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

9. The At Last Answers

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: Thanks for reviewing, guys! I'm having a bit of a writer's block, but I tried to write through it. I hope it's enjoyed!

Somewhere Only We Know

Chapter Nine

The At-Last Answers

The next three days passed slowly. Though there was much for Harry to do in the long-run, the short term of summer represented nothing of big action. He couldn't plan out his entire vision of what he planned to happen, because he had no idea what was going to happen. Anticipating something that was never going to happen a certain way was pointless to Harry, and all he did was fret more when he thought about it. Therefore, he had given up and given in to the one thing he did know for sure—he was at the Malfoy estate for the rest of the summer holiday.

Harry hadn't actually paid much attention to the situation with Draco. As luck would have had it, they barely saw each other. It wasn't until four mornings later, at breakfast, did Harry actually start to realize that it wasn't luck, at all, that had kept them from seeing each other. It was a purposeful arrangement made by Draco, who, for the fourth morning in the row, wasn't seated at the dining table for breakfast.

Harry looked around the dining hall with bleary, blurry, expectant eyes when he walked through the open doors. It was a dark morning, rainy and cloudy. For the first time in four days, the curtains were pulled off from across the windows, allowing Harry to see the rain pouring down in the lush flower garden a few feet in front of one of the windows. And, as usual, it was Cornwell and Dickie sitting at the table. Narcissa hadn't yet shown up, which left the three alone. He walked into the warm, lit room, wrapping his arms around his upper body over his T-shirt covered chest, "G'mornin', Cornwell."

Cornwell looked up with a smile, "Great morning, Judas."

Harry stopped walking and looked at Cornwell with a doubtful side glance, "Have you noticed the storm?"

At this, Cornwell glanced over his shoulder and to the window. But, he waved it off with one hand before he turned back to look at Harry, this time with his full attention, "Stormy weather is my favorite, makes me feel alive! When it's sunny out, it's like I have something to complete with." And, he smiled as Harry slowly took his seat opposite. "No, see, Judas, it's a good morning, because the house-elves have finally noticed that Dickie can't digest huge chunks of food."

Harry laughed, distractedly, looking away from Cornwell and back to Dickie. It had been very hard for Harry to see Cornwell and know who he had been to James. There were so many things that Harry wanted to ask him. He wanted to hear stories, share stories, and listen with very open ears. He was hoping he would be able to talk to Cornwell about his father, one day, but he didn't want to force it so it didn't appear suspicious, "Are house-elves supposed to cut food smaller for toddlers or was that just something you'd assume they'd do?"

Cornwell didn't seem bothered. He shrugged with an honest, slightly helpless grin, "They used to do it for Draco, that's all."

Harry picked up his silver goblet in his right hand, "Speaking of, do you know if he's still sick?"

"Sick? Draco's not sick," Cornwell replied, casually, as if there was nothing to it. After a couple of seconds had passed, while Harry waited for more of an explanation, Cornwell looked up from a battered, old book he had been skimming through with his dark eyes squinted. An epiphany seemed to have hit him. "Oh."

Harry tilted his head at the knowing answer from Cornwell, "That would be my reaction, too. Oh." Knowing perfectly well what the answer meant, Harry's eyes lowered down into his full goblet, the contents which he had not yet taken a sip of, because he was distracted. It must have been obvious that Draco wasn't indeed, sick, as Harry had been supposing to himself. Draco was skipping meals purposely, was he? How old were they, anyway? Twelve? No, they were seventeen. What a weakling Draco Malfoy was!

Harry sat up straight, with an annoyed smirk, and placed his goblet down, "Draco's such an—"

"Resorting to name calling so early in the morning, Judas?" Draco curtly interrupted the sudden iciness of Harry's voice, as he strolled into the dining room in a damper mood. Nothing had been agreeing with him that morning. His clothes didn't seem to fit right. His shoes didn't seem to look right. He seemed to have shrunken up a bit. Two instances that morning had reintroduced his unsuspecting toes to unexpected objects on the floors around his home—albeit, the same exact home he had gone most of his 17 years knowing with hardly any stubbing incidents. Even his face looked unfamiliar, that morning. Everything seemed unfamiliar and not worth the effort of looking at or appraising, which was something that Draco had always taken joy in.

Regardless of what most everyone thought of him, Draco had grown up trying to see beauty in everything.

Harry turned around, startled by the voice. He couldn't help it. Hearing Draco's voice was a strange sensation to his ears. Being that he hadn't given much thought to the situation with Draco, because he hadn't figured it ended awkwardly, but rather with a calm departure from Draco, Harry hadn't had the chance to anticipate or wonder what it would be like to see Draco, for the first time, since he had confessed his feelings. And, because he hadn't thought to prepare for the moment, his open mouth opened to respond in a dully witty way and absolutely nothing came out of it.

Draco took his seat at the table a couple of seconds later, "What am I, again? Don't let me stop you."

Harry carefully rested his back against the backrest of his chair. His hands slid off of the table, where his palms had been patiently resting on either side of his plate. They immediately dropped to the armrests of his chair, and his palms, instead, tightly clutched around the ends. He looked up from his plate at Draco, who he hadn't yet fully taken in. He didn't know what to say. He felt panicked, inside. It all hit him, like a ton of bricks, plain and simple. His eyes calmly landed on Draco.

Draco was leaned against his elbows, on the table, his eyes dark. Harry was scarily immobile, "Well, what am I?"

Harry felt his left eye twitched, so he blinked and sat up straight, looking back at his goblet, "Nothing," he answered. He didn't want to have a staring match with Draco. One, because it was a bad idea to do in the morning, and Harry was sure he would undoubtedly lose. Two, he could hardly even stare at Draco for five seconds before feeling like his chair was on fire and trying to burn him for not having realized just how horribly he had mentally handled the situation. He quickly lifted his goblet from the table and pulled it to his mouth, as if to give himself a distraction.

Draco didn't feel any satisfaction with the reaction, "I'm nothing. Great. And, you have nothing to say to me?" Really?

Harry's eyes shot back to him, still with his goblet resting on his bottom lip. The juice in his mouth was cold, but he didn't feel like swallowing it. Draco's voice was cold enough to chill the whole room. It was also extremely pointed and bitter, almost in a daring, challenging way. And, sure enough, Draco was still leaned over the table, on his elbows, with his silver eyes extremely sharp, his mouth and nose twisted into some form of a snarl. And, Harry slowly pulled the goblet from his mouth, but it didn't go very far. It was the only thing separating Draco's full eye-contact, "Yeah, actually, I do."

Draco didn't budge, and he stayed as silent as he could possibly stay, "Enlighten me."

"Fine," Harry agreed, his voice sinking into a lower, deeper gruff. He took one last sip of his juice before lowering it back to the table. He leaned over the table, as if to imitate Draco. They both knew that Harry wasn't going to acknowledge the kind of answer Draco had challenged him to, but that didn't mean that Harry didn't have one. Actually, it did mean that. Harry had no idea what he was going to say to make things less awkward for both of them. He shrugged. "For one, I think you've been incredibly rude for not attending meals with myself and your family. If you had had some legit reason, it would have been fine. But, did you offer any reason? No. Here I've been thinking you were ill."

"What makes you think I haven't been ill?" Draco threw right back at him, without so much as a half of second separating the end of Harry's sentence and the beginning of his own. The response seemed all too sharp, and it shot through the room almost like a bullet, cold, fast, and extremely forceful. He turned his attention away from Harry and to Cornwell and Dickie, both of whom were just staring at him as if there was something extremely wrong with him. He looked away from them and back to Harry, with deadened eyes and an unapologetic expression. "I have been extremely ill. Thanks for dropping by, by the way. I really appreciated you coming to wish me well and see how I've been."

Harry angrily sneered, "What a great big—bloody liar, you are," he threw across the table. "You've not been sick!"

It was too early in the morning for Draco to begin to fight with Harry. It wasn't just them at breakfast. It was also Cornwell and Dickie and, eventually, his mother. Where was she, anyway? She was usually always in the room before Cornwell and Dickie. The couple of mornings before, Draco had snuck down to the dining room, late for breakfast, and peaked his head in to see if Harry was there. Harry had been there every time, which had given Draco a passionately spirited reason to be bitter toward Harry that much more. Had Draco been sharing breakfast with his family? No, Harry had.

Draco turned his eyes away from Harry, letting it go, "I've been busy, and Cornwell and my mother both were already informed. Telling you must have... slipped my mind."

Harry mentally asked himself what it was that Draco had been busy doing. Being a bloody coward!

Draco, as if sensing the question, looked away from smiling at Dickie's tired, nearly comatose, sweet face, and back to Harry. He didn't want Cornwell thinking that he and Harry were on bad terms. Draco didn't know what kind of terms they were on, but he wasn't going to call them bad. If anything, it had been he who had been avoiding Harry at all costs. He had even called a meeting of the house-elves. He had asked them to inform him of where Harry was every once in awhile, just so if Draco had to venture out of his room or to his study, he wouldn't run into Harry. And, the more time that had passed as he avoided Harry, the worse the whole entire situation had become in his own mind.

He forced a tiny grin in Harry's general direction, "Things have calmed down, though, at least for today."

"Good," Harry distracted answered, forcing the same sort of carelessness. "Are you up for some flying?"

Draco's shook his head from side to side, "I have plans at twelve, and a birthday party to attend this evening."

Harry's eyelids slightly drooped. He only nodded, knowingly. However, his eye-contacted stayed attached, solely, to the window over to the left of Draco, between he and Dickie. He wasn't surprised that Draco had plans, whether they were real or not. He had friends, or, at least, people who entertained him and made him feel like he had friends. Whether or not they were friends, Harry knew it didn't matter to Draco. Draco didn't get friendship out of people. He pulled for deeper meanings and connections. He had told Harry that he didn't have any friends, per-se. Remembering this, his brown eyes returned to Draco, who was laughing, loudly, chattering with Dickie about something that made absolutely no sense. It was mostly gibberish. He stared right through Draco, wanting to blurt out so many things that he couldn't seem to dictate mentally. These things wanted to be expressed, but they weren't fully formed and molded into thoughts, yet.

