, you know. Don't try to turn it into what it is or isn't. I'm just me—and, if you want to know me, you're going to have to grasp onto that. Sadly, and in a very non-arrogant way do I mean this, but I'm in a category of my own—I don't live for black or white. I can't live in gray, so I live in variations of dark black, or variations or nearly white. I just do what I want, and I feel what I want, and I know who I want and when and how I want who I want. Okay?" He was speaking very quietly, a little embarrassed about having to be talking about this in an alleyway..

Had they really resorted to talking about Harry's sexual orientation? They had. And, how? Harry was so amused. Or not.

Draco was hugging himself, strangely unable to meet the brown eyes he knew were waiting, "Yeah, okay."

Harry nodded, grateful, "So, will you drop it, now that you have your answer?"

Draco's nose twitched, anxiously. He didn't have his answer, "You would snog a boy, then?"

Harry sighed at him, but turned away to check back out between the buildings, "Sure, Malfoy, I'd gladly snog a boy."

"You are gay," Draco spouted, confidently, and stood tall. "That wasn't hard, was it?"

Harry turned around to him, this time eerily silent. But, after a few moments, he moved closer to Draco, "Tell me..."

Draco took an innocent step backward, away from Harry, "Tell you what?"

"Tell me that you're straight, and I'll believe you." Harry stopped. "I'll never question it, again."

"I'm straight."

Harry just barely smirked, "Okay," he agreed with the lie, and then turned away. "Coast is clear, come on. Keep your head down."

Draco shifted, awkwardly, in the corner of the small alley way. Harry looked back at him, probably expecting him to be right there, ready to get out of Hogsmeade. But, no, he wasn't, for once, invading Harry's personal bubble. It was like there was a chemical reaction taking over his body. It was like a potion gone wrong, unknowingly, inside of his body. He was shivering, and he knew what he was shivering at. When Harry's eyes flickered to him, they were extremely confused and impatient. But, Draco was not interested in their current escape plan. Instead, he was concentrated on his own lie. He twisted, backing himself into the brick corner, at last, with is left hand cupping the back of his neck, tightly, his face gaunt with sharply sucked-in cheeks, his body aching, "I don't know."

"I know." It didn't take a Potions Master to see that Draco was in an... er, experimental phase.

Draco stared at him.

Harry, very cautiously, took a small step toward him, but then kept his distance, "Are you all right, Malfoy?"

"Yeah," Draco answered, shortly, but it came out all wrong. He cleared his throat, as if to deter the obvious crackling. "No," he quickly corrected himself, as Harry shrugged and went to turn away, once again. Damnit, he kept blurting out the wrong things. Couldn't he ever get anything right? He growled at himself as Harry stopped, but kept his back turned. Anxious, Draco's left hand itched at the back of his head, feeling skittish and paranoid. "No, what do you think? I mean, aside from the flamboyant thing—and not that it's not an act—but, what do you think... I mean, about me? I mean, about who I am?"

Harry turned around, awkwardly wondering about the topic of their conversation, "I don't think I know you well enough."

Draco frowned, "Right, yeah." He walked toward the opening of the alley. "Yeah, you're right." He passed Harry.

Harry watched after him, "I don't think you're gay, Malfoy." He then paused. "I do think you have... loyalties, however."

Draco ignored him, without one stuttered, stunned glance. Oh, fuck Potter. Oh, GOD. Fuck Potter? Draco hissed. Loyalties! What a smarmy little git. No, no, no, he wasn't. He had said it as absentmindedly as he had been able to, apparently. The fact that he had even been brave enough to tell Draco that Draco had certain loyalties, a.k.a. feelings—a.k.a., loyalty-tied feelings to his only loyalty—the ultimate a.k.a. meaning loyalty-tied feelings to Harry. It wasn't a lie, not fully. He did, in some twisted sort of way, whether friendly or anything more or less than that, have a strange love for Harry. And, Harry knew it, too. Oh, it was awkward. No, no, it wasn't. He hadn't said it in an awkward tone. It was Draco who felt like he was trying to crawl out of his own body.

A few seconds later, Harry was walking beside him, with a nervous, forced smile, "You're slouching." Brilliant, Harry. Idiot! Well, at least it was something!

Draco looked at him.

Harry looked away. He blurted out the worst question in the world, that he could have fathomed, and he asked it to his former enemy, "Well, it's not love, is it?"

Draco's body convulsed to a stop, and he squeezed his head between his palms, "Did you just ask me if I was in love with you?"

Harry lightly laughed, completely and totally humiliated by what had left his own mouth. But, was it that surprising to ask? It shouldn't have been, not with the way Draco had been so keen to add in little remarks about his feelings for Harry. He didn't know Malfoy's orientation, he really didn't. Anytime he had ever made a comment about Draco's flamboyant, flirty persona, he had just been teasing. But, he didn't want any unsettled issues between them. If Malfoy was all he had, he wanted to know, just for the hell of it, "Just answer the question."

