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

11. Empty Threats

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: Sorry about the wait on this chapter! It has been a little over a month since chapter ten, but I hope eleven makes it up to you guys! I hope you get some answers you might have been looking for, too! I took my time writing this chapter, and I did have a couple of times I had to write through a block, so... well, anyway, enjoy it! It's also a bit longer than the other chapters, about 40 pages. But, thank-you guys so much for the reviews! They REALLY helped me, and I really enjoyed them! Thanks, and I'm glad you guys let me know that you're reading. I appreciated it a lot! I figured I should get this out as soon as possible, so I might re-update later with thanks to you guys! Anyway, what the hell...

Somewhere Only We Know

Chapter Eleven
Empty Threats

A very uneventful two weeks passed by the time that the death of Harry Potter had actually settled in the minds of the adults and older children of families waging a war of which Harry Potter had not been able to conquer. His funeral had since gone down in the history books, and it seemed like, to everyone, Harry Potter would be just that—History. But, little did they know that the effect of Harry Potter's death was torturing one person, in the world, more than any other person, and rightfully so.

Moping about hadn't done it, for Harry. He hadn't slouched his shoulders as he trooped around Malfoy manor. He hadn't complained. He hadn't found someone to take anger out on. In fact, Harry didn't troop around Malfoy manor much at all, except on an occasional trip to the kitchens for a snack. He had also hardly spoken, even to himself, so complaining was out of the question. He hadn't wanted to complain. And, his anger was constantly bordering a thin line between madness and reality. It kept putting him in awkward states of mind, which was mostly why he kept to himself. He had been a very strained, emotional wrecking ball—a wrecking ball that no one should have had to been destroyed by.

It was a Monday morning, and that was all that Harry cared to know, and he only cared because it meant three more weeks until his birthday, but every time he got excited about the idea of his birthday, as he always did in July, the horrid memory of not being him slapped him whole with realization. It was impossible for him to think straight, so he resorted to trying to sleep as much as possible, and given the state of his past few years, the sleep was somehow welcomed. His body hadn't gotten tired of laying around and doing nothing, at least not yet.

What he knew of his body, he was still learning—and, perhaps he was learning too much, indeed.

Draco, on the other hand, spent his two weeks sitting in his library versus his bedroom. He hadn't done much, because things had been changing to such an extreme extent. The organization had closed down, because it was no longer safe to operate in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. Going to those places, in the last three weeks, had become of utmost, serious, very real risk. He didn't want to make such risks, because he wasn't an idiot. He had, instead, taken to reading books that he owned but had never laid a hand on, or playing piano, or playing with Dickie, though it was always inside because Dickie wasn't allowed to be seen outside of the manor, or anywhere, at all, with Draco.

Above all other frustrations that Draco had, stood Harry at a staggering height that he never actually was. He and Harry hadn't spoke much, but not because either was harboring bad or negative feelings toward each other. After Harry's funeral, the days had just passed between them. It was almost as if Harry's funeral had been the final cherry placed onto the sundae of depression that had cast itself over the world of magic. Misery had seeped into Draco Malfoy's veins, and the only way he was ever going to get it out was... to...

Draco slammed his book down, on his desk, groaning. He had his left foot pulled up onto his desk chair, and he had been flipping through the pages of said book for the last five minutes. But, everything he read seemed to go straight in through his eyes and went straight into nothingness. His brain didn't want to read, anymore. He didn't want to read about anything! He couldn't absorb any information. He was read-out and driving himself crazy with trying to get his mind off of the helplessness of feeling depressed, defeated and beaten.

With his study's record player playing an enchanting piece of classical music, across the room, the room came across as peaceful. It was a relaxed atmosphere in a relaxed setting. His study was very simple. It was made up of dark woods, greens and browns, and an occasional gold throw pillow was placed here and there. The walls were lined with books. His desk was shining and clutter-free, and the floors were waxed and spotless. But, even in the serenity and calm of the room, he was feeling anxious and agitated. He needed to get out of the manor, but it was dangerous to do so.

A knock came on the door, rapping very softly, almost timidly, "Draco?"

Draco looked over in the direction of the door, surprised. He had just been about to get up from his seat, but he thought better of this and rested back, again. It was Harry. Harry never came to his study. Hell, they had hardly shared a word, much less the same location in the manor. They had seen each other, once in awhile, and had shared a very silent coffee break, that morning, in the kitchens, staring out the kitchen windows while the rain poured down outside. Delighted and pleased. And, curious, too, Draco tried to perk up, "Yeah, come in."

Harry turned the doorknob, slowly. He had given up on staying in bed after he had braved the early morning and met Draco in the kitchen for coffee. There was only so much that he could have philosophized over, while staring at the ceiling above his bed, before he realized just how frightening he was becoming. He carefully peeked his eyes around the door. He had heard the music traveling down several hallways and corridors and had been drawn right to it. It was a classical piano song, and the different tempos were so harmonic.

Harry's eyes locked onto Draco, and he felt a small wash of surprise take him over. He opened the door, a few more inches, and walked in, still looking at Draco with a slight smile. The only morning that Harry had seen Draco in pajamas had been that morning. Of course, Draco hadn't meant him to. They hadn't actually decided to meet in the kitchen for coffee. It had just happened that way. But, Draco was still in a pair of dark gray pajama pants. They appeared to be flannel and quite comfortable, and his sweatshirt seemed to be as equally just. He was lounging on his desk chair, with his one knee pulled up and his arm wrapped around it. He looked comfortable, much more comfortable than Harry had ever imagined him to be, especially in flannel.

But, it wasn't Draco demeanor or clothing that surprised Harry. It was the apparatus on his face. As he closed the door behind him aching body, Harry couldn't help but letting his small smile turn into an obvious one. It was harmless and innocent, but he was certainly curious. He didn't question Malfoy on his glasses, just turned his attention, instead, to the record player in the corner of the room, "Do you mind if I...?"

Draco tilted his head, "I wouldn't have invited you in if I minded, would I have?"

Harry didn't respond to him, just stepped away from the door and looked around. The only time he had been in Malfoy's study, or even seen it, was the night he had caught Draco, rather unfortunately, kissing one of his friends—whom, Harry had noticed, was extremely absent from Draco's life. And, not that Harry could have had any idea of what Draco had been doing during the day, but he hadn't had any run-ins with any of Draco's friends. But, then, again, how could he have? He had barely left his room. He was doing some wishful thinking—no, no, er... damnit!

Harry grimaced and decided to not listen to his inner self speak, anymore, that morning. It was being far too honest.

The study was magnificent. It was beautiful, classic, and seemed, somehow, to suit Malfoy's personality.

Draco watched Harry, intently, from behind white, horn-rimmed glasses.

Harry began to pivot, in a circle, his eyes traveling up and down the rather-circular room, in awe. The ceilings were very high, and the wood above was very shiny and dark. There was something marvelous that captured Harry about Draco's personal study. It was the place where Draco spent most of his time, there at the Malfoy manor. It was where years of Draco Malfoy had passed. It was where all of Draco's passions and hobbies were his own to explore. It was a private room, and Narcissa Malfoy had told him so the week earlier, in passing. He had asked where Draco was, and she had told him that Draco spent most of his time in his study.

When Harry finished his circle of intrigue, though hardly satisfied with just his vision of the room, not having been able to explore it, yet, he wound up facing Draco.

Draco hugged both of his arms around his left knee, and he rested his chin down on it while Harry walked toward the closest couch that faced his desk. When Harry was sitting down, nothing changed in their conversation. In other words, it stayed silent. But, it wasn't an awkward silence. It was somewhat bearable, really, but Draco's eyes did continue to follow Harry's every move, searching for the tiniest of reasons to have his inner worry be confirmed. But, he didn't need to force himself to be worried about Harry, anymore. Not that he had ever had to FORCE himself to worry about Harry. But, now Harry knew that Draco's worry was there, and it wasn't of sarcastic rhetoric for them to share. He turned his face in the completely opposite direction and looked out the windows to the right of his desk, "Another miserable day."

Harry's eyes had followed Draco's to the window, by default, "A miserable week to look forward to, as well, says the weather channel on The Network."

Draco pulled his eyes away from the window, and they landed back on Harry. His chin was sitting in his palms. He was leaned over his knees. He looked very tired, very pale, and very drained, which Draco began to wonder about, because he had said he spent most of his last weeks sleeping and resting. Yet, still, he appeared weak and dominated by outside forces, "It's about time for lunch. Are you hungry?"

Harry glanced at him, "Possibly—but, would you mind explaining those, first? I'm interested."

Draco was confused, but then Harry pointed toward his face, his eyes fixated on his own eyes, but in a more distant way than usual. And, it was then that Draco remembered his glasses. He quickly clutched his left hand over his face, groaning. Oh, damnit. He pulled the glasses right off, and then rubbed his eyes with his palms, "They help me read better. You know, magnification?" He asked, as he folded the glasses down and placed them on the desk. He glanced back at Harry's glasses-less face, as the other boy stood up from the couch and walked toward the desk, toward him, with a very innocent intention. "Lunch?"

Harry leaned down over Draco's desk and lightly picked up the glasses to examine them. He had never pictured Draco Malfoy to wear glasses, much less glasses that looked like they had come out of the Americana 50s. They were nice, shiny and cool. He unfolded them and turned them around. He slipped them on, hesitantly, as he spotted a mirror behind Draco's chair. His hand glided over the back of the elegant chair, as he passed behind Draco and found the mirror.