"I have plans, too, this evening. Maybe we're going to the same party?"

Draco looked away from Dickie, fully interested in the insinuation, "We might. I'm going to Bert's." When Harry didn't offer anymore of his own plans, Draco looked away from him and to Cornwell, as if to direction the statement to him, as well. He knew perfectly well who Bert was. Cornwell knew all of Draco's friends, but he didn't approve of any of them. Sure enough, Cornwell's face was extremely bored and annoyed at the mention of Bert. He rolled his eyes, as well, and Draco caught it. "There's no need for that, Cornwell. It's his birthday, I have to go, really. He's not as bad as you think he is—none of them are."

Cornwell placed his book down on the table, seemingly very comfortable in his chair, "You'll never convince me, Draco, that any of them are good for you," he returned, seriously. He looked at Harry, who was looking between he and Draco, confused. "Judas, you wouldn't want to get involved with the likes of Draco's friends, and you definitely wouldn't go to that party if invited. Their taste in clothing would rid you of all of the class you were born with."

Harry was instantly connected with the conversation, and he perked up, "Believe me, I've already suffered the loss."

Draco ignored Cornwell's remark, more focused on Harry's very bright response, "You could use a little lightening up."

Harry smirked, and it came very easily, "If by lightening up, you mean wearing bright, neon-green, frilly blouses, I disagree," he laughed, honestly, without any sort of undertone about what else was going on between them, or had been said between them. Cornwell had spoken the truth! The group that Draco hung with were the LAST group Harry would have pegged Draco with. Draco had always been very conservatively dressed, wearing dark, yet still flattering, colors. But, the group of cohorts he threw himself in with were always clad in some ridiculous getup in horribly ugly neon colors. Harry liked neon colors! He just didn't agree with so MANY bright colors on one person, who then stood in a group with six OTHER brightly blinding people. It hurt his eyes! It really did! "I'd rather be tense and brooding than airy and idiotic—"

"Wearing bright clothes does not make one idiotic," Draco drawled across the table, not amused.

"It does to me. Looking at them makes my IQ lower. I can't imagine what wearing it would do."

Cornwell snorted into his goblet. He lowered it, "Well said, Judas."

Draco looked away from Harry, instantly, and to his father. Something sharp crammed against his chest, and it hurt. What was this, anyway? Harry and Cornwell having breakfast together? Laughing together? SHARING OPINIONS ON DRACO'S FRIENDS? What was this? It was not acceptable! And, with extreme annoyance, Draco pushed his chair back, a small bit, and stood up, "What's it to either of you, anyway? It's clothing, and you honestly go around judging people on their clothing? What if people judged you on stripping your magic, Cornwell, or you... just... what if anyone knew the truth about you, Judas? The truth about any of us? It's just clothing!"

"Draco, sit down," Cornwell immediately seemed annoyed, and he sounded it, too.

Draco didn't sit down, "I want to know why you insist on demeaning them every damn time I mention them."

"Draco, I don't like Bert because of what he did to you when you were nine, and I never will." It was a very slow, tense response, and it was that way purposely, as if for Draco to hear every small syllable that left his father's mouth. And, Draco's face immediately blanketed over, and his mouth untwisted. "It has nothing to do with his clothes. I don't like Nancy, because she sleeps with every man in her sight, and she has destroyed at least three marriages of people in your family's society circle. I don't like the rest of them, and I'm not going to bother giving their names the time of day. They have all treated you badly, because they had treated me badly, and my family badly, and have disrespected who I am, and who, essentially, you are—but, they don't know who you are, do they?" And, he pushed his chair back, too, and stood up. He lifted his book, his jaw clenched.

Harry could hardly breathe. Cornwell's eyes were so dark and intense. Draco couldn't even look at him, now.

"If they did know, I dare say you'd be known as that Black kid—you know, that one, with dirty blood. Draco Malfoy-Black." There was a slight pause. "That's how they would say it, you know, with that spit. I hear it all of the time. I've perfected it."

"They wouldn't do that, no matter what you think. They're not the same sort of people their parents are. We're a different generation, Cornwell."

"You'll have to excuse me for looking down upon your friends, Draco, because I sincerely believe they don't care for you. Go ahead, disagree. Make whatever friends you want to. Be friends with Bert, but don't ax out Pansy, or Crabbe, or even Goyle, though their families are hardly less harsh." He paused. "Perhaps you should spend more time with Judas and less time absorbed in with people who are only after power. Be friends with the people who already do have power, because YOU already have it. Doesn't matter what bloody generation you're from, Draco. All that matters to those people is your blood, and if you weren't Lucius Malfoy's son..."

Draco sat back down, carefully, in his chair. He bit down on his tongue to keep from saying anything else. He hadn't meant for any of what Cornwell had just said to be interpreted in such a serious, honest way. But, it hadn't occurred to Draco that Cornwell probably did think about these things more often then not. He was Draco's father. He had always cared for Draco. He had Draco's best interests at heart, always, and Draco knew it. But, he was still seventeen, he didn't think through the entire process of questioning Cornwell about something so ultimately true. And, it was true. Draco's friends didn't know that Draco was Cornwell's son. No one in did, and if anyone in his circle DID know, he'd be banished in a matter of minutes. He'd be a nothing and a no one, and not because he had dirty blood. It was because of who Cornwell was, and what Cornwell's past had been like. He had always been controversial. He was barely talked about, and when he was, he was discussed in tiny, harsh, passing whispers of thunderous lies and rare truths

"I am Lucius Malfoy's son. And, even if my blood is dirty, and I'm your son, I'm STILL Draco Malfoy."

Cornwell laughed. It immediately faded, as he walked around the table, with his book in hand, "You certainly are Draco Malfoy."

Draco was glaring at him, furious, "Don't start that, again. You MADE me Draco Malfoy."

"Uh, no, your mother made you Draco Malfoy."

Draco's blood boiled, "What, would you rather her be Narcissa Bla..." But, something very heavy landed on his foot under the table, and Draco's attention and heat was immediately dropped. However, he had gone too far in his words for it to be taken as anything but what he had been about to say, out of blind anger and complete verbal nothingness. He had just been talking. He had always been that way when he and Cornwell argued. With anyone else, he was witty and often made points and kept his cool. When Cornwell would get mad at him, Draco would just refute everything with words that made no sense. They just came out of no where. But, these words were too horrible, even to say to Cornwell. He immediately closed his mouth, and looked at Harry.

Harry was shaking his head, hardly, with tense eyes, as if telling Draco to keep his mouth shut.

It was obvious that Harry had thrown some sort of spell at his foot. Draco could have kissed him—wait, no! Shit!

Draco quickly looked at the dining room door, toward Cornwell, shoving his seat back, in agony and panicked over what had blurted out of his mouth. He couldn't believe it. Oh, it was so lame to have been about to say what he had been about to say. The whole topic was never discussed, because it was just that HORRIBLE to both Cornwell and his mother. They just never, EVER even acknowledged it. And, Draco could not blame them. He would never, EVER speak of such a thing if he were in either of their situations. It must have been hard enough, or awkward enough, to even be in the same room, even after all of the years and conversations that had passed, "Wait, I didn't mean that."

Cornwell had slowly turned around, with infuriated eyes, "What a stupid thing to say, Draco. You absolutely meant it."

Draco's whole body twitched.

Harry was watching Draco, in horror, his back to Cornwell. It was so bad, so bad. Draco was white. Completely white.

Draco stumbled from between his chair and the table, but he didn't get far, because he seemed frozen to the floor. How could he have been so stupid? What had possessed him to be such an immature little brat? He knew that what he said was taking things too far. It was pulling things out of left field and putting Cornwell in a very, very awkward position. He found it hard to keep his eyes on Cornwell's eyes for longer than three seconds before he had to blink to pretend that he wasn't feeling stung and burned by the disgusted, ashamed, disappointed look in the dark eyes opposite of his, "But, I—"

"Make sure your brother eats," Cornwell interrupted, as he turned back around to the doorway.

"Good-morning, everyone!"

Draco flinched at his mother's bright presence that had just come floating in the doorway. He didn't look at her, however, because he was attached to Cornwell's face. Cornwell didn't look at his mother, either. He was glaring at Draco, hard, even harder, "You know I really didn't mean it!" He talked as fast and clearly as he could, in hopes that he could do it before Cornwell flew out the door.

At this point, Harry looked over his shoulder, too, at Cornwell and Narcissa. Draco was so in the wrong, here.

Narcissa didn't have to look at Draco to see the tension, just at Cornwell, "What's going on?"

Draco collapsed down into his chair, a mess of numb lips and a blank mind.

"Draco was just asking me if I'd rather you have been Narcissa Black than Narcissa Malfoy."

Draco felt very sick. He shyly glanced up at his parents, but then felt even more ill. They hated each other. They had tried to be civil to each other while in Draco's company, but other than that, there was nothing between them but regret and anger. When the truth had come out, both Cornwell and Narcissa had sat Draco down to explain to him what had happened. It had been a very quick explanation—neither Cornwell nor Narcissa had ever been educated about who their cousins were. Cornwell knew Sirius, and that was it. Bid party. Boy meant girl. Lots of alcohol. One thing led to another. Boom. It was mostly Cornwell who had talked, as to obviously not make Narcissa have to say anything she didn't want to hear herself say. Experience had conveyed the message to Draco that his mother felt extremely despaired at every little reminder of Cornwell. Somehow, and Draco didn't know how, she had loved Draco just the same. His mother had always been his closest ally and his biggest supporter. She had never not loved him because of what he came in result of. He had never understood how she could have been so loving and open toward him, but so hateful toward herself over it.

It was extremely silent.

After a couple of more seconds, with Draco looking up at them, in tears, he finally looked down into his distraught hands.

"Draco—"

"I didn't mean it, okay! I didn't fucking mean it!" Draco immediately yelled, before his mother could continue. He was horrified with himself. He was horrified with the situation. He was horrified with his birth. He was horrified that he just cursed in front of his little brother. He was horrified that he was saying these things in front of Harry Potter. He was horrified that he had told Harry Potter that he was damn well nearly in LOVE with him. Warring with himself, internally, he was finally pushed too far with his inner wounds and demons, and he looked back up, bravely. "I know you hate each other, and I know you hate acknowledging it, but it's WHO I AM! You can't go on avoiding it, forever! I'm bound to blurt out stupid shit like I just did! You explained my whole entire life to me in about two minutes, and gave me no time to ask questions, even as I got older. For all I know, you're still—"

"Draco, SHUT up," Harry hissed at him, from across the table, jumping in. It was loud enough to be obvious.