Draco stared at him, mouth agape, as they stood outside the closet their brooms were checked into, "Are you kidding me?"

"No, I'm very seriously asking you a question. You've been making insinuations, non-stop, so just get it over with. Answer it." When Draco turned to him, fully, his arms were wrapped across his chest, his jaw was clenched to the left, and there was absolutely no sign of any ordinary Malfoy-esque friendliness. No, no. It was replaced by the same cold, domineering, cynical bitterness that had so easily returned.

"That doesn't mean that my feelings for you have anything to do with love," Draco's voice was high.

"All right," Harry bit right back at him, now that Draco was in face. "No need to get so bloody angry, Malfoy."

Draco turned his body around, completely, until he stood opposite of Harry. He threw his hands out between them, very ungracefully, frustrated with the way their conversations so often revolved around sexual preferences, "Can we just stop talking about this, at least for tonight? I'm not in love with you. I'm not gay. You're you. We have our answers, and I never want to talk about it ever again!" But, Harry had his lips pressed together, and he was looking down at his feet, shuffling with his left foot, his arms wrapped around his back. He said nothing, just continued shuffling as if he were not supporting or defying the idea. "Look, I have to keep you safe."

Harry chortled as he looked up, his eyes brightened. Malfoy sounded so proud, "You have to keep me safe?"

"Okay, so you have to keep me safe, too, eventually, but until that fateful day so valiantly arrives, I have to have your back."

"You do have my back," Harry informed him of this. "And, just so you know," he added, honestly, "I have yours."

Draco nodded his head, once, and turned away to the broom closet. He unlocked their spell-lock with his wand, and the small, thin, long locker popped open. He reached in and wrapped his hand around the first broom. He lifted it out and shoved it against Harry's chest, hastily, as Harry stood beside him. He heard a grumble of annoyance, but instead of acknowledging it aloud, he took it in with a laugh. He grabbed the other broom and pulled it out, closing the locker after he did so. When he turned around, Harry was holding his broomstick two feet away from his body, with his palm resting over the top. His shoulder was tensed and his body was awkwardly positioned, but in a sexy, natural way. Glaring at him, now, Draco snapped the bottom of his broom forward and slapped Harry's stomach, playfully. "Stop trying to make me want you."

Harry was grinning, broadly, as he dropped his pose, "I don't have to try, Malfoy."

"Oh, you don't have to try, Malfoy," Draco imitated him, following him toward a more spacious place to take off.

Harry bumped his shoulder to Draco's, purposely, "I thought we weren't allowed to talk about such things, Malfoy."

"We can't, now. I was just waiting for that small little nudge you gave me. I needed something to tie me over, tonight, see."

Harry rolled his eyes up to the sky as he took a foot lead, his mouth twisted, his cheeks scrunched, "I'll tie you over."

Draco smiled, watching the back of Harry's cloaked head. But, his eyes began to travel downward. Wait, NO! He could only muster a growl, "Shut up.

Harry came to a stop and turned around, as he jumped onto his broomstick—well, Malfoy's broomstick. No! No! What a terribly terminology! But, he laughed, really loudly, at himself, and couldn't help but genuinely smile at Draco, having been way too entertained and happy with their night of bonding that he was sure only they could perfect into strange dysfunction, bonds, pacts, short-tempered verbal fights that neither took full offense to, and laughter, "Ready to go, moody, hormonal, stereotypical boy?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco asked, as he swung his leg up over his horizontal broomstick. "And, come on."

As they rose up into the air a few feet, Harry glanced at him, holding his poster to his chest, again, "I meant nothing."

"As long as you say so." Draco smiled at him, knowingly, appreciative of the dismissal due to his own earlier request.

"As long as I say nothing, your ignorance is my bliss!"

"I thought my ignorance was supposed to be my own bliss, Potter?" He asked, about fifty feet in the air, whispering.

Harry smirked at him, "You've passed ignorance. Now, you're just in denial. It's rare to be blissful while in denial."

"Hmm," Draco mostly ignored the whole point of Harry's witty little explanation, "Why is my ignorance your bliss?"

"Hey, the longer you keep your love for me to yourself, the longer I can laugh about it."

Draco grabbed at a pine cone as they passed a pine-tree. Though Harry quickly sped away, Draco still hit him with it.

Harry, fifty feet away, spun around on his broomstick, with his hood down, delighted, laughing his head off, "YOU LOVE ME!"

"FUCK YOU, AND YOUR LITTLE POSTER, TOO!"

Harry snorted with laughter as Draco sped toward him. When he got to Harry, however, he stopped, too, "Malfoy."