Draco turned around in his seat, curious. It became uncomfortable, so he pushed himself up with the most effort he could fathom. He walked up beside and behind Harry, as Harry began to examine himself in the white glasses. At the imagery, Draco couldn't help but laugh. Judas Cliffdale's face wasn't meant for glasses. His cheekbones were too extravagant for the glasses to look right, or even sit right, "I never thought I'd say this to you, but glasses definitely don't suit your face."

Harry was sharing the same sentiments, mentally, and it was frustrating him. He tried to make them look more fitting. He stopped fooling with them and dropped his fingertips from his ears. Instead, he concentrated on Draco, in the mirror. Draco, standing behind him, was a flawless specimen. Even in the mirror, his features were so symmetrical and exquisite, and Harry couldn't find a flaw on his sharply beautiful face. It was almost harmful how Malfoy could look so good. It was almost, too, a wonderment that someone could be born with such prettiness. He smiled to himself and stared right into Draco's laughing, twinkling eyes, "They look funny and awkward on me. By themselves, they are horrid, and..."

Draco grinned, staring at Harry, right back, in the mirror, "And, on me?"

Harry just smiled at him and looked away, pointedly, "They're very you, Malfoy."

Draco laughed, quietly, genuinely, watching Harry take them off, "At least you think so. I've been under the impression that everyone else who has ever seen me in them thinks they're horribly cheesy—especially Lucius. My mother isn't fond of them, either."

"Who cares what everyone else thinks, anyway," Harry responded, glancing back at Draco with a laugh. He distinctly heard Draco mutter something, under his breath, about his mother having no choice when it came to the glasses Draco had wanted to choose. He smiled even more, imagining the day Draco had pointed at the white-rimmed glasses and his mother had tried to deter his decision. It was almost worthy of laughter, but his laughter wasn't easily accessible, anymore. He swallowed down a lump in his throat, struggling with the morning, and pulled his eyes from Draco. "You pull them off."

Draco stayed expressionless as Harry turned back around to him, holding the glasses up beside his face. His brown eyes, though Draco, somehow, still managed to see them as slightly green, though he knew it was only mental, were lacking glisten and luster. They were sad eyes, large and despaired over the topic of glasses. Twitching with acknowledgment, Draco lowered his chin and pried, knowingly, "You miss them."

"I suppose," Harry agreed, as he handed Draco back the glasses. They were close. "I miss everything."

Draco went to say something, but another knock at the door interrupted him. He and Harry both looked over toward the direction. Without having given permission for anyone to enter, the door began to creek open. No one appeared, but in one of the mirrors to the left of where they stood, Draco could see a bright head that was invisible to them from where they stood. It was Dickie, who was shorter than the couch that stood in the way of he and Harry's view of the lower part of the door. He smiled, even more genuinely, and gave Harry a nudge as if to proudly point of the new presence, "Shrimp!"

The door swung wide open, and, at his nickname, Dickie knew he was welcomed. He appeared beside the couch within a matter of a couple of seconds. When he saw Harry, he didn't stop running. He just seemed even more excited. But, he bypassed the chairs, couches, gadgets and gizmos, and went straight for Draco. He only stopped when he had bulleted against Draco's legs and was hugging them so tightly, giggling like a little maniac as Draco bent over him, pretending he was in pain.

Harry shifted his weight onto his right leg, while his left foot began to rub the back of his right. His nose twitched, as he rubbed it with the center of his palm to rid of an itch. He didn't like interrupting Draco and Dickie time. It was almost sacred, and easily so. When Draco was around Dickie, he was so completely different than he ever had been to anyone, at least that Harry had seen. He didn't want to take away any of the time that Draco held so dearly. Besides, he was feeling a strong urge to walk to the kitchen and devour as much food as he possibly could. He cleared his throat, "I'm gonna go find, uh, something to do. I'll see you later."

Draco looked up, from leaning over Dickie, grinning. His smile began to fade, as he watched Harry take route for the door. He quickly pulled himself up, whooshing Dickie, with his hands, toward his desk chair. Dickie had loved sitting in his desk chair, behind the gigantic desk. He would just sit there and stare at everything. He never even struggled and shimmied to get down. He wasn't an impatient child, Draco had discovered, which was a brilliant opposite of how Draco was told he had been when he was a child.

And, when Dickie was sitting on his desk chair, Draco turned around to Harry, "No. Stay for awhile."

Harry turned around, at the door, with a sheepish laugh, "Brotherly bonding, Malfoy. Important time."

Draco almost laughed. Instead, he smirked, hard, "While you've been sulking in your room for the last two weeks, what do you think I've been doing with my time?" When Harry squinted, for the answer, Draco half-turned with his body and motioned his head to a cutely chortling Dickie.

Dickie shrugged at them, knowing he was being talked about. He covered his little eyes with his hands, once Harry started laughing in response to his tiny, innocent, adorable laughter.

And, when the two were laughing, Draco rolled his eyes. He was all-too-used to the automated reaction of Dickie's laughter. No one could resist it. Harry obviously couldn't. He started for Harry, determined. "Precisely my point. I understand his giggling more than I do the English language, right now." He grasped Harry's shoulder, hard, and leaned in, with mock seriousness. "I need some time with my favorite best-enemy, or I'm going to throw myself off of the roof."

Harry's face was hurting, already, as he looked away from Dickie and to Draco. He grasped Draco's shoulder right back. It was warm, "Doesn't sound too bad, Malfoy, to have spent the last two weeks deciphering giggles." And, when Draco stopped, five feet away, with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow, Harry felt oddly like reminiscing about the way they used to be, because something was ringing out, in the room, of familiar, harmless entities.

Draco's reaction was innocent and playful, but it still made Harry happily competitive. He shrugged his shoulders up, starting to laugh as Draco looked away from Dickie, smirking at the small thing as if he were having seriously doting-brother thoughts. It was strangely endearing. But, understanding that Draco was just as much in need of conversation as he was, himself, he obliged to the idea of staying. "If you're really lacking adult conversation..."

Draco dropped his arms, loosely, and gave his hands a clap, appreciative. When his hands were together, he gave a prompt, tiny bow, and then quickly stood straight, "Thank-you, my lord and savior."

Harry moved away from the door, "We should open a thesaurus, reacquaint you with three-syllable words, no?"

"Only after you blow me," Draco bit back, in defense, turning away with a loud, hard snort. "You can be an arse."

"MALFOY!" Harry haggled, half bewildered and half hysterical. And, when Draco turned around, Harry pointed his finger, powerfully, toward Dickie, shaking it in the small being's general area, because Draco didn't seem to see what the point was. Though, when Dickie looked over at his finger, Harry quickly dropped it, as to not make Dickie think he had done anything wrong. He was smirking, hard, as he looked back at Draco, crossing his arms over his chest, expectantly.

Draco walked toward the desk, grinning, "He's not even two, genius. He has no idea what I meant."

Harry followed him, dropping his arms, "Who's talking about him! I'm talking about me! My poor ears!"

"Oh, I see," Draco laughed, as he turned around from one of two chairs in front of the desk that Dickie was currently presiding over, sitting on his knees on the chair and pushing one of Draco's ninety-galleon pens around with carelessness. Once Harry was beside him, staring at him with startlingly light, amused eyes, he jeered. "Blowing isn't your cup of tea, then? I suppose you're the selfish type, anyway. I suppose the hero-complex doesn't stand up in bed. You have to have a flaw, somewhere."

"Oh, here we go," Harry forced a groan, dramatically plopping down on the chair in front of the desk. Draco followed suit, and Harry kept his eyes on the pale-headed boy beside him. He licked against his bottom lip. He saw that Draco caught it, so he turned his eyes away, repressing something that he knew resembled a genuine smile. "For the record, I suggested opening up the thesaurus, because you said you were lacking adult conversation. It wasn't a direct insult, for once."

Draco leaned up over the desk, watching Dickie, "I know. I just wanted an excuse to tell you to blow me."

Harry's left hand snapped over, to his left, and he slapped Draco's arm, "Would you stop it with that!"

Draco laughed, loudly, nursing his arm with his right hand, "God damn! You're a touchy thing, aren't you? Bloody..."

"The language you're going to pass down to him, Malfoy, really," Harry, once more, went to give Draco another playful, gentle slap on the arm. Unfortunately, though Harry had suspected, Draco was prepared, this time. And, when his hand was within three inches of Draco's arm, Draco leapt out of his seat, grabbed his wand off of his desktop and turned around, brilliantly, in his expertly powerful, striking dueling pose. A strong, sharp pressure point was pressed against Harry's throat before he had so much as a blink of an eye.

Harry sheepishly grinned, glancing back to Dickie as Draco's wand rose up his throat until it was under his chin.

Dickie was staring at Draco, his eyes huge.

When Draco had Harry's head tilted back, he couldn't help but smile. He stood over Harry, letting the pressure ease on Harry's throat. He was only playing with Harry, and Harry didn't seem to mind. He rested his head back, fully, against the back of his chair, to look up right into Draco's eyes. Draco leaned down to be closer to Harry's distracting new face. A poke stabbed against his stomach, so he groaned. His eyes shot away from Harry's, and he clutched his left hand over the end of Harry's now-present wand, though it was tightly pressed against his flesh. He dramatically gurgled, from deep within his throat, his eyes flickering back to Harry's, "No, please. Please, don't..."

Harry tried not to laugh, "Tell me why I shouldn't."

"Because," Draco rasped, beginning to sink down, as if he were in massive amounts of pain. "Because."