Draco glanced at him, "My parents are cousins, I can't keep dismissing it like they do. Be on my side, for once."

Harry covered his eyes, his elbow on the table. Something in Draco had snapped off, and he could nearly feel it.

Draco looked back at the two people staring at him by the door, "I mean, you did like each other enough."

Cornwell attempted to say something, but it came out in furious hisses, and then, loudly, "S'over."

"For you!" Draco exclaimed, exasperated, and pushed himself up. "For you, it's over! For me, I have questions!"

"QUESTIONS?" Cornwell nearly screamed, and he laughed with insanely furious laughter. "You little--!"

Draco interrupted him, just as quick and emotionally unbalanced, "QUESTIONS!" He agreed, just as loudly, demanding his claim with passion. He saw Harry rise up from the table, too, across from him. He said nothing, though, just started walking around the right of the table, toward the end of it. He knew that Harry was going to take Dickie out of the room, or he at least seemed to be seeing that something was coming on, here, or the onslaught of curses about to erupt from a raving Cornwell, on one side of the room, and a demanding, smarmy, sadistically satisfied Draco on the other. "Yeah! Questions! Were you in love?"

Cornwell stopped raving and just glanced at him, half turned away, laughing, in clear bewilderment, "I can't believe this!"

Draco growled and looked at his mother, instead, but he knew she wouldn't answer him, either, "WERE YOU?"

Narcissa looked as if she were still confused on what room she had just entered and who Draco and Cornwell were, "Draco, you know what happened—"

But, Cornwell turned toward Draco, smirking uncontrollably, "No, no," he interrupted her. He was staring at Draco, who had quickly looked back at him, as if angry that Cornwell had interrupted. "No, Narcissa, don't butter it for him. He's seventeen, he wants answers. Give them to him—okay, Draco, I'll give you answers." He walked toward the door and closed it, knowing perfectly well that Harry had been heading for the door with Dickie. In result, Harry quickly stopped. Cornwell glanced at him, without apology. He said nothing, because Harry took a seat, again, but one next to Dickie's high-chair.

Draco looked at them, too. Harry and Dickie were just looking at each other, almost adorably, both feeling helpless.

"Answers, Draco, you want them. Ask what you want to ask."

Draco glanced back at Cornwell, floored, "I just asked—"

"Right, love. Umm, I was."

"Merlin, oh mighty," Narcissa hissed and turned for the door. She opened it and left, slamming the door behind her.

Draco stared at Cornwell, his jaw dropped, "But, I thought you two only—I mean... one... the one night."

Cornwell had his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes hard and cold. It was very eerie, "A lie, to spare you."

Draco felt like he had been punched in the chest when he realized just how many lies he was going to be informed had been told to him. No, no, wait. His mother, Lucius AND Cornwell had told him all the same story. Perhaps Cornwell was just going to have a fun go at Draco, because he was obviously in some sort of detrimental, invalid, obtrusively perfect mood. He was ready for a row. He was ready for it. And, Draco didn't know if Cornwell was going to make things up just to get Draco, himself, riled up. His mother having left the room could have meant two things. One, she had seen that Cornwell was going to be lying by him saying he was in love, and she didn't want to be a part of it, so she left. Two, he was telling the truth, and she didn't want to hear that, either, "It wasn't one night?"

"The first night it was."

Draco's mouth felt sewn together. He felt like he was ready to fall ill, and then he hesitated, "There were more nights?"

Cornwell just looked at him, his eyes very actively taking a role in the conversation, "Quite."

Draco twisted with his entire body, furious. MORE? LIARS! "YOU WERE IN LOVE?"

"No," Cornwell answered, with a light laugh. "I was. She wasn't."

"Bet it really fucked things up when you found out she was your cousin, huh?"

It was silent for a long time.

"Draco, if you loved... someone, and found out he was your cousin, would you still love him?"

Draco's hand clutched over his stomach, and he turned away from Cornwell and toward the windows, turning his back. The answer had definitely not taken the direction Draco had hoped. Second of all, Cornwell had asked Draco if he had been in love with someone, and found out that the someone was his cousin, would he still love HIM. HIM! A BOY! A MALE! Cornwell was calling him out! With the boy-thing! Boy thing! Boy! His left palm molded over his mouth, and he swallowed down his knot of discomfort, "You don't still love her, do you?"

"For the love of GOD, Draco. No!"

Draco looked over his shoulder, shaking with confusion and anger, his lips tense, "You loved her?"

Cornwell's face was very distraught, and it was obvious he felt sick to think about it, too, "Sure, it was stupid love. About four or five months."

"And, it never occurred to you that HER NAME WAS NARCISSA BLACK?"

"Fuck you, Draco, I didn't even know she was a witch! I was hardly EMBRACING magic at the time. I lived in muggle London ninety percent of my life when I was twenty. Black was a VERY common name—I even had other friends with the last name of Black in Muggle London—mind you, where I met her. It was just a funny idiosyncrasy that we had the same last name."

Draco was looking out the window, again, hugging himself for comfort, "Five months?"

"No, five, all together. We only dated three."

"How'd you find out, then?" Draco immediately asked, as he turned around, dropping his arms. He was mad.

"You want to know, Draco? I mean, you really want to know the truth?" But, Draco didn't nod. He also didn't refuse to hear what Cornwell was obviously open to telling him. It was quite clear to Draco that he was never going to have this opportunity, again, so he took it. He didn't care if Harry was in the room. He would have ended up telling him, anyway. "We had been together for about three and a half months, seriously. It was the holidays. She went to her family's for the holidays. I went to mine. That year, the Blacks, high, decided to bury the hatchet with the Blacks, low, in a very tiny, tiny get together, because a couple of my aunts and uncles missed my father, other uncle and aunt. The elders didn't really know about it. It was somewhat secret, but there are a lot of us. Many of us went. She showed up, and I heard someone talking about Narcissa. Oh my! Have you seen Narcissa? With Lucius Malfoy! My goodness! "

Draco blinked, "What?"

"I kept hearing the name Narcissa, yet it never occurred to be to add Black to her last name. Narcissa Black. Even if I had, of course, standing in the kitchen helping my aunts with dinner—aunts who I had never met and who were fawning over me at every which way, I would have just figured that it was just a coincidence that I had a cousin named Narcissa Black when the girl I was dating—and happened to be in love with—was also named Narcissa Black. Well, it was sometime later, in the backyard, that I run ran into Lucius—of course, who I knew from Hogwarts—a couple of years younger than me, who had just graduated from Hogwarts. I had always thought he was scum, from the moment my eyes ever landed on him. Perhaps I knew what the future was going to hold, I don't know. I never had a reason not to like him. I just didn't."

Draco was standing against the wall, his arms tightly hugging over his chest, still very numb to his, "Mum was—"

"Sure was. After Hogwarts, I was her dirty, little Muggle secret.

"But—"

"No, Draco, there is no but, here. Anyhow, Sirius and I were having a laugh a few minutes later. Lucius had mentioned that he was engaged, so we kept talking about the poor, unfortunate soul of this Narcissa woman. Of course, Sirius knew Narcissa was his cousin, and I was his cousin, but he didn't know about... well... that I knew her in a different way. We both went to Hogwarts, yes. Except, I didn't give a fuck about Hufflepuff, or younger girls, or even girls at all. In Hogwarts, I was too concentrated on James and school-work and frequent trips back into muggle London. I spent most of my free time using Floo Powder to get back home." He paused. "After those few minutes passed, Lucius dragged Narcissa over. I hadn't realized, either, at the time, probably due to my Butterbeer intake, that Lucius had no reason to be at the Black function. He was, after all, Lucius Malfoy."

"But—"

"Bit of confusion. I thought she was there for me. Until I realized."

"How could you not have—"

"I never said I was smart!" Cornwell quickly interrupted, before the question could be asked. He was trying to get the explanation over with, as fast as possible. "Of course, by that time, it was five months in, and I was in love. She was, well... she's your mother, so I won't insult her in front of you. But, she knew. It was a known thing. That night, I had been telling everyone about MY lovely girlfriend, and I thank GOD I had never mentioned her by name." Draco was still leaning against the wall, but he had his hands over his face, his features buried and hidden away. He was shaking his head, barely. "It took her just as long to see what was going on. You think you feel sick, now, Draco. Multiply that by about a thousand, and you'd feel a fraction of what I felt."

"God, damn," came a tiny hiss.

Draco looked over at Harry. His lips were chapped and parted, and even from where Draco stood, he could see Harry's dry tongue. He looked away, however, his throat swollen. He stared right at his father, for the very first time that morning, in a civil, calmed way. He didn't know how to respond to what he was being told. The lie he had grown up believing was much easier to deal with. A one-night stand, too much alcohol, found out they were cousins—the end. Love hadn't been involved. His mother hadn't been doing his father at the same time as Lucius. OH, no. He clutched the back of his head, "You're lying!"

"Of course I'm lying, Draco. Your mother is perfect, yes. Yes, she did nothing wrong."

Draco seethed and started forward, "Don't talk about her like that, don't drag her into it!"

"I'll insult her if I want. I still think she's a whore for what she did, and you telling me she's not isn't going to change it."

Draco stopped, "If you ever call her a whore, again, I'll—"

"Save it, Draco. I'll call her a whore if I damn well want to, and I have the right to. That part is none of your business."

Draco swallowed, but he couldn't find the anger to spew back with. Er, Cornwell had a point. "But..."

"I left the reunion, immediately—threw up for awhile—and, by awhile, I mean, non-stop, for about a week. And, then I debated about throwing myself off a cliff—and, I nearly did. A couple of weeks later, she wrote me a letter, and told me... about you."