Draco laughed, not restricting this smile.

Harry was in awe.

"Potter."

Harry looked him over, a small smile making its way to his face, "I made the worst judgment in my life, and I made it on you six years ago," he quietly admitted. It was hard to do, but it was easy to say. He had been so stupid, years previous. Draco had always kept Harry's human side. He had always been the little shake down to earth when things were rough. Harry could be battling Voldemort, and Draco would say something about the color of his socks, and suddenly he would remember what it was like to be just a human, again. He had been a very essential part of Harry's sanity, though Harry would never had ever realized this if he hadn't have been in that very moment, fifty feet above a forest of pine-trees, staring eye to eye with a pair of light-filled, liquid-like, glittering silver, blue-ish eyes. "I know it's not much, but I'm sorry."

Draco's expression fell. He felt his cheeks flush. He looked around, suddenly, almost paranoid, "You don't have to—"

"No," Harry interrupted him, this time, very determined, "I really have to. You're right, you would have been an excellent friend. I shouldn't have blown you off without knowing you."

"No," Draco assured, embarrassed, "you really should have. It's only been the last couple of years that I've changed."

"Well, regardless, I always knew there was a part of you that wasn't corrupted and evil. In a way, I kind of love you."

"Oh my god," Draco laughed, very quietly, looking down at his hands on his broom. "Stop while you're ahead, Potter."

Harry grinned, "Believe me, I'm going to regret this tomorrow morning, so enjoy it while it lasts. Thanks, for everything."

But, Draco knew what he was being thanked for. He was being thanked for being a nemesis, and he was proud. Instead of continuing on about anything else, about how embarrassed and surprised he was feeling, even a little light-headed, he found Harry's eyes, bravely. They were warm. Oh, no. And, they were very serious. They contemplative and honest. Open, and welcoming. He fought with his sarcasm for a second, but then, at last, when he realized that this was Harry, not Harry Potter his sworn enemy, he only nodded, "You're welcome."

Harry nodded back, "Great," he happily agreed, and then looked away. "We're probably really stupid to be flying."

"What?" Draco asked, but then acknowledgment flushed over his face. "Oh, drinking and flying." He paused. "We're idiots."

"You're an idiot. If I remember correctly, I opted for Floo Powder," Harry easily corrected him. "We'll go to Cornwell's."

Draco coughed, loudly, into his right hand, honestly surprised, "What? Are you crazy? No, we can't, I—"

Harry glanced at him, "Come on, Malfoy, you know he won't mind. He'll be delighted, and you can see Dickinson..."

"Dickie," Draco corrected, immediately, in a very pointed way, as he began to follow Harry's slow glide. "Okay, fine."

At that very moment, a bright green, blinding light took over the sky. Their eyes both shot upward, mouths agape.

The Dark Mark.

Harry grabbed at Draco's sleeve, as he stared up, his face showered in green tint, "Come on, let's get out of here."

Draco didn't need telling twice. He followed Harry through the trees in the forbidden forest, behind Hogsmeade. They were taking the longer route to get to Cornwell's, because it was safer. Through the forest, they were less likely to be seen traveling by broom. They stuck together more closely than they had the last two or three times that they had ridden by broom, together, back and forth between the Malfoy estate and Hogsmeade. Their pace was just as fast, but there was a solid-ness about it, because they were flying together. When Draco would fly left, he would leave room, and Harry would veer left, too.

Eventually, they swooped down to ground level, in the fields by Cornwell's country road, and sped across the tall grass, side by side. As they got closer to Cornwell's street, they could see things in a great amount of detail. It was only about halfway across the field when Draco was pulverized to the ground, with a hand tightly wrapped around his mouth. He landed on his stomach, on the broom. By the very familiar scent of cool, fall, October mornings and faint vanilla candles, he knew that it was Harry whose full weight was pressed down over him, completely. He didn't make a sound, and was, in return, able to breathe out of his mouth as Harry released his palm.

They were hidden in the grass.

Harry said nothing, very quietly falling onto the grass beside Draco. But, Draco never had to look at him for an answer as to why he had just been tackled to the ground from three feet in the air, at dangerous speeds. He had instincts, Harry noticed, because his eyes were looking for any sign of danger or trouble around them, immediately. And, through the tall, long grass, he knew that Draco had spotted what Harry had so very luckily spotted in the dark only seconds before.

Only twenty feet ahead of them was a heard of Death Eaters, or a group of random wizards, in a field, in the dead of night. There was no other option of who it could have been, especially since the Dark Mark had just risen up over Hogsmeade in multiple places. In the distance, as they both looked over, at the same time, they could see that more Dark Marks had popped up in random locations above the streets of Hogsmeade.

Draco's eyes locked back onto the group. They were moving. They were moving toward Cornwell's street.