Harry's left eyebrow lifted, and he grinned, hard, because he couldn't keep it in any longer, "Because?" His voice was high, as he started to laugh. "That's what the brilliant Draco Malfoy has to say so I don't kill him? Because!" He snorted, but when he saw that Draco was still playing his little scene out, glaring at Harry very pointedly, from sharp, glistening gray eyes, Harry cleared his throat and tried to think of a sad play. He made himself stop smiling, forcing a line to form from his lips. "I mean, er, Malfoy, I hope your pain eats away at your soul for the rest of your life, as you burn in the dark tunnels of eternal hell—burn, enemy, burn."

Draco took in a sharp gasp of air and finally collapsed down over Harry, "Forgive me for my love, please! Oh, the pain!"

Harry rolled his eyes, staring down at Draco, who was now sprawled over his lap, on his stomach. All of his weight was resting on Harry, in the large chair, and Harry was extremely amused. He was still managing to repress his laughter. He glanced up at Dickie, whose excessive, sweet, hysterical hiccups of laughter were echoing over the entire room. He knew exactly what was going on, and that Draco was perfectly okay. He sighed, looking down at Draco's now motion-less body. He sniffled, loudly, and covered his nose with the back of his hand, "Don't leave me, Draco. You're all I have. Oh, Draco. You were my God. What ever will I do?"

Draco was laughing, silently, and he knew Harry could feel, "You could be a little more sincere. Honestly!"

Harry gasped, "DRACO! You're alive!" He spoke with undeniable enthusiasm. He tried with all of his might.

This seemed to throw Dickie into a fit. He disappeared from the chair, from the desk, and he reappeared beside it only a couple of seconds later. Finally laughing, out loud, Harry's eyes openly took in Draco's long, lean, toned figure. He had a long torso, like Harry did. But, unlike Judas Cliffdale's body Draco had a very, er, nice derriere, so much so that Harry's eyes widened and he blinked, appalled with himself. Annoyed with Draco's body, suddenly, on his own, his left hand slammed down over Draco's ass, and he squeezed. In result, Draco screamed like a girl and tumbled off of him so fast it was like he had never even moved. This resulted in he and Dickie colliding, Harry was sue the world could have stopped spinning, but Draco's movement would have been fast enough to keep it so.

When Draco landed on his butt, his left hand shot up, and he pressed his wand, this time seriously, against Harry's stomach, "Copping a feel, now, are we, million-time-proclaimed straight boy?"

Harry swatted the wand away, "It was right there, Malfoy. What can I say? I couldn't resist."

Dickie walked up beside Draco, who was glaring at Harry.

Draco glanced at him, having placed his wand right back against Harry's stomach.

Dickie cutely scrunched his nose at Draco, placed his tiny hand over Draco's and pushed it down.

Harry smiled, watching as Draco let Dickie lower his wand-ready hand, as if he were soothing Draco. Very taken with this very sweet moment, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the two of him. Draco looked at him, very pointedly, clearly annoyed, just to make sure that Harry knew that it wasn't over, and he was only lowering his wand for Dickie's sake. Whether or not this was actually the case, Harry didn't know. He felt slightly squeamish with the situation. He had just slapped—no, no, he hadn't slapped it, he had groped it—Draco Malfoy's arse. He coughed into his left hand, but then quickly threw it away from his face, appalled. Oh, dear god. HE HAD GROPED MALFOY'S ARSE!

Draco watched the sequence, which made him feel extremely pleased. He looked back at Dickie, "You okay, Shrimp?"

Dickie nodded, as he made Draco place the wand in his pajama pocket. Once that was done, he sat down beside Draco.

Harry placed his own wand back into his pocket, and then pushed himself up with his hands, "Well—"

"No, after that grope, you owe me, at least, a meal. That's the least you could do. I'm not free, you know."

Harry laughed so hard, out of no where, that it came out like a bomb from his lips, "Malfoy!"

Draco laughed up at him, genuinely. He wasn't mad at Harry. He was beginning to find the situation more amusing than it was awkward. He looked away from Harry and back to Dickie, "Did Daddy bring you down here?" When Dickie nodded and pushed himself up from his small, black pajama-pant covered knees, Draco knew he had to get up, too. He did feel awkward about what had happened on the chair—on the chair! Listen to yourself, Malfoy! On the chair! Get a grip! He sighed, through gritted teeth, and pulled his knees up.

But, a hand appeared about a foot in front of his eyes, so Draco glanced up, hesitantly.

Harry wiggled his fingers, smirking, "I'll remember this day."

Draco's left hand clasped around Harry's, and seconds later, Harry had tugged him up, effortlessly. As soon as he was standing up, his hands pressed against Harry's chest, and he shoved, hard, just to get it out of his system. But, it wasn't an evil-spirited shove. Harry stumbled a couple of feet, his arms crossing over his chest, in a way that suggested he felt violated, as he laughed. It wasn't a cocky laugh, either. He was laughing, and it was embarrassed laughter. His pale skin seemed even paler, and a small bit of abnormal pink coloring had finally returned to his cheeks. He walked toward Harry, not done with him, "You look a little red. Is that magical blush, or are you suddenly so taken with me that, while I'm approaching you, and you keep backing away, you can't help but blush—that's right, I said blush, because you just had, possibly, the most sexual moment you've ever had, and you had it with my brilliantly perfect arse? Draco Malfoy's arse? Oh, this must be a big moment for you."

And, Harry stopped.

Draco stopped, too, and crossed his arms over his chest, "Well?"

Harry's tongue hit the side of his mouth, "Secret option C. My body was so repelled that the blood rushed to my head."

Draco's jaw unhinged, and he started to smirk, half laughing, knowing his whole face was suddenly bright, "Oh, yeah?"

Harry nodded at him, stepping forward. The tip of his left index finger pressed against his temple, "This head, Malfoy."

Draco smiled, as Harry stopped in front of him, "I would resort to wittier measures, but I refuse to look at your groin."

"Excellent," Harry responded, smoothly. But, as he stepped away, he looked down at Draco's pants. "Coward!"

"You're such a cocky bastard," Draco cut him off, rolling his eyes. "You're ridiculously obsessed with my penis."

Harry looked at him, incredulously, with very squinted, disbelieving eyes. Strangely enough, he didn't feel at all uncomfortable being jabbed at by Draco. He welcomed it, now. He forced a dramatic sigh, "Oh my GOD, Malfoy, have you gotten checked for those STDs, yet? You're truly having delusions, and I'm not sure I'm okay with that. Unless, in these delusions, I have black hair and green eyes—oh, no, wait, that's your fantasy."

"Blow me, Potter," Draco hissed, as Harry circled him, their shoulders colliding. He saw Harry smile. "No, really, I insist."

They shared a look, but then they both started to crack up at the same time, as they followed Dickie out the door.

When they were finally in the grand entry hall, heading across it to get to the dining room, Dickie was shrieking with horror. Harry had attacked Draco, out of no where, from behind, though he had had reason to. There might have been a few snide remarks Draco made, under his breath, about Harry's anatomy. Therefore, Harry had attacked. Dickie just hadn't been expecting the sudden yell of Draco when Harry had attempted to tackle him to the floor.

To Harry's utmost displeasure, Draco had, somehow, withstood the extra weight and attack of his back, because Harry, having failed miserably, was left staring down, over Draco Malfoy's shoulder, both of them bent over.

It was silent for a second.

Harry's lips screwed up, "Malfoy, what am I doing on your back?"

Draco was laughing, "Do you really want me to answer that right now?"

Harry thought this over. But, instead of hopping off of Draco's back, he latched his arms around Draco's shoulders. Now, they were of the same build and the same weight range. One thing he knew about Draco was that he was, at least, toned. He was lean, but he had subtle muscles—not obnoxiously defined ones, but they were there. He had noticed Draco's arms, in passing, and it intrigued him. If Draco could manage to hold up when being attacked from behind, he could at least walk Harry toward the dining room. He smiled, happily, while Draco silenced himself, obviously waiting for Harry to get off, "Where to?"

Draco's eyes lifted from the ground, bent over. He turned his face to the right, "This is absolutely not going to happen."

"Oh, come on, Malfoy," Harry urged, as Draco struggled to get him to slide off. Harry didn't budge. "Be a team-player."

"I won't be your fucking horse." He wanted to throw in a spiteful Potter, but he knew it was too risky. "Get off!"

Harry continued to lounge out over Draco's back, "Oh, come on, now, Malfoy, stop playing hard to get! We both know you'd love for me to ride you."

Draco's struggle was ceased by his own laughter, "I swear to Merlin, Cliffdale, if you don't get off of me right now—"

"You'll what, Malfoy?" Harry asked, challengingly, having shimmied more contentedly over Draco's back, searching for more leverage. He had found it. He kept his arms tightly wrapped around Draco's broad shoulders, and he clutched his knees around the sides of Draco's body to hold himself sturdy. He heard Draco growling, so he leaned his face down, over Draco's left shoulder, instead of his right, where he had been playfully teasing Draco and responding to his growls with tiffs of at-ease mastery. "Come on! Just take me to the dining room!"

Draco looked down at Dickie, who was just staring at him with huge, excited, curious eyes, "Absolutely not."

Harry was looking at Dickie, too, with a huge grin. Dickie saw it and giggled, "See, Dickie wants you to be nice to me."

"I was being perfectly nice to you before you decided to jump me!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake. Do I even want to ask?"