Draco stared at him, "Say it with a little more enthusiasm, why don't you."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Draco, did I miss the memo where I should have been excited about the news?" It was a stunned, hurt question. It had come out very emotional, and Draco had nothing to reply with in response to the emotion and honesty. "Have you enough answers, now? We sent letters back and forth for about a week. I finally agreed to see her. We told Lucius, Lucius agreed to raise you as his son, I stayed away, I was there when you were born. I came over every day and played with you. I was named your godfather. I used to watch you for a week here and a week or two every month, and you grew up in my tiny apartment as much as you did in this place. And, you were amazing. You still are." He was lifting Dickie up, now, who had been listening with bored interest. He had no idea what was going on. But, they were both now looking at Draco. "Enough answers, Draco? Are we done with this, now? Because, as much as you hate what you are, I hate acknowledging it."

Draco was staring out the window again, in an attempt to drown out the urge to do something more severe.

Harry watched. The only answer Draco gave was a nod of his head, and his platinum head bobbed.

"Good. I think Dickie and I will be leaving this afternoon."

Draco's eyes closed, and his chin tilted down. All he could ask was, "You think you'd be safe anywhere else?"

"I'm safer away from you than anyone else in the world, Draco. I'm pretty sure I'm not wanted here, anyway. I never have been, and the older you get, and the more time that passes, it's obvious you've done just fine without me being around at all."

Draco's mouth opened, his jaw unlatched, but then it closed seconds later, and tears finally began to pour from his eyes. He didn't respond because he had no idea how to respond or what to respond with. He found it in himself to turn around and drop his arms from his chest. He was seventeen years old. He could hold his own. He had every right to ask the questions he had. He approached the dining table, again, when Cornwell was heading for the door, with a confused Dickie in his arms, "You won't be going anywhere, Cornwell."

Harry looked up from the empty table in front of him. Draco's voice was deeper than it had ever been. It was strong and confident, and there was something very controlling about the way he spoke. And, sure enough, Draco was staring at Cornwell from the side of the table, his hands placed down on the table top. Because he was so distracted and focused on Cornwell, Harry had a very open moment to take in all of the fierceness that was suddenly Draco Malfoy, his body long and fluid, his arms toned, his neck long. His jaw was firm and set, and his nose was straight and thinned out by the obvious expression he was pressing on. He was trying to be taken seriously, and Harry didn't think Cornwell could look away from the expression with anything but respect, because Harry certainly couldn't, and that was saying a lot.

"I am perfectly capable of making my own choices, Draco, thank-you." He took the high-route.

Draco breathed in, deeply, but he tried not to make it noticeable. He couldn't keep doing this. His life couldn't continue to be this tumultuous. He should have just left his entire existence to the lie that he had been believing for years, always having sensed that things were soothed just for his own benefit, like that was a bad thing. In fact, it wasn't a bad thing. It had been for his own benefit, but Draco was never satisfied with knowing the smallest of truths. He got himself into trouble, often, because he was too nosy for his own good. He didn't like being lied to, and he certainly didn't like being lied to when the lie involved him, "I'm sorry, but you no longer get to make your own choices, not when it involves your safety. You have two of us to worry about, now—and, by us, I mean your sons."

Cornwell snorted with annoyed laughter. He set Dickie down on his feet and held his hand.

Draco looked between them. Deep down, he wondered what it would have been like to rewind time and see himself standing there, instead of Dickie, with a younger version of Cornwell holding his own hand. There was a very uncanny likeness that Dickie had to Draco, and the resemblance that they both had to Cornwell was extremely fascinating. Not a time went by when Draco looked at Cornwell when he didn't mentally feel stunned by his relative's face in relation to his own, "Don't go being rebellious just to be rebellious, Cornwell. That's in my nature, not yours. Don't try to leave. I'll get mad—"

"And, we all know Draco stutters like a girl when he's mad," Harry lightly threw in, just for kicks.

Draco felt his blood heat, but he did laugh, "Shut up, would you? No one asked you."

Harry took no offense, just shrugged his shoulders as he comfortably rested his back into his chair, "I think that's the beauty of my existence in your life, Draco," he continued, easily. He was giving Cornwell a way out. They all knew that he was looking for one. If Harry was talking, Draco was going to be focused on what he was saying, purposely, just so Cornwell would leave without having it seemed like Draco had made him do so. It seemed that Draco didn't want to acknowledge the fact that he had made Cornwell extremely uncomfortable, agitated and angry within the last couple of minutes. "You're never going to actually ask me what I think. I'm just going to tell you, anyway."

Draco tilted his head, leaning up over the table on his elbows, "No, no, I thought that was my role?"

"Nah, changed, this morning," Harry informed him, not meeting his eyes, yet. "I wouldn't get too comfortable."

"You'll be wanting your brooding characteristic back, then."

Harry nodded at him, "Something like that—look, why don't we get out of here?" Cornwell was gone, and now Dickie was running around the end of the table to get to Draco, who was already pushing his chair back and standing up, his eyes intently glowing at the little blonde-headed being floating so innocently around the room. When Dickie collided with Draco's legs, with his hands outstretched up to the taller, platinum swan, Harry pushed his own chair back and stood up. He knew just as well as Draco that neither of them wanted to be stuck in the dining room, because the dining room just didn't seem to be real, anymore. Eating at the dining table seemed forced and awkward, and they were seventeen years old, with summers and monsters to play and fake out, and they had much on their minds, too much to sit at a dining table and act like everything else going on in their world was calm enough to be taking such elegant, graceful steps of living.

Draco bent down and tightly scooped up the smaller boy in his long, lean, outstretched arms. Though he wasn't going to go on telling people about it, Draco felt extremely content and fulfilled when he was hugging Dickie or walking around the estate and showing him things, though Dickie didn't care for any of them. He seemed to like spending as much time with Draco as Draco did with him, and, damnit, it felt good. It meant that there was someone in his life who just liked him for existing. The only thing Dickie knew about Draco was that he was his older brother, and that was it. He would never put a thing between them, and he swore it.

As Draco lifted Dickie up, he groaned, and then laughed as he looked at Harry.

Harry's left eyebrow was cocked up, and he was taking a sip from his goblet. He tried not to smile too hard.

Draco's lips began to curl up, and he could feel them, "Something funny, Smirky McSmirkinson?"

Harry slowly lowered his goblet. When he swallowed his juice, he tried his damnedest to swallow down his utmost delight and smugness at Draco. Come on, now. He had never seen Draco like this. In fact, he had never seen anyone, really, devote such attention to a smaller family member. Sure, Ron's siblings had always been nice to him. But, this was different. Dickie was only a baby. And, here was Draco, snuggling Dickie and giving him adorable little smiles that Harry had never deemed possible from Draco in the first place! He was genuine to Dickie, in a way that Draco had never seemed to be genuine to anyone. It was innocent and... tender. Watching them, a part of Harry felt like he was intruding, but Draco had never made it a point to make Harry feel guilty for seeing softer moments, "I didn't say anything!"

Harry placed his goblet down on the table, heavily, and then slyly slipped out from between two gorgeously carved wooden chairs. He had still yet to erase Draco Malfoy's memory, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to. He had given the situation the time to cool off. He had given it thought. The pros of erasing Draco's knowledge of Harry's existence were far outweighed by the cons of erasing Draco's memory. If there was one thing, and one thing only, that Draco Malfoy had that no one else in the world did, it was Harry Potter's complete attention, and with that attention came loyalty and trust.

Draco seemed keen on keeping these things protected, and that was worth every con of him knowing.

Draco's eyes shifted down to Dickie, who was looking at Harry, too, with a scrunched nose. Agreeing with this expression as a sentiment of thought and feeling, Draco nodded along and looked back at Harry with a similar scrunching of his nose, "It's not in what you say, Cliffdale, it's in the way you react. Dickie, and I—yes, you," he laughed, as Dickie looked at him. He looked back at Harry from the widened eyes looking up into his. "Dickie and I suggest we spend the rest of the morning reading stories."

Harry turned around from the middle of the dining room. He laughed, "Reading?" He wasn't surprised! "Is that what you—I mean, we—high-society boys do for fun? Read stories to each other on rainy days?" As Draco walked around the end of the table, Harry found himself reeling on thoughts of Draco that he had never considered, before. Draco had always been a picture of perfection and high-society to Harry, and it was hitting him like a ton of bricks. He shifted. "It's raining, why don't we go outside?"

Draco stopped, about ten feet away from Harry, and smirked, "I don't want him getting sick, genius."

"I am a genius, Malfoy, because I know that running around in the rain isn't going to get him sick."

Draco sighed and leaned down.

Dickie plopped down onto his feet and then hurried toward the floor-length windows to look at the rain.

Draco watched him, curiously. Sure enough, at the mention of going outside, where it was raining, Dickie had wanting nothing more than to do so. He had run right to the windows, and now had his tiny palms pressed up against the windows, something which his mother would have shrilled at if she knew was happening, getting his tiny paw-prints of hands on the windows. He stood on his tiny tippy-toes, and pressed his face against the window. He stayed perfectly still. Convinced enough, though inwardly, Draco glanced back at Harry, "Do you have reasoning for this idea of running through the rain and coming out of it without the sniffles?"

Harry took a couple of steps toward Draco, "Rain and cold weather doesn't make you sick. It's a virus that makes you sick. Sure, cold weather makes our immune systems a little weaker, but what does that matter when you have the memory of running around in the rain? Or, making memories of running in the rain and then falling flat on your face and getting a scar? Did you want me to go on about how sheltered you are, or...?"

Draco, unimpressed, looked down at Harry's mouth, blatantly, "You're sorely mistaken, Potter."

Harry smiled to himself as Draco circled around him, bumping their shoulders, hard, for dramatic effect. He wrapped his arms up over his chest, slightly, because he was cold and slightly because it was the quickest and most automated defense mechanism that his body could recognize. He turned around, too, but stayed still. He kept his eyes on Draco's lean, yet toned, thin frame, as he walked up behind Dickie, stood still, and seemed to join him in gazing out the window, almost longingly. This made Harry slightly amused and slightly saddened, "I was just teasing about you being sheltered, wasn't I? I mean, you've played in the rain before, haven't you?"

Draco rolled his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, "Are you kidding me?"

Harry, feeling a bit embarrassed, quickly looked away, "How was I supposed to know!"