Harry looked at him.

Draco looked back.

Harry wrapped his left arm tightly around Draco's shoulders and pressed his mouth to Draco's ear, "Stay close."

They watched, in the same position, for a few more seconds, until the group had walked further away.

Harry climbed up onto his knees, in the very tall grass. It still covered him. He looked down, to his left, to see that Draco was no longer laying in the grass on his stomach, but rather just as equally on his knees, his eyes hawked on Cornwell's street. This was no light matter. No, no, not at all. Cornwell's arrival, maybe even his lack of beard, earlier that day, at the Malfoy house, in front of all of the press, had been a huge deal.

Harry still knew nothing about why Cornwell had thrown away everything magical in his life. Something had happened, but it was far too personal for Draco to ever have revealed to him, especially so soon. Whatever it was, Harry was beginning to wonder how involved, exactly, Voldemort was. He pressed his mouth back to Draco's ear, "We're going to head over to the left, to the forest, on broom. When we get there, stay below the treetops. We'll follow it to the other side of Cornwell's street. We can bust through his windows from the opposite direction—the bastards will never see us.

Draco turned his head, and when he did, Harry's lips pulled away, as did his shivers of... well, DAMNIT. He blinked, quickly, to knock his inner attraction to Harry out of his mind. He nodded his head, silently. Harry had already clutched his broomstick, laying down over it horizontally, and was hovering just inches off of the ground, which meant, as they were getting to the forest, they were going to stay in the tall grass, which meant Draco was going to be whipped with tiny little plants. But, he was already up and flying evenly, literally arm to arm, with Harry, only seconds later, laying across his own broomstick and violently thrashing past the long, wispy, innocent pieces of grass.

The fly to the forest, and then through the forest, seemed to last forever. But, eventually, while they watched the Death Eaters get closer and closer toward the street, the plan changed. Instead of taking the forest the extra few hundred feet, in a semi-circle, to get to the other side of Cornwell's street, Harry pulled out from the forest, with Draco right behind him, and they flew only two or three inches from the ground, mostly blinded because the only thing they could see was the grass quickly flying by, cutting in a direct path that would take them to the back or Cornwell's house, while the group approached from the right.

Within seconds, they were at the back of his house.

They flew around to the left side.

Draco flicked his wand over one of the windows, "Silencio!"

Not even a second after that had Harry cast a spell to shatter the glass. It burst into millions of pieces, but didn't make the tiniest of sounds.

Draco flew in, his head pounding so loudly that he couldn't hear his own thoughts.

It was a bedroom. It was Cornwell's bedroom. He was asleep, with one candle lit, "Cornwell! Cornwell!" He hissed, with Harry right behind him, as he jumped off of his broom. He immediately shook Cornwell, hard. In result, Cornwell's eyes flew open, wide with terror. "Silencio!" Draco hissed, again. He pulled his hood down and turned his head to the left to see that Harry had picked up a sleeping, blanketed Dickinson from a wooden toddler bed in a small, rectangular, additional part of the square main bedroom. His eyes darted back down to Cornwell who had stopped struggling when Draco had exposed his face. "Death Eaters."

Cornwell was up, a second later, while Harry shot off out the window, on his broom, with Dickie clutched tightly in his arms. God-damn, Potter was fast. But, Draco was already on his broom, literally shaking with anxiety and nerves. He turned his head back to Cornwell, about to hiss that he needed to hurry and not worry about anything, but Cornwell had grasped under his bed and pulled out a bag, as well as a broom. The bag already had things in it. He took it, muttered a spell that Draco had never, ever even heard of, and hopped, sideways, on his broomstick.

They flew out the window, and Draco spotted Harry hovering next to the houses across the street.

Once Draco and Cornwell met Harry, they all flew into the woods, into the complete dark.

But, Harry turned around and pointed his wand toward Cornwell's small, tiny house, "Reparo!" In his left arm, a small, quiet, doe-eyed little boy was staring up at him. The little thing was very content, not at all perplexed. Harry found this endearing and adorable, as he turned back around, knowing that Draco and Cornwell were both stopped, too, all three of them hovering about five feet in the air.

Cornwell leaned forward and took the warm bundle from Harry, with a very grateful, tearful expression.

Harry just smiled, and then looked back at Draco, as they started to glide, again, faster than the normal, average speed, "You stick with him no matter what happens," he said, of Cornwell to Draco. "Don't let him get into a situation where he's alone."

Draco reached over to him and slapped his upper arm, his forehead wrinkled, very stressed out, "You stick close to me."

Harry reached over and gave his upper back a friendly clap. He breathed out, with his own relief, finally, "You did good.

The hour and fifteen minutes it took to get back to the Malfoy estate was extremely stressful, but proved to be safe. Well, safe enough.