Harry and Draco both looked up from Dickie and to the presence across the hall from them. It had just emerged from the dining room, and it was dressed in gorgeous, silk, dark-brown robes. It was Cornwell, who looked clean-shaven and exquisite, somehow. He always seemed to be that way. Harry had seen him on quite a few occasions within those very last two weeks, and he was always pleasantly surprised. Cornwell was an excellent man. Harry thought very highly of him. He had a great heart, he was intelligent, and he was extremely witty.

Draco hissed, embarrassed. How long had Cornwell been standing there, anyway? He would have hoped not long, but he wasn't sure, "No, you don't!"

"Yes, you do!" Harry spoke over Draco. "Pay no attention to my horse. He has quite the attitude. Now, to the dining room! Cornwell, have you had lunch, yet?" Cornwell was just smirking at them, awkwardly, with his head tilted a bit. His eyes kept flickering up and down, searching from Draco's face to Harry's, and Harry knew it. He smiled when Cornwell shook his head for the answer. "Excellent! If my horse would hurry up, I might have lunch, as well, sometime this century."

Cornwell started laughing, watching as Draco rolled his eyes, "Bit slow, isn't he?"

Draco gasped, looking up at his father, who just grinned at him, easily, like liquid, and then put his hand out, "Dickie."

Dickie ran toward Cornwell, took his hand, and then pulled him away toward the dining room, obviously hungry.

But, Cornwell did look back over his shoulder, "Draco, you do seem to be his horse at the moment. As he's said, it's your duty to let him ride you."

Harry and Draco both stopped smiling.

Cornwell looked between them, obviously smug, before he followed Dickie into the dining room.

Harry and Draco were left, alone, in the entry hall, completely still and silent, one lounged over the other.

Harry was the first to talk and, nearly, to audibly breathe, "Suppose he was listening, then?"

"Why do you always state the obvious?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you say something, horse?"

"The only thing I have in common with a horse is that I'm incredibly, incredibly, well hung."

Harry relaxed his head over Malfoy's shoulder, again, laughing without restraint. He couldn't not laugh, at that point, "I do love you, Malfoy, really."

Draco turned his head, until he met Harry's intrusive, harmless eyes, "Don't take this to heart, but I love you, too."

Harry cupped Draco's cheek, strongly, and pressed the cheek to his lips, upside down. He pulled back, "Now, giddy-up!"

Draco dead-panned at him. Harry was very affectionate. This was settling in Draco's mind, "This is not happening."

"Oh, Malfoy, it is," Harry simply stated, with glee, as he wrapped his arms back around the shoulders, snugly, because they had since been relaxed. He shifted himself up, though he barely moved an inch. There he was, Harry Potter, having conquered over everything in Draco Malfoy's material life—well, not really. But, he was tightly clutched over the back of his equally-accomplished partner-in-lies, having just pressed the cool, pale cheek to his mouth with strong, nearly possessive fingertips. He wasn't lying. He loved Draco in a way he had never loved another boy, and he had no problem saying it. He highly enjoyed Draco in moments like they were currently sharing. It also spoke—no, screamed—volumes about how their relationship had changed. "Take me to the dining room."

Draco groaned, "I'm never moving, ever."

"Want to know something funny, Malfoy?" He saw Draco bite down on his tongue, so he smirked. "I'm not moving, either. We can stand here for the rest of our lives, while I dominate you." And, within seconds, he shut himself up and refused to continue talking, because Draco had taken one very brave step forward. Silent and in awe, Harry clutched Draco's shoulders, tightly. He could nearly feel Draco roll his eyes, and he was sure he could HEAR that a sneer was on Draco's face. He wasn't sure what exactly a sneer could have sounded like, but he had related the two!

Draco only took two steps, in total, before he stopped.

Harry loosened his arms and slid off. He was impressed. He landed on his feet but never let his left arm falter from Draco's shoulders. In a friendly, nearly brotherly, way, he draped his arm more sincerely around Draco's shoulders. When Draco's eyes met his, he looked hardly amused. Harry quickly jumped on the situation, before the expression could cloud and build with any more fury than it already had. Bloody hell, those two steps Draco had taken seemed like they had made him feel like a traitor of some sort, "Malfoy," he quickly interrupted the flamingly upset eyes, to disperse the reaction, "you don't know how much I needed you to take those two steps."

Draco blinked.

Harry leaned in the couple of inches, again, overcome. And, before he could stop himself, he had kissed Draco's temple. He knew he would never forget those two steps, and he hadn't realized just how proud and honored he would have felt until he slipped off of Draco and realized what had just happened. Draco Malfoy had just carried him two steps, though it was obvious that the issue Draco had been refuting, and refusing to carry Harry on, was that of Malfoy pride and honor.

Malfoys didn't carry people on their backs, silly though it was. They were aristocrats, and aristocrats, especially Malfoys, were not taught to do such things. "I could kiss you—and I just did, and that's just how much stress you've relieved off of my shoulders." He unwrapped his arm from around Draco's broad shoulders and walked toward the dining room, not wanting to murk up the moment with awkwardness.

"Would you stop kissing me?" Draco asked, pretending to wipe his temple off with the back of his hand.

Harry turned around to him, "No," he lightly laughed, as Draco joined him at the entrance of the dining room. "Lunch?"

"Yeah, my stomach is growling."

Harry let Draco in, first, and then threw, "I bet it is," after him.

Draco turned, halfway, to Harry, from looking at Cornwell. Oh, Potter, the great squeamish Potter, "Cornwell?"

Harry tilted his head, suspicious. Draco's mouth was twisted and fiery, "What are you doing, Malfoy?" Dare he ask?

Draco didn't answer him, just looked at Cornwell with bright, gray eyes.

Cornwell was smiling, with sharp dimples that accented such a smile.

It seemed that he enjoyed it when Harry and Draco strolled into a room, together, cocky and arrogant as all hell, separately, and even more so, together. It was something that Draco picked up on, as his attention began to settle back on his father. He had seen himself in one of the many mirrors in the room, when he had walked in, and he had seen Harry's cool swagger, as well. They were, for the first time ever, a team—and, it was an obnoxiously attractive team, he had to admit. Draco sat down on the table, though Harry nudged him off as he walked by. He took a seat, and Draco took a seat next to him, instead of at the end of the table where he had grown up sitting.

After a long silence, during which Cornwell read his morning Daily Prophet edition and Dickie played with a small stuffed animal Cornwell must have brought down for him, Draco spoke up, just because he wanted to. He and Harry had been looking back and forth from the windows to each other, almost with the same expressions at the same times. They both wanted out, somehow. They wanted to be free. They wanted to be able to go outside. They wanted to be able to do so many things.

"Judas is in love with me, and I think you and mum owe it to him to tell him just how beautiful I really am when I leave a room and you're still in it with him. You know, flatter me."

Cornwell's eyes darted up from the paper, comfortably relaxed into his usual chair, "I flatter you enough, Draco, when you're not around. Judas knows. Just the other day, I hijacked his trip to the kitchens and showed him where you used to line up your stuffed dragons and duel them with your quills."

Harry stifled a laugh at the true story, watching between Draco and Cornwell, in awe.

Draco's mouth formed a line and he could feel his cheeks warming. He quickly avoided the topic of discussion, knowing that only humiliation would come out of his childhood stories being told in front of him. He murmured, to Harry, "See that? He just wants you for himself."

Cornwell sighed. He looked at Harry, right on, "Draco suddenly thinks I'm in love with you. Therefore, I must be."

"Sorry," Harry returned, after he swallowed a drink of pumpkin juice, "I'm not interested."

"As I suspected," Cornwell returned, before he looked back at Draco. "There, the air is clear. You may have him, now. Be gentle with him, he bruises easily. Judas, how is that bruise, anyway?" He folded up his paper and worriedly looked away from Dickie, who seemed content and tucked away in his own little world. Harry had banged his arm on a doorknob on one of the kitchen doors, and Cornwell had seen him do it. It was what he was asking about. "Has it healed nicely?"

Harry nodded, rubbing his palm, gently, over his forearm, where he knew the bruise to have been, "It's gone."

"Good," Cornwell responded, and then smiled at Draco. "Your mother has been looking for you all morning."

Draco's eyes shifted away from everyone at the table. The last two weeks had been very hard for him when it regarded his mother. She believed Lucius to be in terrible danger, as did everyone else in their world. He had not been able to look his mother in the eyes. Lucius was perfectly safe, or at least that was the story had Harry had been sticking to. It had been awful to watch his mother suffer with his father's—Lucius's—disappearance. He was living one big lie, and when he thought of his mother, and what he was keeping from her while she went on playing the part of widowed wife, he felt like scum, "Oh."

Cornwell's eyes were fixed on Draco, very gently, very softly, when Draco's eyes bravely found his, "You're worrying her, Draco. She's worried for you."

"Am I not worrying you?"

"Draco?"

Draco only tilted his head.

"I never worry for you. I worry about you. I trust your instincts and your choices, Draco. Whatever worry that I have concerning you is about how things will affect you, not about how you will fall into how those things affect you. I learned long ago that, no matter how hard you try to avoid being stuck in situations you don't want to be in, you end up there, anyway."

Draco squinted, awkwardly. He didn't answer.

Cornwell didn't need an answer. He leaned over, a bit, and looked Draco straight on, "You know more than you let on, Draco. I don't know what you're hiding, and I'm not going to ask, but if you get into trouble, don't doubt that I'll be here for you, but I won't be able to pull you out of the mess you get into."