"Er, common sense, you bloody oaf—"

"Hey, hey!" Harry defended, in loud, good-natured laughter. "Watch the language, there is a miniature in the room!"

"Pufflyflit?" Draco asked, jokingly, and looked around. But, he then found Harry, again, with a hard smirk. But, when he saw that Harry was just smiling at the floor, in a distracted way, he turned his attention back down to Dickie. He relaxed his hands down in front of him. His outstretched fingertips hovered about two inches from the top of the small, blonde head. He leaned down the small bit to make the space disappear, and then brushed the platinum, bleach-blonde hair off of Dickie's small, pale forehead. But, he did have some lovely color. Neither of them had skin that would burn when put in the sun. Draco had just grown up being encouraged to stay out of the sun unless he was wearing extra-strength sun-protector. "Do you want to go outside?"

Dickie's head tilted all of the way back, and he looked right up at Draco, "'side?"

Draco nodded at him, barely, "Or would you rather me read you a story?"

Dickie turned around, so he was facing Draco's legs, and then he peaked around them at Harry.

Harry smiled at him and winked, once, for encouragement. He saw the flint and ember of sparkles beginning to expand and explode in the wide eyes, even from where he stood. Not even two seconds later had Dickie run out from around Draco's legs, clapping his tiny hands together, very excited about going outside without even having said so. Following right behind him was Draco, who was clapping, too, with Dickie.

Dickie giggled and collided with Draco's legs, again, squeezing them and squealing out a very sweet, "DRACO!"

Draco snorted with happy laughter, in love, completely, with Dickie. He leaned down and attacked the small little being in his arms, tightly. He pressed a kiss to the warm, small cheek, and then abruptly pulled himself right back up. Whatever Dickie wanted to do, Draco was going to do. He was lame, and he knew it, because he adored spending every damn second with Dickie that he could. And, once Dickie pulled away and started in a small, discombobulated run for the dining room door, Draco followed him. As he passed Harry, his left hand opened and clutched around the bare skin of Harry's elbow. He grasped it and pulled him along, without looking back at him. "If he gets sick from playing outside, YOU are going to be the one tending to his every little whim, and I have quite the feeling that he's like me when I'm sick, and you don't want that—"

Harry laughed, following Draco out the dining room door. He grasped Draco's shoulders in his hands, from behind, and gave an innocent, intense squeeze, "You don't know what I want."

When Harry pulled his hands back and hurried from around Draco to chase after Dickie, in the entry hallway, Draco stopped walking. Whereas he stopped walking, Dickie tried to run faster, but just ended up giggling so hard that he lost his balance and fell over on his little hands and knees. For a second, he was silent, and Draco wondered if he was going to cry. But, he looked over his shoulder, saw that Harry was approaching him, and shrieked so loudly that even his mother had to hear, wherever she was. The whole world should have heard, because the world needed to hear something so precious and light-filled, "Would you stop stealing all of the good screams from my little brother, glory-stealer?"

Harry turned around, laughing, standing above Dickie, who was looking up at him, "No!"

Dickie looked at Draco, too, as he pushed himself up on his tiny feet, and he giggled, too, "No!"

Draco scoffed at them, mocking it, "You little jerks!"

Dickie's nose scrunched, and he started for Draco, glowing with happiness.

Draco pretended to start at Dickie, and Dickie cutely scuffled backward, his eyes lighting on fire.

Harry snorted with laughter, bewildered. Little kids were so strange! And, so cute! Yes, so cute!

Draco took another step for Dickie, and Dickie jumped and hid behind Harry. He peaked out.

Draco grinned at him, and then looked up to Harry's face. He couldn't help himself, "Even he knows you're a savior."

Harry rolled his eyes, trying not to laugh. Dickie was playing hide and seek with Draco, now, from behind him, "Oh, that's funny, Malfoy."

Draco started laughing, finally. It was a very light, cheeky, full-mouthed laugh, with a broad, nearly wattage-inflicting smile shamelessly flickering out into the open, where it had so rarely ever been seen, even by the likes of his own mother. It was certainly not something Harry had seen, no, "I think so!" And, when the top of Dickie's head popped out from beside Harry's leg, Draco hurried toward him, half-bent. "You think I can't see you! I can see you! Hey! HEY! Where are you going!"

Dickie jumped out from behind Harry as Draco started around Harry to get to him, "Draco! RAWR!"

Harry found himself as the Polaris for the circular game of chase that Draco, so selflessly, had begun.

At last, though, Draco finally, easily, caught Dickie in his arms, against his chest, and stood up, straight. Dickie was struggling, giggling, but Draco held him out, with both of his hands, so he was like a little airplane, staring down at the ground. He stopped struggling and reached his hands out and wiggled his feet, as if he knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing in such a pose. Draco laughed, and looked right up to see Harry laughing the same way. He was in awe, and it was endearing. Satisfied beyond his own knowledge and appreciation, he felt oddly close to Harry as he looked back down at Dickie, "Brilliant."

"Brilliant," Harry agreed, and ruffled his hand over the back of Dickie's messy, fluffy white hair.

A few minutes later, Draco walked into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. The sight waiting for him wasn't a surprise. Harry was sitting on one of his couches, watching out the large, open windows cut into the stone of his walls. There was an anti-raindrop spell cast upon them, so none of the rain could penetrate his bedroom. It was his favorite charm, ever. Well, nearly. He ended up having a lot of favorite charms and spells, but only usually mentioned to people that his favorites were the ones he had just used around them. Naturally. He kept most of his true favorites secret. His rain charm, for example, was a real secret. He loved the rain. He loved being close to it.

Harry, leaned over his knees, his hands folded together between them, looked over. He said nothing.

Draco pointed over his shoulder as if to signify what he had just been doing, "He didn't wake up. I put him right down for his nap," he offered. When he finished talking, he felt a bit vulnerable. Did he really need to tell Harry that he had just put Dickie down for a nap? But, Harry didn't seem phased. All he did was nod, as if he already knew, which he did, because Dickie had fallen asleep after a very long-winded, hard-core, short-term game of "chase-Pufflyflit all around Draco's study". Remembering this, Draco looked around, before he approached the couches he and Harry had sat on, before, together. "Pufflyflit?"

Harry looked at Draco, and then toward the bed, where Draco was looking.

Draco sighed, sadly, and started for his bed, "Pufflyflit, it's okay. Come here. Dickie didn't mean any harm."

Harry had no idea where Draco was going until he dropped onto his knees and disappeared behind a couch. Harry climbed up on his knees, to the end of the couch, and leaned over it to see what Draco was doing. Draco was halfway under his bed, his calves and feet up in the air. But, there didn't appear to be any sort of struggle. No. Draco's feet rested back on the floor, and Harry could faintly hear the tiniest whispering thunder of soothing tones. Nothing about Draco surprised Harry, now, when it came to Draco's more sensitive side—something Harry had already come to terms with. He wasn't going to make Draco at all uncomfortable with the fact that he had been so open and trusting with Harry to see his more sensitive moments. It made him human, and Harry was sure that Draco wanted them both to understand that the other was only human, "Is he okay?"

"Yeah," was muffled a couple of seconds later. "He's sleepy, though."

"I'd be sleepy, too, if Dickie chased after me for twenty minutes."

As Draco slipped out from under the bed, he got up on his knees and pushed his butt up into the air.

Harry rolled his eyes, even though Draco couldn't see. From under the bed came Draco's face. He sat on his knees, seeming a little discombobulated and thoughtful. He looked around, and Harry caught his eyes. A smile immediately caught Draco's mouth, and Harry watched it form. Draco did have a sexy smile. He had a sexy everything, truth being told. But, the way his smiles formed was nearly addictive. After seeing one, all Harry could do was hope that he'd catch the next. They were so rare, these smiles of Draco's. He grinned back at Draco, easily, the blood having rushed to his head from leaning over the end of the couch, "What?"

Draco laughed. Harry was a sight. Well, Judas was. He was leaned over the couch, his arms dangling down. But, suddenly, Harry turned around until he was laying on his back, over the side of the couch. He pushed himself backward and hung his upper body upside down. His hands grasped over the sides of his face. Draco laughed, feeling too lazy to push himself up onto his feet. He crawled over to the couches, on his hands and knees. He sat in front of Harry's red face and looked him square in the eyes, "Isn't the blood rushing to your head?"

Harry laughed, "Yeah," he admitted.

Draco examined Harry's chin, as it was even with his eyes, "What's it like, having a different face?"

"Well," Harry began, and dropped his arms down, too. He felt his shirt pull up on his stomach, but he didn't care. It felt good to stretch out. He hadn't hung upside down in quite some time. The floor looked like the ceiling and the ceiling looked like the floor. And, Draco Malfoy looked just as appetizing and pretty as he always had, except now a bit more likable and friendly. He didn't mind sharing things with Draco. "It's very strange. It's not only my face, but everything else, too. Even when I touch my face with my hands, my fingertips are different, so I can't even familiarize with how my touch used to feel against my face.

Draco's eyes slipped down to Harry's hanging hair, and he couldn't help the small smile, "D'you miss you?"

Harry closed his eyes, "Yes," he laughed, because there wasn't a second to hesitate. "I miss my face."

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but then decided against it. He didn't want to jump on saying anything too soon. They were working on a friendship, here. It was a monumental relationship that already had a solid basis. They had a foundation. They even had all of their walls up. They were just working on furnishings, now. They were working on the colors of walls for certain rooms to put these furnishings in. He liked watching Harry talk. He liked knowing that, beneath Judas Cliffdale's exterior, Harry Potter's heart and soul were taking cover. His hands lifted from the cool, wooden floor. His palms opened, and he pressed them up, collecting the dark hair, with curiosity, "What else do you miss?"

Harry opened his eyes and stared up at Draco, openly, "Hmm, I had a freckle in my palm."

"What?" Draco laughed, amused and interested. "You had a freckle in your palm?"