Draco shrugged, as it was all he could do. Though, inside, his throat was swelled, and he was praying to a greater good that he didn't look as obviously guilty as he felt. A heavy thump fell upon his left foot, which rightfully distracted him. It was Harry's foot, but Draco didn't dare turn his attention to his left, to Harry. He forced a yawn, trying to get out of the situation without Cornwell thinking anything of it. What did Cornwell mean, anyhow? He knew that Draco knew more than he was letting on? Oh, just brilliant. But, when Draco's eyes fell from the intricate ceiling and back down onto Cornwell, he felt a huge gasp of relief come from within him, because Cornwell seemed completely uninterested in whatever it was that Draco could have possibly known and was currently reading the contents of the tag on Dickie's stuffed baby-bear.

Harry's eyes wearily found Draco's.

"Eight o'clock," Draco mouthed.

Harry gave one very, very solemn nod.

They knew exactly where they were going at eight O'clock, and all it had taken, to get them back on track, was one simple sentence out of Cornwell's mouth. It had brought them right back down to earth, to their predicament and extreme opportunity that was laid out on a blank slate. It was waiting for them—for Harry. They had given it time. Harry had been giving it time. But, while he had been laying in bed those two weeks, he hadn't exactly been dreaming about unicorns and Quidditch matches. He had more than a few ideas, though they were all blurry and intertwined in his mind. He was going to share these things with Draco—and, hopefully, Draco could help him make sense of all of these brilliantly unclear, unpromising ideas.

Everything was worth a shot.

Later that night, Harry was the first to disapparate from the Malfoy Manor and descend upon the open space he and Draco had already been a few times before. He hadn't talked to Draco for a few hours, mostly to avoid suspicion on the part of anyone in the house, including the house-elves. He made his way down to the church, by himself, taking his time. He knew that Draco wasn't going to be apparating to the place he had, but rather beside the church, directly, in a small, very hidden space that they had occupied once before.

When Harry arrived, there were people walking into the church in groups. There was a service going on. He had no idea what sort of service it was, but it must have been something important for witches and wizards to be out and attending a public event, even though such a public event was personal. He had the idea that it was a funeral, in which case he was positive that the funeral had to have been of a pureblooded wizard, as that was a safer risk to take for the droves of people milling around in the dark, some of their faces lit by the bright moon in the sky.

Harry looked down at his watch, as he walked into the shadows of the dark, making his way toward the side of the church. He knew Draco would be there, soon, because it was five minutes after eight. He knew that the only reason Draco would have missed showing up was if someone was holding him up. But, into the dark he walked, with opened, alert, bright eyes. He had the idea that something big was going to come out of their meeting, but he had no idea what could have possibly been huge enough of a plan that would actually work. He had been racking his brains, over the last couple of weeks, trying to plan out how he could do things. But, in all of his plans had been a major flaw—this was not a normal wizard they were dealing with.

This wizard was Voldemort. Voldemort, the Dark Lord. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—a purely evil genius.

Harry didn't have to wait long for Draco. As soon as he shimmied into the three-person space of cleared brush, the space was divided, and a small, nearly silent, pop came out of no where, beside him. His eyes set on the figure, expecting to be instantly greeted with the familiar hair and face. But, there was not a bright head to speak of. Instead, the figure was cloaked. And, as the cloaked head turned to face him, Harry tugged the hood down off of his own head so his face was revealed to Draco in the night. But, Draco didn't do the same thing. He also didn't have to. Harry could see his familiar face, in its moon-light distorted characterization, "There's a service going on."

Draco followed Harry out from the shrubs, quietly, "It's a funeral. I checked the Prophet before coming."

Harry looked over his right shoulder, as Draco walked up behind it. They stood at the corner of the church, hidden in the undoubted shadows, watching the remaining witches hurry into the church for the service. The church, to Harry, spoke of many great riddles in his own mind when it came to witchcraft, when it came to his makeup and his blood. It spoke even more of the fact that pureblooded wizards were even trying to stay out of public if they could help it. And, the only people who were usually out were adults. It was almost unheard of—scarce, even—for people of Draco and Harry's age to be out and about, "Whose service?"

Draco's eyes shifted from the emptied front of lawn of the tiny church. He didn't know the church very well. He hadn't paid attention to the layout when he and Harry had been there for Harry's funeral. He did, however, know that there was at least one other room, a smaller room, that dealt with some sort of church service entity. He had seen a sign, and he had remembered it from the last time they had been there. It had stuck out, for some reason, like a sore thumb.

The whole fact that they were there was amazing to Draco. It was the only place, in the world, where their safety and privacy was the most protected. It was the safest place to converse, even though they would have to keep it as general and random as possible. But, even there, safety was definitely not guaranteed. Draco had been contemplating every irony about he and Harry meeting up at the church, specifically, to talk, in private, about how they were going to... be, for the next unknown amount of time. The ultimate discussion, Draco knew, was going to be in regards to where Harry saw his plans going, and where they would follow those plans, how far, and what those plans were.

"A kid who worked for the Ministry—a Ravenclaw, graduated Hogwarts in ninety-two," he answered, under his breath. His eyes flickered away from Harry's blank, dark gaze. They couldn't really see each other's eyes, just the black shadows that were cast around their eye bones. Draco could, however, make out Harry's—Judas—features, quite easily, even in the dark. Because of this, he felt uneasy and overcome with protective instincts. His left arm lifted up, because he was standing slightly behind Harry. His fingertips gripped the hood of the light-weight cloak, and he lifted it up over Harry's head, silently, and then tugged it, lightly, over the top of Harry's dark locks. "Do you know where we're going?"

Harry peeked around the corner of the church, again, with serious, squinted eyes, "No, but we'll figure it out."

Draco, not at all surprised by Harry's answer, moved out from behind him and took off around the side of the church. He half turned, noticing that Harry had hesitantly just joined him, only a few feet behind. "If I'm half as observant as I've been in the last few weeks, figuring things out won't be a problem."

Harry fell into step beside Draco, fumbling with his sleeves. It was an awful fate to have to be wearing a heavy, black cloak during one of the warmest summers they had had in years. It was hot, uncomfortable, and Harry was ready to get out of his cloak as soon as virtually possible. He had only been half paying attention to Draco, "What are you blabbering on about, Malfoy?"

Draco, knowing Harry was only half aware of the conversation, having been fidgeting, ridiculously, with something on his robe. As they reached the church doors, however, Draco saw that Harry's once-failed attention on him had been appropriately placed by protective, careful eyes. He was searching their surroundings with their eyes as he opened the door with his right hand. And, because he was doing this, Draco did, too, but wasn't really paying attention to looking more deeply into the dark shadows, "I was saying that you're lucky I'm around."

"Am I, then?" Harry asked, his eyes shifting back to Draco with amusement. He pulled the door open, fully.

"You are," Draco assured, easily, as he walked into the empty lobby of the church. Brilliant, really, the contrast between Harry's funeral and the funeral that they were attending. There were hardly any people there, and it had nothing to do with this man who was, unfortunately, killed, having been unpopular. It was because people did not dare show up in droves to a funeral BESIDES Harry Potter's. Had people not showed up to Harry's funeral, it would have been extremely affronting. The current attendance also told Draco that, even since the two weeks prior, it had become even more dangerous to attend public, or even privately public, events.

Draco grabbed at Harry's elbow, because Harry started to move toward their right, curiously..

Harry turned, his left eyebrow curving upward. He said nothing, at first, "Why am I lucky?"

Draco motioned Harry to follow his lead, so as he began walking toward their left, Harry imitated. They were in a hurry to get somewhere, though they didn't know, exactly, where, before they were spotted. They didn't need any extra attention. For the time being, the safest place they had was the church, and the less people that knew, the better. He let Harry pass him, motioning him down a small hallway that he was following signs to get to. And, when Harry passed him, with trusting yet suspicious eyes, Draco finally spoke, "Because I, unlike you, know where we're going."

Harry took Draco at his word and began walking down the small, dimly lit hallway. At the end of the hallway was a closed door that Harry knew probably wasn't where they were headed. It was the door to the right that caught his attention. It was open and a soft light was blearily sounding through the hallway. He looked over his shoulder at Draco, who was already motioning him into the room.

Draco followed Harry into the room, at his heels. He closed the door and locked it behind him. When he turned around, Harry was standing at the end of a small, center isle that was lined on both sides with ten pews, each. It was a small service room, but it was beautifully crafted. The ceilings, like the main service room, were very tall, and they glistened from the illuminations of the three candles that were lit in the room, which was startling, because the candles weren't very bright to begin with, "I remembered seeing signs about this room last week."

Harry unbuttoned the top button of his cloak, his eyes darting from a huge display of unlit candles in the front of the room. There were candle arrangements everywhere, though none were lit. He had never seen so many candles in one room, not even in the great hall at Hogwarts during holiday meals and celebrations. And, it was such a small, quaint room, too. And, when his eyes fell upon Draco, he tilted his head, "You can lower your hood, you know."

Draco's fingertips took the sides of his cloak hood, but he hesitated, "Someone could open the door."

Harry, very lightly, gave Draco a smug grin, "Draco, I know you locked the door." It was obvious that Draco wasn't very comfortable with revealing himself. Harry wasn't sure he could blame him, but he also wasn't sure about the reason why Draco was so apprehensive about letting his face be shown. But, then, again, Harry hadn't taken his hood off, yet, either. "Did you get in a fight with a bee or something?"

A bee? What! Draco, then, snorted, "No, my complexion is just as flawless as ever, thank-you."

Harry chuckled, his eyes falling down onto the dark floor. It was wood, and that was basically all he could gather in the darkness of the room. Even if someone was watching him, it wasn't like their features could even become closely recognizable in the dark. They were just blobs of dark shadows, at that moment. When Draco didn't further elaborate on his resistance to lower his hood, Harry pried, undoing his last cloak button. "I already did a spell-check when I got here. The church is de-bugged. This room is as safe as possible. If you want—here," he said, quietly, as he lowered his hood. He pulled his wand out of his left pocket and pointed it at the door with his right hand. "Ephorasolufia."

A bright blue spark shot out of Harry's wand and sped across the room, until it dissolved into the door.

Draco's eyes shifted to Harry, from under his cloak, still toying with the edges of the hood. "What was that?"

"Ephorasolufia," Harry emphasized, as he gently pocketed his wand into his cloak's right pocket, "is a spell."

"No, really? A spell? A fucking spell, you bloody bastard!" He paused, in the dark silence of the room. Harry hadn't moved, and because it was dark, Draco couldn't tell what Harry's expression was. Agitated with Harry's explanation, his work on undoing his buttons began extremely harsh and fervent. "Like I didn't know it was a spell!"

Harry frowned, watching as Draco moved toward a candle. He had been struggling with his robe, and it was obvious that his buttons were the culprits. Harry hadn't seen the details of Draco's cloak, but when they had been walking into the church, he had had a glance at the fine button-work. Whereas Harry's cloak only had eight buttons, Draco's seemed to have twenty or so, and they were small, "Well..."

Draco's eyes darkly shot to Harry, "Well, what? Are you done treating me like a bloody—"

"Oh, Christ, Draco, shut up!" Harry scolded, finally, loudly. Draco had been acting like this since that very morning. It was in the snide little remarks he made. Something was wrong with him. He was going through things, naturally. He hardly had any of the answers that Harry knew Draco wanted and needed to know. But, that didn't give him reason to flip out and be so snarky and sinister—even negative—when Harry opened his mouth for two seconds. Sure, Harry wasn't the best with his expressions, sometimes, but Draco ended up verbally abusing him before he even had the chance to explain himself. "What is wrong with you?"

"What is wrong with me!" Draco exclaimed, wildly. He saw Harry's arms raise above his head, in the dark, and his hands and fingers clutched, as if he were trying to pry the life out of the air. Amused, though he didn't really want to be, Draco looked away from him and back down to his cloak, which he had only succeeded in loosening by three small, stiff, snobby buttons. "Could it be the fact that we have to come HERE to talk? Could it be that we have to even talk about what we have to do at ALL? Could it be, Judas, that I miss my life prior to your arrival? Oh, oh, oh—wait, could it be the issue of having to readjust everything I know. Could it be that I now have a brother, a newly-important father who has finally come around, a mother who won't even speak to me because she's so distraught, Lucius who is... imprisoned by God knows who—and, by God, though we are standing in a church, I do mean the man you look up to as a God." He glanced at Harry, with sarcastic, flippant eyes and an indignant smirk. He was referring to Dumbledore, of course. "How about the fact that my cloak won't-fucking-unbutton-and—I'm going to scream—I mean, scream—bone-chilling screams, because my cloak is trying to suffocate me. Just what I need, a possessed cloak."

Harry was laughing all of the way up the center isle. Draco was just standing there, with his hands at his sides. He had thrown them off of his cloak and had pointed toward them, for Harry to understand that his cloak was being evil and it was seemingly impossible to take off. Ignoring everything else that Draco had just drunkenly ranted off about, Harry shrugged as he came to a stop in front of a helpless, still-hooded Draco, "You're a wizard, aren't you?"

"Yes," Draco flatly replied, "but I am not lazy enough to charm my cloak to unbutton. I'm not that self-important."

Harry nodded along, tilting his head and staring into the dark space where he knew Draco's face to be, shadowed in the dark, "Well, if you're too uncoordinated to unbutton your cloak, and you refuse to charm it to unbutton itself, how do you suppose you're going to get it off?"

Draco went to respond.

Harry reached out to Draco's cloak. He met the top of it, where the collars were shielding Draco's neck. The material was very fine and very thick, like Harry's was. Though, because the first few buttons were undone, there was a small leeway that Harry had to work with. His left fingertips slipped down between the two sides of the robe until they landed on an unmoving, stubborn gathering of material. He reached up with his right hand, too, and quickly attempted to unbutton, what-appeared-to-be, the cloak's forth button, "You need to relax, Malfoy. If you're too tense to have the patience to undo your buttons, you really need to take a deep breath."

Draco blinked, staring down at Harry's hand. What! Harry Potter was undoing his cloak buttons, and he was undoing them with ease! Strangely enthralled, Draco's eyes zoomed in on the darkly illuminated fingers, interested. But, he could feel that his blood was rising to his head, and it was heating as well. Realizing this, he quickly looked away from Harry's hand and straight back up to his face, pushing his thoughts away—anyhow, why was Harry so easily undoing Draco's buttons? Draco had tried. They just weren't working for him. He went to say something.

It was at that moment that Harry decided to give a small throw of his head to the right, to rid of the hair in front of his eyes. This action rendered Draco speechless, and he was overcome with the extreme urge to slap himself, moments afterward, when he realized that a small knot had grown in his throat. Judas Cliffdale was pretty—but, no! NO! It was absolutely not appropriate.

Draco's mouth closed. He was far too vulnerable, in the dark, but with Harry there, he felt vulnerable, "Fuck."

Harry's eyelashes flickered upward. He squinted, fumbling with another button, "What was that?"

Draco wished he could have pulled his hood over his entire face and disappeared, "Nothing."

Harry's eyes slipped back down to Draco's cloak. He was silent for a couple of seconds, as was Draco. They had been silent, but now he knew it was an actual awkwardness versus a friendly mission of ridding Draco of his heavy cloak, "You know," Harry finally started. His voice failed in sounding professional and at-ease. Instead, it had crackled, it had lowered in volume and hit a higher note. He cleared his throat, his forehead furrowing in frustration. "Ephorasolufia casts a charm over a room so outside forces can't listen in. The only way someone would be able to break the spell is if they were to realize I am me, Harry, and cast the counter-spell while invoking my name. Otherwise, no one could possibly tap into this conversation." He paused, attentively undoing one of the last couple of Draco's buttons, slightly leaned over. "Although nothing is really impossible in magic, I think Dumbledore said it's impossible to find the loop-hole in this one."

Draco was concentrating on the cross at the front of the room, innocently, pleading with it, "I suppose he told you this great big secret of a loop-hole?"

"No," Harry lightly responded, as the last of Draco's buttons was undone. He stood tall, again. "To be honest with you, I don't think he knows it. It's not a common spell. It has horrible after-shocks. It was never approved by the Ministry Spell Association It causes the caster a couple of hours of excruciating headaches hours afterward." When Draco's head gave a sporadic movement, Harry shrugged, lightly. "It's worth it, though, isn't it?"

"No," Draco immediately replied, as if Harry were insane. "I can't believe you did that."

"Well, if you weren't such an insecure pansy, deathly afraid of someone overhearing, I would not have had to cast it, would I have?" Harry quickly bit at him, though in light, good-nature. His mouth stayed half-open, in a bright smile, as he heard Draco take in a deep breath. He could practically see Draco's mouth opening and his gray-ish, light, light blue eyes making little dagger-stabs through Harry. But, before he could respond, Harry reached out to the opposite hood, with his right hand, closing the space between them. He finally tugged Draco's hood down, distracted that he couldn't see the expressions and fluid generosity of the always-intriguing face "There, and if someone comes to open the door, we'll know about fifteen feet before hand, which, I dare say, Draco Malfoy, it might be enough time for you to put your hood back on—but, if your reflexes are anything like your old Quidditch reflexes..."

Draco grinned. He grinned. Like some bloody idiot! And, over an insult, at that! "I wouldn't go there."

"Are there better places I could go, Malfoy?"

Draco's lips pressed together.

Harry coughed, "I... not... this is ridiculous! You and I, Malfoy, should NEVER have sexual banter. I was being serious." And, there he went, with his glinting eyes and maliciously sexy smirk—if there was such a thing. It wasn't hard, at all, to find Draco appealing. But, Harry had been trying to be serious, and Draco had taken his statement with a tiny little bit of seriousness and a whole lot of sugar—oh, and some mildly subtle salt, too.

After the afternoon they had had, Harry was frazzled and confused over the state of their relationship. Their personalities, which had always seemed to have clashed at school, now seemed to compliment each other so well that their relationship was quickly escalating to that of best-comrade-ship, which was very strange, because that, to Harry, didn't even seem fathomable and never had

They got along well. Their humor matched. They fed off of one of another, even when they were bored, until they were wasting time with banter that neither of them had intended. It was easy to fall slightly in love with Draco's personality, but it wasn't acceptable, LEAST of all to Harry—Harry Potter! Regardless of how he had ever viewed Draco, and how Draco had changed in his eyes, he had never been supposed to feel genuinely friendly toward Draco. It was almost sacrilegious.

Draco watched Harry, no longer being able to hide his amusement, "We could ax out the banter."

Harry turned around, his attention on the front of the room, "Yes, we'll ax out the banter."

"Then, you'd just rather the sex?" Draco asked, after him, smugly.

Harry growled, nervously itching at his neck beneath his cloak, "I walked right into that."

Draco followed him. He could feel that his own eyes were glittering with contentment, "You really did."