Harry nodded, but failed at doing so successfully. He was too relaxed to follow through with the natural motion of the nod, "Yeah, it was really dark, too. I don't know where it ever came from. I just remember opening up my palm one day and seeing it there, thinking it was dirt. I guess I had never noticed it until it was big enough to catch my eyes," he explained, though halfway through his eyes had closed, again. It felt nice to close these eyes and rest his body. Being tired was the same sensation in every body, it seemed, now. He made his eyelashes flutter open, once more. Instead of finding Draco's eyes, he found his mouth, instead, because it was easiest to look at and level with his eyes. "Is that weird?"

Draco bobbed his hand up and down, softly, within the range of about two inches, playing with the weight of Harry's thick, new hair. It was a strange sensation, now, touching something of Judas Cliffdale's that he kept recognizing as something of Harry's. But, the brown locks were soft, and thick, and incredibly shiny. His eyes stayed lowered down, past Harry's eyes and down into his own hands, "A little," he quietly answered. "I don't think freckles on palms are that common."

Harry took the answer with a light smile, before he re-closed his eyes, "I liked that no one knew about it."

Draco's eyes slowly rose from his hands, which Harry's hair was spilled on. He had seen Harry's eyes close, but he hadn't wanted to find Harry's eyes when his own were open. It would have been awkward and strange. Draco did feel an awe and envy that Harry was so open and understanding, and so... genuinely, well, cool, about whatever it was that Draco felt for him. He wasn't in love with Harry, but he was attracted to him. Yet, here he was, inches from Harry's face, with his own, stroking locks of Harry's hair with his fingers. He didn't want to make it awkward, and staring into Harry's eyes from a couple of inches away would have made it awkward, no matter what the situation. And, whatever their situation was, Draco was extremely amazed that it hadn't put a huge distance between them, "No one?"

"No one," Harry agreed, barely audible, his lips dry. He was tired from too little sleep.

Draco's eyes were latched and locked onto Harry's mouth. It was warm, he could tell. And, his lips were slightly parted and dry, especially his bottom lip. There were small wrinkles in it, even, but that was the reason that Draco was urged by animalistic instinct to moisten the lip so the dry valleys would disappear. Judas Cliffdale was absolutely beautiful. He was stunning. He had... perfect teeth. He had a perfect mouth, perfect eyes, a perfect nose, and perfect bone-structure. But, Draco was so extremely confused. Though attracted to Judas, physically, he was also attracted to Harry. But, he knew if he kissed Harry, it wouldn't be Harry. It wasn't the same mouth, or those same, incredibly, piercing, sole-searching, darkly mysterious green eyes, or that perfectly shaped nose, or those cheekbones, or the familiar forehead wrinkle—and even those damn glasses!

Draco's eyes sank from Harry's—no, Judas's—mouth, right back down to his eyes, about to respond.

But, Harry's eyes were already open, and he was just watching, curiously. Draco seemed deeply captivated.

Draco flushed, "You're you, and I enjoy you, but... I mean, you're Judas. It confuses me."

Harry frowned, but to Draco it looked like a smile. But, Harry then did smile, because it was funny. Draco did the same, pointedly, looking at Harry's mouth, again. It was very unnerving, yet strangely exciting, to have Draco staring at his mouth with such thought and determination for clarity, especially when Draco was obviously slow to realizing when Harry's eyes were open, which made it even more strange, to be staring at Draco while he stared at some other feature of Judas's faces, unknowingly subject to Harry's own calculations and ponders, "If I ask you a question, and it's one you probably don't want me to ask you, will you pull back and... be all boy-like?" Draco smirked. "We're sharing a moment, aren't we? Just say you won't be shove-off-ish."

Draco rested his palms behind him and rested his weight on them, lounged back a bit, "Go ahead."

Harry had avoided giving off any strange vibes from the moment he had seen Draco that morning. He hadn't wanting things to end before they had begun. Draco had been a great confidant to him, already. Harry knew that most of his loyalties in the past meant nothing in the long-run. None of those loyalties and friends had ever been the same kind of friend or comrade that Draco was. He respected Draco. He liked throwing witty banter at Draco. He liked being shoved in frustration, and he liked being sexually demeaned by Draco. He liked joking around the way he and Draco joked around. He liked the way they talked to each other. He liked that they didn't have to pretend to be anyone who they weren't, "Are you attracted to Judas Cliffdale?"

Draco grinned, a little embarrassed. He shrugged, "Sure, I've already admitted that."

"No, I have a point with where this is going."

Draco figured. He tilted his head, bravely finding the dark eyes that had been trying to catch his, "Okay."

Excellent, thought Harry, "The feelings you have—these Potter feelings, do they stem from who he was, before? Or, is it something, now, because he's gone, and I'm here to replace him?" In other words, had Draco been attracted to who he was, before, physically? Or, was it because he was in Judas Cliffdale's body? Had these feelings existed before the start of their very adventure, only days before? These were things that needed to be discussed, because Harry wanted, and needed, to know. He didn't like driving himself nuts with questions he knew he couldn't answer. And, he was waiting, his eyes having left Draco's. But, he looked back after the silence.

Draco's eyes gave him a light jab, as if to thank him for the eye-contact, "Don't be stupid, Potter."

Harry sighed, though not at all annoyed. He was frustrated, "You need to stop calling me that."

Draco smiled, gently, not forcing the genuine kindness he felt, "My attraction to you has absolutely nothing to do with the way Judas Cliffdale looks," he admitted, confidently, as if it were nothing. He didn't want to make it a mushy moment. Harry had asked him a question, so Draco was going to answer. He had been avoiding Harry for days because of what he had told him. He had been so upset with himself the following morning. He refused to ever drink, again, under the supervision of friends who didn't know when to stop, which made him figure that stopping was no fun, like it was no fun for them. But, because he had been avoiding Harry, he had also been dreading acknowledging, and had been horrified at the idea of discussing, what he had shared the few nights before.

Harry watched Draco, intently, his eyes squinted into half-moons, "Really?"

Draco tore his eyes away, "I liked you as you—your looks and your... whatever you are, now. A soul."

"A soul, I guess."

Draco's eyes slipped back his, and he started to chuckle. It crackled, deeply, "You were gorgeous, though. You were unique looking. Dark, brooding, and you face glowed when you laughed—like some fucking fairy-light."

Harry lifted his arms into the air. He flexed his wrists and then his hands. His palms, then, rested on either side of Draco's face and they molded against the warm, flawless skin. No one had ever called him gorgeous, before. He couldn't lie, either. It was oddly satisfying. But, he couldn't think about it, because there was no point. He couldn't be who he used to be, anymore, and rehashing the things he was going to miss was just going to bring him down even further than he already had sunken.

But, he felt like touching Draco. His fingertips were itching for Draco's skin, for his face, for his cheekbones, and his nose, his mouth, and his eyes. He wanted to touch every inch of such a face—because, up close, it was nearly godly. It was exquisite and radiant. He had kind eyes, kind eyes Harry had never noticed. They were warm and stunning, and when Draco laughed, twinkles seemed to whiten both of his eyes. And, Harry Potter was craving the attention and affection, and the very existence, of Draco Malfoy's smug, smirking, quick existence—because, he was none of those things, solely, anymore. He was more than just a face of an enemy twenty feet away. He was the face two inches away, and the only face in the world that Harry imagined he could ever feel as comfortable, and proud of, staring into, boy to boy, man to man, enemy to enemy, friend to friend, and ally to ally.

Harry was a bit in love with Draco's entire existence, now. There would never be a greater relationship than the one he had with Draco Malfoy, because there would never be another Draco Malfoy. There would never be someone, to Harry, who was so like him, yet so different. They were so similar, but so different. They wanted what the other had, in some ways, and hated what the other had in other ways. It had been that way from the beginning, but only at that moment was he mature enough to give the credit where the credit was rightfully due.

Harry arched his back a bit more, for better access, and pulled Draco's face toward his.

Draco didn't panic. Though, he did feel completely limp, and his heart did thud, quite a bit, at the sudden tension.

Harry lightly pressed a small peck against the tip of Draco's nose, his thumb-tip brushing over the corner of Draco's mouth.

Draco blinked, noting his numbly hopeful mouth.

Harry could only find the strength within himself to give a nervous laugh, "I like you, Malfoy. You make me glad I have no friends." He put a small bit of space between their faces, still holding Draco's warm skin between his hands, as if Draco's face were a treasure. He carefully began to let go, but then stopped. Draco was just staring at him, with a gigantic smirk, and he was beginning to shake his head. Harry had been BRAVE, here. What he had just done could have ended up as a huge disaster! His fingertips stroked over the side of Draco's nose. He was being tender, and sweet, and completely innocent. But, he knew it wasn't innocent, so he began to smile, too, knowingly ashamed of Draco's reaction. "What!"

"You are the biggest tease. I swear to God, Potter," Draco laughed. "I should take advantage of this."

"Please don't, Malfoy," Harry lightly quipped, with an evil smile. "Want to play chess?"

Draco smiled, just staring at Harry's closed eyes, completely dumbfounded. Wow, "You're too tired. If you're going to play me in chess, you have to be completely awake. I like my opponents on their toes."

Harry smiled, and his hands finally fell from Draco's face. He pulled his head up, and then his body.

Draco pushed himself up on his hands and knees, because Harry had returned back to laying on the couch, like a normal person, rather than hanging over the side, upside down. Truth be told, Draco didn't know how Harry had gone so long hanging upside down without feeling sick or, well, dying. Just the thought of so much blood rushing to his head made Draco feel dizzy and lightheaded. But, he was up and walking around the couches within a few seconds. He plopped down in the one opposite of Harry, and he pulled his socked-feet up. He wrapped his arms around his chest, and looked down at the bulk of his arms, contemplative, "D'you want to come tonight?"

Harry 's fingers combed back through his hair, sleepily, and he glanced at Draco, "I can't. I have plans."

Draco looked back at him, squinting, "Oh, right. You never said where you were going."

"My viewing is tonight."

Draco felt gutted. Oh, shit. He scoured the back of his head with his left hand, feeling like a radical arse. How had the date skipped his mind? It was because he knew Harry was technically not dead, so the idea of Harry's funeral hadn't been phasing him as much as it might have. If Harry had been, indeed, dead, or if he had never told Draco that he was Harry, in the first place, Draco would have been thinking about the funeral non-stop, and he knew it. He felt insensitive, now, and like a huge failure at life. He grimaced, hard, not being able to help it. He saw that Harry was looking at him with a wry smile. Draco frowned at him, pointedly, "I... I didn't... I did forget, but—"

"Don't," Harry interrupted him, with a strange laugh, before he looked up at the ceiling. "Don't, it's okay."