Harry couldn't push away the smile that began to twitch on his lips. He gave in as he reached the front pew. He turned around to Draco, smiling fully, with teeth and all. He didn't know if Draco could have seen it, but—oh. Draco was standing right behind him. This made Harry jump backward and collide with a podium. When he hit the podium, it wobbled from side to side. He quickly steadied it before turning back to a howling Draco, "DON'T DO THAT!"

"Do what!" Draco looked scandalized.

"That," Harry pointed at him, quick to accuse Draco of doing something, though there was nothing.

Draco looked down at himself, awkwardly, and then very pointedly back to Harry, "What, Potter?"

"That," Harry, again, accused him of, moving his finger around-about the air in Draco's direction.

Draco nodded, once, and folded his arms over his chest, "Oh, yes. You mean breathe?"

"Yes, exactly," Harry enthused, as he approached Draco. He laughed, however, not being able to hold back.

Draco started to laugh, too, though trying his hardest to sound scathing and not boyishly innocent, "Sorry, bad habit."

"S'okay, we all have our moments," Harry greeted him with mock seriousness and understanding, standing beside him. However, he took a seat down on the small pew, leaving Draco standing. But, Draco didn't join him, just walked over toward the huge display of candles in the front of the room. He didn't ask what Draco was doing, and a few seconds later, a bright light emerged from the tip of Draco's wand. It was a flame, and he was leaned over the display of candles. Silently watching, content and unhurried in the moment, Harry leaned forward, over his knees.

Draco took his time in lighting all of the candles that called out to him.

And, finally, after minutes had passed by, Harry, who was drowsy with thoughts and candle illumination, quietly spoke, "Why are you lighting candles?"

Draco turned around. Now, from across the ten feet, he could see Harry, and he knew Harry could see him. The candles had lit the room so beautifully. It was a warm night, and their cloaks made them both hot, but neither of them had made the move to remove themselves from their cloaks. To do so was almost a way of making them feel unprotected. If they had had to leave in a hurry, it was best to keep their cloaks on their backs.

Harry sat up, stretching his back with a strong arch. He felt like a lion waking from a long, peaceful nap.

Draco lit another candle, "I don't know. It feels like the right thing to do."

Harry stood at Draco's side, silently, and began to light the non-lit candles with his own wand.

Draco glanced at Harry, openly. But, he smiled to himself and turned his attention back to the candles. He missed Harry's old face. He didn't like Judas Cliffdale compared to Harry Potter. But, Judas was pretty, and, as he stood there, staring down at the candles, his expression was screaming of vulnerability and complexities. He appeared deep in thought. His lower lip stuck out further than his top, his chin was tilted down to his chest, and his eyes appeared unguarded and purely innocent, for the very first time since Harry had arrived earlier that summer. And, not being able to let this slip by, Draco, once more, couldn't help but find Harry, again, "What's wrong?"

Harry blinked, but he didn't look up, "I don't understand how religion works with our world, Malfoy. I've tried to give it thought, but I still can never manage to figure out how some of us practice strict religions when our very blood is what it preaches against."

Draco was surprised. Harry's voice had been very soft, very at ease, "You're going off of Christian theology?"

"Catholic," Harry muttered, under his breath. "My Aunt Petunia—she's very catholic, or claims to be, but damn me if I ever saw her being a model spokeswoman."

Draco nodded his head, once, and knowingly murmured, "You would have some trouble understanding, then," Draco informed him of this, under his breath. He looked at Harry, from the last candle he had the delight of putting light to. Harry was looking at him, now, but with those same open, inviting, very kind eyes. They were not like the eyes of Judas Cliffdale, and they were not like the eyes of Harry Potter. Draco began to wonder if they were what Harry's green eyes had always wanted to express, but had never been physically able to. Or, perhaps, he had never been able to show such welcoming, unharmed eyes to Draco, before, which was not a stretch to acknowledge. "No one has ever taken the time to explain to you the ironic damnation that religion, in wizard society, presents?"

Harry's lips were dry. He murmured a small, "No, I figured it didn't exist at all."

"Because of the damnation factor," Draco guessed. "Witchcraft is forbidden, yes?"

Harry nodded along, but said nothing, watching Draco's glowing face with silent, unfaltering awe.

"Except that it's not forbidden," Draco quietly replied. When he saw Harry's wide-eyed reaction, he couldn't help but smile. Potter really had no idea about anything concerning the deep dark secrets of wizardry religion, and this was dawning on Draco. "I don't clam to know everything about religion and wizardry. I know the basics, because my mother was once a religious witch, after the whole debacle with Cornwell, when she thought she was damned to hell," he jabbed, lightly, at the entire situation, and he heard Harry take a small, un-Potter-like laugh, as if he were embarrassed for Draco having to admit this out-loud, once more, to Harry, of all people.

"The witchcraft described in the bible is evil, Harry, or so the wizard theologians claim. What was not included in the bible was the lost script, where it clearly stated that there were two sides to magic—the good and the bad. The mention of bad was left in the bible, therefore making all witchcraft, essentially, evil. For centuries, this script was claimed, by the Christians, to have been a figment of our imaginations, until it was found and translated, supposedly, and revealed as the truth. Christians refused it for the bible, because the script, like many other "non-official" books from the bible were not "proven" to be accurate, as if what is in the bible is, somehow, proven to be completely true—and, the skeptic in me says that it's thick of Christians to try and disprove one man's prophecies of God over another man's, as if one man hearing God's voice in his head is more viable than the other."

Harry was in awe of the explanation, but he frowned, "You don't seem very convinced."

Draco glanced at him, "Of the religion or of the script?"

"Well," Harry quietly responded, thinking this over. He paused, but then found Draco's clear eyes, "both."

"The script does exist," Draco assured him, as he pulled his wand back from lighting another candle. "Though the other books of the Bible, and the other scripts, are still accessible and can be found, and are at least talked about by theologians, the script that Christian Witchcraft runs off of was, basically, given to the Minister, at the time of the find. The Minister was told that he could have it, but to never, EVER, EVER let it get into the hands of muggle Christianity. They wanted nothing to do with it, and even now, there are Christians who have heard of the script, but the church, mostly the Catholic church, refuses to acknowledge the script's existence, and no one can prove that it does exist, because no one has it. It's written in enchanted bibles, so a muggle couldn't see the contents even if he or she stared and uttered all sorts of words at it for days on end. Many modern Christianity branches, though, are more open to the possibility, though anyone hardly admits it. I mean, they're not idiots, are they? They did break away from the Catholic church—and, I'm not a religious person, so I don't know whether or not to believe in it."

"Draco Malfoy, three. Catholic church, zero."

"Why would I want to acknowledge a religion, with high regard, when my blood is its lowest regard?"

Harry's eyes flickered over Draco's profile, and he slowly began to smile, "Er—Malfoy, I was teasing."

Draco smiled to himself, too, and sheepishly laughed, his eyes shifting to the left, to Harry, "I know," he muttered, under his breath and quickly looked away, not wanting Harry to call him out over being so snippy. "Cornwell took me to a muggle church when I was five—Episcopalian." He, finally, lowered his wand, after extinguishing the tip with a quickly murmured spell. But, Harry continued lighting candles, making small waves of movement with his hand as he moved along with each candle, lighting the room more brightly with each new flame. "I loved it."

Harry stared down as the tip of his wand lit, yet another, solid, white wick, "Were you raised religiously?"

"No, not at all," Draco quietly admitted. "Lucius was Catholic—yeah, muggle Catholic, and though the Catholic church, in theory, damned him to hell, his faith still existed there. I don't know why or how that is even possible. I tried asking him, once, but he got frustrated with his own answer and stopped trying to explain it. My mother was raised in the Catholic Wizard church. She was never religious, though."

After a few seconds of silence proceeded Draco's answer, Harry turned to him, expectantly, "Don't be a bloody tease, Malfoy. Come on, now—Cornwell?"

Draco hesitated, his eyes falling to the ground, "Episcopal Wizard church—though, he wasn't religious."

Harry frowned, confused by Draco's awkward hesitance. It was like he was holding something back, "Draco?"

"He took me to church once in while. We were never religious, but he was spiritual. He... is spiritual."

Harry paused, hanging on and trying to decipher Draco's strained tone, "But, you're not, right?"

"No," Draco returned, honestly. It felt like a small part of him was freed. "I am."

Harry's eyebrows rose, and he let a breath of pressured air leave his mouth and extinguish the flame at the tip of his wand, "Really?"

Draco frowned, "I'd like to pretend that I'm not offended, but I'm actually not." Harry's face washed over in confusion, as if to ask what the hell Draco was talking about. He leaned forward a bit, as if the answer should have been obvious, and he was trying to pull it out of Harry, "Any time my relationship with anything metaphysical comes up, the reactions are exactly the same. Really? Malfoy, you're spiritual? I'm supposed to be religious—but, spiritual? It's almost as if it's a carnal sin to those I tell, which is fucking absurd."

Harry distractedly circled his finger around the one perfectly still flame he had been studying for the last few seconds, "They only react that way because you're from a pure-blooded, purely Catholic background, Malfoy."

"No, no," Draco corrected. "I'm from an Episcopal, spiritual father versus a non-religious Catholic mother."

Harry suddenly turned to him, "I know that."

Draco felt his face flush over with realization. He stayed silent as Harry went to speak, again.