"No, it's not okay," Draco insisted, loudly. Harry frowned at him, hard. Draco returned it. "We're going."

"I'm going," Harry quietly agreed. He wasn't looking forward to the night. "But, if you don't want to—"

"Don't be dense, Cliffdale. The love of my love-hate relationship has died. I must bid him farewell."

Harry snorted with laughter and folded his arm over his face, his cheeks and jaw hurting from laughing.

Harry's laughter eventually faded, as did conversation. Harry ended up dozing off.

Draco watched him for a few minutes before he tossed a blanket over him and decided to let him sleep for awhile, there, laying on the couch, not having intended on taking a nap. It was for the best. Harry was going to be witnessing his own funeral. He was going to see himself in a coffin. He was going to see all of the people he loved heartbroken and despaired. He was going to see a lot of things he wasn't going to be happy about, and maybe even a few people he wouldn't be happy to see. But, Draco was going to be with him, even if he silently followed Harry around and said nothing at all. He wasn't going to let Harry be alone, unless he requested it, on such a night. Yes, oh what a night it was going to be.

At nine o'clock that evening, Draco led the way, slowly, down a small, dark, rock-imbedded road. He was holding an envelope in his right hand. Inside of the envelope was a card expressing his sorrows to Dumbledore and the Weasleys. He hadn't wanted to show up empty-handed. He came to a stop, at last, adding to the long line of dark-hooded wizards standing outside of an old church. The line wrapped around the building, it seemed, and it was hardly single-file. Groups of people were silently standing together, the line about five people wide in most places. It was the line to pay last respects to Harry Potter, a line that had been even more crowded since early that morning, according to the reports he and Harry had listened to.

Harry stepped out from behind Draco, a good three or four feet between them. They hadn't said a word to each other since they had apparated into a woody clearing about half a mile back. The last time anything had been said was when Draco told him to remember that he wasn't really dead, and it was only his body he was going to be seeing. Harry hadn't responded, mostly because he hadn't wanted to get into any sort of philosophical conversation before his own funeral. Those kind of conversations were EXACTLY what he needed to avoid. He was too emotionally perplexed and distraught to go on and deal with anything that could continue to depress him. It would have been dangerous.

"Draco? Draco!"

Harry's eyes fell from the sky, heavily, but when he saw who the person was, they rolled back up, distractedly. As Draco was pummeled into a hug from one of his society friends, Harry turned away, completely, turning his back to the street. He faced a small cemetery, where it was easy to see that the gravestones were old and being chipped away by weathering and erosion. And, staring, there, at the cemetery land, with all of those strange structures of limestone propped up in memorial of each one of the persons buried beneath them, it hit him. He was... dead. Was he going to be buried? Truly buried? But... was it not possible to ever be back in that body, again? He was going to have to stare down at himself and say goodbye in front of a huge audience, with people behind him waiting to view his recognizable face and body? How long would he have? Four, five seconds? Ten, if he were so lucky?

Wanting to be as far away from the masses as he could be, Harry looked over his shoulder to see if he was being watched. He wasn't. He walked toward the waist-high, black iron fence and placed his hands on two of the supporting rails. He pushed his weight up, with his arms, replaced one of his hands with his right foot, got a steady balance, and then pulled the other leg up. He hopped over the fence, his eyes set on one gravestone in particular. It was the brightest one, and the only one that had flowers on it, as if that person were still being remembered, even though the stone was extremely old.

A few seconds later, Harry stood at the foot of this grave, and he sunk down onto his knees. His hands landed down, and he leaned over, his hands and palms heavily resting on the damp ground. Here he was, wearing a nice pair of black trousers, and a black button-up shirt, and he was kneeling on wet dirt. But, that didn't matter. He leaned down, with his face, to examine the ground. He never pressed his face down, but he did take in a deep breath. His fingers clutched around naturally flowing, uncut wisps of green grass, and he pulled just hard enough to create the tension of a line. But, he never pulled the grass out.

Harry stared directly down at the dirty spaces between the blades of grass, and he felt ill. That was it. That was what life was. When he died, when his body was done with and ready to move on, there was nothing left. No brilliance. No memories. There were no heroes and no memories, and certainly no legends. There was only a coffin buried six feet down in the earth, and in that coffin the flesh of a person, a being, whose time was done. And, that was where he was going to be when he died. He was going to be there, laying six feet under the ground, with no soul, and no sight, and knowing that there was not a point in life. Live. Die. Be a soul. Die with that soul. Live, die? Where was he going to go? Where was he going to go?

Where were any of them going to go?

Harry was hopeless. The world felt pointless, and he had to say goodbye to himself to realize it. But, he also didn't want anyone being suspicious of him. Very heavily, he pushed himself up, weak to do so. He was miserable. He felt like crying. He just couldn't, not yet. He wasn't sure when he would be able to. He did know, however, that when he was falling asleep that night, he would bury himself in his covers, where no one could hear his despaired cries and curses and fears. He was the safest and truest to himself that he could ever be when he was falling asleep. No one could hurt him when he was crying. He felt invincible when he cried. He figured that the world would have to be conceited to bother him when he was down.

"What are you doing?"

Harry turned around. Draco was standing behind the fence. His friend had been the one who had spoken.

Harry walked back toward the fence, pocketing a wisp of grass into his trouser pocket. He didn't answer Draco's friend, mostly because she was wearing bright pink socks—another damn fashion statement! And, really, at his funeral? Did these people have no sense of... of... of... RESPECT? Stupid bright pink socks! It was like a damn slap in the face! Because he didn't answer her, she turned away and went on about talking with one of Draco's other friends, who had, apparently, joined them. But, Draco was still standing against the fence, his face flushed over with dark shadows.

Harry looked him straight in the eyes, silently asking him what he wanted.

Draco gave a small, upward nod of his head, as if to say hi, and that was all.

Harry placed his hands on the fence, again, and started to push himself up, but Draco started to laugh.

When Harry looked at him, with wounded, vulnerable eyes, Draco pointed toward his right and Harry's left. About ten feet down the line of the fence, there was a small gate. But, Harry wasn't phased by it. He popped himself right back up over the fence, and then plopped, heavily and miserably, right back down next to Draco, slightly bumping into him as he came off of jumping the three or four feet. Draco's hand reached out to sturdy him, and it clutched right around Harry's bony wrist. But, the touch wasn't foreign or awkward, so it lingered. Harry appreciated the support—in both senses of the word and the actual reason they were standing there.

Draco would never have had the nerve to show up to Harry's viewing if the situation would have been the least bit different. Not that anyone knew it, but he had Harry right beside him. That was confidence, enough, to go to the viewing, no matter what anyone said to him or how they looked at him when he walked by. He was on edge, however, and nervous. He was dreading seeing Harry's body. He lightly snapped, "Could you have possibly stayed out of the dirt?"

Harry looked down at his knees, where Draco's eyes had fallen. Really, his pants looked horrid. He grimaced and leaned over, brushing his knees with his hands. He brushed them until all of the excess dirt was gone. When he stood back up, Draco was about fifteen feet ahead of him. Harry had stayed behind, by himself. He walked over and stood beside Draco, again.

The closer the line took them toward the door, the more awkward and shaky Harry became.

When they were in the church, at last, a good hour later, Draco turned to Harry. They hadn't spoken much, mostly because Draco had no idea what he could have possibly said to Harry, or what would be appropriate to say to Harry in the current situation, and Harry said nothing, because, well, he was in a fog. Dealing with death was hard enough. It was a numb-comfort. But, dealing with his own death? It wasn't even possible to describe! He felt physically ill. A huge knot had grown in his throat. His lean body felt starved thin, so thin that he had to tightly clutch his arms over his chest to keep from feeling like he was about to fall over. He was choked up and feeling extreme emotion.

"Malfoy."

Draco turned away from Harry, slowly, to see none other than Ron Weasley, standing there, pale-faced, in a black suit. Guilt hit Draco like a ton of bricks falling from the sky. It was so powerful that, for a split second, he wondered if he had been gutted and left to die. The severity quickly passed, but he was still left feeling drained by even just looking at Weasley's face. He didn't look like the same person—something which was all too familiar when it came to anything to do with Harry Potter, who was now behind him with a different face. Instead of saying anything to Ron, speechless, he held out his envelope, weakly.

Ron looked down at it, and then back to Draco, "Think this is funny, do you? A last chance to come and—"

Draco took a step backward, awkwardly, "No," he murmured and looked away. "No, not funny."

Harry refused to look at Ron after a brief lock of eyes.

"Dumbledore says Harry has left everything... to you."

Draco, perplexed, too, and frowning because he didn't know what to say, shifted, "Yeah, he did."

Ron's upper lip curled, and he began to turn red, and very quickly at that, "I don't understand, Malfoy."

"I don't, either," Draco immediately returned. "I had the same reaction."

"That still doesn't answer why in the hell Harry left his possessions to you! You were his bloody enemy!"

Draco had different options of what he could next do. He had different explanations. He could take a very passive route and just shrug or say something light. Or, he could be honest. Well, as honest as he could be without making Ron suspicious. He twisted with his body, again, and moved along with the line. As he moved, Ron moved, and the line behind him moved, including Harry. Remembering Harry, he quickly turned around, as he came to another stop with the line. He was on the verge of feeling sick by the lie that he was having to play along with, especially with the amount of pain it was causing Harry, whose expression was fifty times worse than Ron's had been, and fifty times more powerful. His eyes shot back to Ron, "Harry, uh... we dueled, you know. We dueled a lot. We fought a lot. Imagine a hypothetical fight with someone you hardly know. A-and... when you fight with this person, aren't you bound to shout things out, and reveal things, about your own life, and vice versa of him to you?"

Ron didn't answer, just turned around and walked off, disappearing into the grand service room.

Draco noticed that a lot of attention was being directed toward he and Harry. They were who they were. He wished he could have disguised them both, just so no one would bother them. He looked at Harry, again, his chin tilted down. Harry had his arms wrapped over his chest, and he was staring up at the ceiling, his jaw tight and very chiseled. Draco looked up, too, to figure out what it was that Harry was examining, "I see nothing."

Harry closed his eyes, "You don't see the ceiling?"

Draco looked back up, "I see the ceiling. I just don't see what's so fascinating about the ceiling."

"You can see it, though, right?" Harry asked, his voice low and strikingly dark.

Draco looked from the ceiling to Harry, and then back to the ceiling, squinting, "Yes, what's your point?"

"The point?" Harry asked, his attention, at last, giving an appropriate downfall to Draco and the rest of the earthly world he had been tuning out, not purposefully. Numb, though he was, Harry still felt enormously alive in spirit, as that was all he was—at least that he knew of. What he knew of, also, was not much at all. He turned to Draco, completely. Their bodies were close, and they were quietly sharing this conversation. "The point is that we go through life screening things we don't care to look at. We walk into rooms without noticing anything. We look up and see the ceiling, and ask each other what's there, on the ceiling, as if the ceiling, itself, is not something to observe."

Draco knew Harry's mental attendance was altered, but he followed the train of thought, "I know."

"Don't you? Is the ceiling not enough for you to observe, with your eyes?"

Draco turned away from Harry, completely, not at all surprised, "This is very awkward."

"Awkward for you? Sorry. If it helps you any, I'd rather die than be here."

Draco turned back around to Harry, who was standing there, still, his face white and his cheekbones extremely indented against his incredible structure. Personally, Draco didn't understand why Dumbledore had not, yet, arranged for Harry to see his body, to have time alone with himself. He had been looking around for Dumbledore to ask him just that. But, he knew Dumbledore, as well as most everyone else Harry was close to, was in the actual church-service room, the room that Ron had disappeared into, blankly, after Draco had answered him. But, Draco's only concern, now, was Harry. Yes, Harry Potter was beside him, and that was all that counted. He reached his hand back, placed it on Harry's upper back, and nudged him up a foot or so until they were standing side by side, "I hate to tell you this, but you already are dead."

Harry glared at him, hard, angry at the words, "No, fuck. I meant my soul."

Draco looked away, "Oh. Well, in that case, suck it up. You are still alive."

"You're lucky I'm not in a violent mood."

Draco glanced back at him. His left eyebrow hooked up, skeptically, "You're lucky I'm even here with you."

Harry turned away from Draco, annoyingly taking Draco's pointed tone to heart. Draco didn't have to agree to attend the viewing. If he hadn't, it would have been awkward. If Harry had shown up by himself, as Judas Cliffdale, alone, well... it would have been a very lonely and scary time. Judas never knew Harry. Harry had never known Judas, either. Then, again, Harry was sure that many of the people who were there had never met him at all. And, there were, indeed, many people there. It was overwhelming. He didn't know what to do with himself. The massive amount of guilt he felt was choking him, and his body was slowly reacting. He wasn't sure if the final outcome would be worth any of the heartbreak and devastation he was putting others through.

"I've been thinking about this."

Draco turned to his right, confused, "Thinking about what?"

"I don't like your attitude, Malfoy," Harry spoke in a monotone. "I'm going to head back."

Wait, what? Draco reached out and tugged at the material of Harry's elbow. Harry had been freaking out, and Draco hadn't noticed it. Sure, Harry had been fidgeting. And, sure, every couple of minutes, he would start blundering some viciously quick words to himself that Draco hadn't been able to make out. But, for some reason, standing in the church, Draco had been caught up in his own thoughts and anxieties about walking by and viewing Harry's body. While doing this, he hadn't realized why he was mainly there in the first place—to keep Harry sane, "What are you—hi, could you save my spot for me? Thanks" Draco praised the two women standing behind him once they nodded.

By the time Draco spotted Harry, they were well out of the church and away from the line, which was still wrapped around the building, filled with spectators and supporters of Harry Potter and his life. Across the small road from the church was Harry. He was standing under a tree, and the tree was planted beside a tall light-post. Harry's body language was all wrong, but Draco kept walking toward him, with his head down, until he stepped up onto the curb of the sidewalk.

Harry itched his shoulder, "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to overanalyze it. I just want to leave."

Draco shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets, his shoulders tensing as he did so, "If that's what you want, fine."

With the issue settled, and Harry's mind made up, he turned around and began walking down the street.

Draco followed behind him, by about three feet, until they reached the spot they had apparated to, earlier.

Harry turned around to him, "What good would saying goodbye do, anyway?"

Draco stared at him, "No good."

"Exactly," Harry answered, playing right into Draco's hands. "It's no good, no good at all. I'd be miserable."

"Right, you'd be absolutely miserable."

Harry suspiciously looked Draco over, "Say what you want to say, I know you're holding back."

"Look, as we've both noted, previous to this very moment, you seem to know what is best for you. You know what works for you," Draco gave in, supportively. If Harry didn't want to be a part of his funeral, so be it. There was absolutely nothing he could say, and nothing he could even imagine feeling, that would be justified enough to think it wouldn't be appropriate for Harry not to attend his funeral. Draco had no idea what it was like in Harry's—er, Judas's—mind, now. He just didn't know, and he wasn't going to be thick enough to guess and act like he could even, remotely, relate to what Harry was going through. "If you think this will be bad for you, don't do it."

Harry frowned, pacing back and forth in front of Draco, "I should go. I know I should go—out of respect for myself. Doesn't that make sense?" He asked, turning away and facing a tree. He reached out and lightly brushed his fingertips over the loose, chipped bark. The bark fell down the tree, and Harry withdrew his fingertips. "There's just this nagging inside. I know if I don't go, I'll regret it. Even if I don't go back, now, I still have the option of going to the actual funeral, tomorrow. But, if I do go, I know that something... no—everything—I know that everything is going to be very different, even more-so than it is, already. I don't know what it'll do to me, Malfoy, and there's a part of me that's screaming out DON'T GO. And, I usually don't ignore that voice. When I do, I usually regret not listening."

"Whatever the case, it's best not to talk about it, here."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, under his breath, as he pivoted back toward Draco. "Yeah, you're right."

Draco watched him, "We need to find somewhere truly safe." To talk. Harry knew what he meant.

Harry just barely nodded, very much agreeing with this statement, "We really do."

Draco wrapped his arms over his chest, looking around in the dark, "But, is there any place safe enough?"

And, it hit Harry, "Where is the last place Voldemort would dare step—the last place any dark wizard would knowingly step?"

"Uh, the Frilly-Secrets lingerie section of Madam Malkin's?"

Harry choked a laugh, shaking his head, "Er, no, not exactly." He paused. "Think about it, where is wizardry shunned? Forbidden? Frowned-upon—damned?"

Draco followed Harry until he stood beside him, looking out over a small hill they were standing upon. The hill was mostly covered in pine-trees, but a very small clearing made it possible for them to look out over the small wizard city before them. He didn't even know what the city was called. All he knew was that it was a town Harry hadn't said anything about. It seemed to have no meaning to him, which was a bit strange because, well, he was Harry Potter. If anything, wouldn't Harry's funeral have been a big shebang somewhere beautiful? Somewhere like Hogwarts, a place he loved, a place as majestic and monumental as Harry's short, overly-matured life had been?

In front of them, in the distance, was the very tiny church they had been in, only minutes before.

Draco's eyes shifted back to Harry, very slowly, only half-opened and hesitant.

They didn't speak, aloud, about the church. But, they did look at each other with the same expression.

It was settled, at least temporarily.

Draco tugged at the back of Harry's shirt, "You still up for that game of chess?"

Harry turned around and hurried down the small slope of the hill, following behind Draco, "Yeah."

"Excellent," Draco enthused, as he turned around to Harry and offered his hand. "My treat."

Harry's eyebrows rose, as he examined Draco's outstretched, elegant hand, "I can apparate, myself."

Draco shrugged, dropping his hand, "Oh, forgive me. I must have forgotten that you do everything yourself."

Harry tilted his head, feeling strangely enthralled, "Yeah, and what, pray-tell, dear Draco, do you mean?"

"S'cuse me, dear Cliffdale, but I dare not tell you. I'm sure you can figure it out on your own, can you not?"

Harry rolled his eyes and snatched up Draco's hand with both of his, annoyed with the conversation. He was annoyed with it, but he was enjoying it. When Draco became a smart-aleck and threw Harry's flaws back in his face, flaws that Draco so easily called him out on, it made Harry laugh and feel amused. Not only did Draco feel comfortable enough to offer out his hand to begin with, but he also was comfortable enough to share his obvious skepticism about Harry to Harry. This skepticism was often skepticism most people looked past, "God, if it means that much to you, I'll hold your damn hand."

Draco smirked at him, very pointedly, "Don't flatter yourself."

"Never. Oh—oh, right, right, what was that you told me the other day? You're... what was it, Draco?"

Finally, Harry had brought it up. And, what strange timing.

Draco continued to smirk, not faltering, "I told you I was Harry Potter-gay, not Judas Cliffdale gay."

"Oh, my mistake," Harry chimed, under his breath, grinning face-to-face with Draco. "Tease."

"Says you," Draco returned, very weakly, in defense. Immediately, at the sound of the weak insult, Draco settled and flushed. "Shut up."

And, with that, Draco disapparated, leaving Harry alone and laughing—something he hadn't deemed possible for that night. He, too, apparated away. And, when he arrived back at the Malfoy estate, he landed right on his bed, on his back. He stayed laying back, and he wrapped his arms around his chest. His room was bright. All of the candles were lit and glowing off of the walls. He smiled, to himself, and looked over at the closed windows, and then to a new object that had not been in the room, before. It was a bookshelf, filled with colorful, new books. He pushed himself up, examining the bookshelf with wary eyes.

He climbed off of the bed and walked toward the shelf. A piece of parchment was attached to the side.

Harry lifted the note from the side of the bright, shining, polished wood, and let his eyes adjust.

Judas, thought you might like some books to read while you're away. With love, your father.

Harry folded the note and sat down on the end of his bed, staring at the bookshelf with eager eyes.

Indeed, maybe he was finally about to find the answers he had been waiting for.