"But, from where everyone else stands, you'd be the type highly unlikely to be spiritual rather than strictly religious, especially when the papers report that your family has a private chapel in your manor—which you do—in which you are given Catholic services, weekly." When he stopped talking, Draco was knowingly nodding, though he didn't seem pleased to excited to do so. It was very enthralling for Harry to be hearing Draco tell him these things—things that no one had ever taken the time to explain to him. "If you're spiritual, then, what do you believe?"

"I believe in God," Draco responded, quietly, but then elaborated. "The Christian God."

"You just don't believe in strict religious activities?"

"Basically," Draco admitted. He left it at that, or he started to, but when he caught Harry from the corner of his eye, it was obvious that he had an open invitation to keep talking, because Harry wanted, apparently, to listen to what he had to say, so much so that he was staring at him with squinted, patient brown eyes.

Draco cautiously continued, "God is God, to me—a God who I don't feel the need to prove myself to, because I was brought to believe that he loved me for who I was—am—and he was understanding, all-mighty, all-powerful. But, I don't know... sometimes I wonder—and, not that I wonder against him, but the world is a large placed with hundreds of creation theories and an infinite number of questions that can never be answered. I don't think I would offend God with these questions, I think he would welcome my questions to find my path back to him, not that I ever actually left him." He paused, thoughtfully, toying with his chin in his fingertips as he thought over his own explanation of where he stood. "I believe in him, yet I don't know if I believe in the stories behind him."

Harry's eyes followed Draco's every movement.

Draco sheepishly grinned, breaking himself out of the intent staring contest with the cross he had been staring at, "Does that make sense?"

Harry slowly nodded, "I think so." Draco frowned. "Ultimately, you believe in Him." He paused. "Right?"

"Exactly."

Harry looked away from him, very thoughtful and distant on the matter, "I have an idea."

As Draco sat down on a pew, Harry turned around to him, from lighting, yet, another candle, "What?"

Harry walked toward him, toying with his wand in his fingertips, so as he pronged at the wand between his fingers, and it made a circular motion, his flame twisted and roared in the wind of the movement, "Does Cornwell still attend church?"

Draco, distractedly, pulled his cloak away from his right shoulder for air to sweep beneath it. He was hoping for some cool-aired, well-welcomed, relief, "Oh, no. He stopped going years ago—after your... your, uh, father died, I think. After that, he only took me to take me."

"Oh," Harry returned, watching Draco with squinted, detached eyes. At the mention of his father, especially at that of Draco Malfoy's mercy, he couldn't help but feeling strange, even though there had been no resentment in Draco's voice. Harry didn't much speak about his father with anyone, much less have someone else use the terms "your father" during conversations about church. And, he went for it. "We should go."

Draco looked up, confused, "Go where?"

"To church," Harry bravely blurted out. "We should go to church—the Episcopal one. I want to learn more."

"You're kidding me, right? I'm not trying to recruit you to religion, Potter. I won't have it."

"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy. I just want to go and see what I think. I might like it. I might hate it. It's not like I've ever really had the chance to pursue it, now have I?"

Draco's eyes looked Harry over, as if sizing him up, mentally guessing over his religious heritage, "What are you, anyway?"

Harry smiled and nodded at Draco, once, with his chin, almost factually, "Half Wizard Episcopalian, half Catholic." Draco tilted his head, and Harry agreed with the glint in his surprised, expressive silvery-blue eyes. "Same as you."

It was silent for a long moment.

Draco slowly rose back to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest, "Really?" His voice was high.

Harry nodded, once, wondering if his expression was identical to Draco's. He had been feeling wonderment and astonishment for the last few minutes, but now Draco seemed to be experiencing the same sort of thing. The fact that they were of the same make-up was fascinating to Harry, even if it was something so minute. But, it wasn't minute, not anymore.

There were so many little connections that had bonded their history that they had never known, or at least that Harry had never known—just like the fact that his father and Cornwell had been best friends—something Harry had never dreamed possible or even SANE, and, also, something that everyone he had trusted, in his life, had failed to tell him. But, Draco's world was not as easy as most people thought it to be, either. He had his fair share of issues and secrets, and those issues and secrets, as they were revealed, made Harry feel closer to him, "Really."

Draco squinted, "Who was the Episcopalian?"

"Wait," Harry stumbled, at Draco's question. Draco was asking which parent of Harry's had been Episcopalian, and perhaps out of innocent curiosity. It had been his father, James, who was Episcopalian, and after remembering this, and religion in general, a conversation he had once had with Sirius popped into his head. He started to laugh, blinking fast at the possibility he was pondering, "I remember Sirius, once, telling me about my father attending church with one of his cousins—Sirius's cousin, I mean."

Draco nervously rubbed at the corner of his mouth.

They stared at each other, in hesitantly anxious horror.

Before Draco could stop himself, he grasped his head and laughed, "POTTER, GET OF MY FAMILY HISTORY!"

Harry laughed, even harder, out of the random blue, taking a seat on the pew beside a currently-seated Draco. He leaned over his knees and ran his fingertips back through his hair, staring down at the floor with utmost disbelief. How was this happening? With Lucius as Draco's father, it was impossible for any of their revelations to have been possible. Therefore, with Lucius as Draco's father, everything about Draco, Harry had hated. But, with Cornwell as Draco's father—it was a whole different situation! A whole different Quidditch-game! "You're not exactly a bunch of sugar-quills, yourself, are you, Malfoy! At least you've had time to adjust to all of this information. Imagine finding out that your enemy is the son of one of your father's best friends whom you never even knew about."

Draco sighed with strung-out, hesitant happiness—something he didn't often openly acknowledge or express. It was a very strange moment for them both.

Harry finally pulled his head up and turned to look at Draco, silently.

Draco looked back at him, his left eyebrow perfectly arched, "What?"

Harry just continued to eye Draco, but his expression faltered, and he began to brood, "Malfoy, things could have been so different." That was all he could utter about the depth and seriousness of what their lives could have been like if certain truths had been shared by each other and by other people, or even if their lives hadn't taken the turns they had at birth. It was amazing and awe-inspiring, but it was also dreadful and grief-inspiring. Feeling disheveled, Harry looked back down at his hands, beginning to feel the onset of sadness for all of the things about his father than he had never known. "Christ."

"Yes, Harry?" Draco's deepest voice echoed, grandly, through the church room.

Harry didn't manage to look up. He laughed so hard that he ended up dropping his face to his knees.

Draco laughed along with him, until his stomach was hurting and he was lounged out on the pew, right next to Harry's equally-relaxed form. His attention was focused on the grand ceiling. It was completely dark, so dark that he could only see the shadows on the banisters above. He knew they were there. He just didn't know how intricate, or even if something intricate enough, the ceiling, above, was. And, from this, his thoughts proceeded to what they were there for, sitting in perfect silence, in a candle-illuminated church.

Just Draco Malfoy and Judas Cliffdale.

But, more technically, and in truth, Draco Black-Malfoy and Harry Potter.

Draco went to say something, but stopped.

Harry turned his head and rested it on his own left shoulder, watching Draco. He had only just closed his mouth, which was good, because Harry had something to say, anyway. He could tell that Draco only wanted to break the silence and had stopped himself short, as if he realized he hadn't anything to break the silence with. Harry, however, had been thinking over Draco's explanation of religion in their society—he had been thinking over his own stance, and had come to realize that he wasn't sure he even had one, "Supposing Hogwarts is still around by the next term, do you think you'll take Philosophy?"

Draco thought this over, "The special courses for next year, what are they? I mean, aside from Philosophy?"

Harry looked up at the ceiling, too, his right hand cupping around his own throat, having broken-in through the cloak's barrier, "If I remember correctly, seventh years can choose from... Religious Studies, Psychology and all of its sub-categories—like the studies of what our role plays on muggle society or—anyway, Philosophy, too, and the Arts—Art, Music, Theater. I think, too, there is Political Philosophy, Theorems, in general, Sociology—"

At the thought of all of the different choices, Draco laughed, "I remember why I never bothered to memorize them," he interrupted Harry, pulling his attention away from a dancing shadow of a candle halfway between the wall and the ceiling. When he looked back to his equal-aged accomplice, he grinned to opposite the confused frown he say. "Philosophy, General Theorems, Art, Music, even Religious Studies, and all of those other ones you've just said, and they expect us to pick only one! Seven years of studying at that bloody institution, and they only offer us these subjects in the last year, and we can only pick ONE out of—how many, do you even know?" He asked, sitting up, as Harry counted off on his fingers. "Forget I even—"

"Twelve," Harry interrupted him, before Draco could finish. He closed his palm. "Well, at least twelve that I recall."

"Twelve," Draco repeated, drawling out the number with his voice. Though he was sitting up perfectly straight, again, spirited alive by the turn the conversation had made, Harry remained relaxed and at east, his posture slouched. He had his right leg crossed over his left knee, his arms were folded, loosely, over his chest, and he was staring at Draco as if he shouldn't have been sitting up and looking so fascinated about school subjects. "Don't give me that look, Potter. I don't deserve that look."

Harry sighed with fake amusement, just to rile Draco. He lifted his left eyebrow, "Oh, don't you?"

"No, I don't," Draco jabbed at him, with a laugh. He knew Harry was only kidding. He looked tired. Half-asleep, even. His body language made him seem like he was ready to doze off. But, Draco couldn't blame him, because the atmosphere of the room was very serene and peaceful. And, perhaps, it was the most peaceful Harry Potter had felt in a long while. "One of the reasons I've never liked Dumbledore's method of heading up the school was based on his lack of diversity in the actual subjects. We should have been allowed to choose, earlier. I mean, really, Potter, who needs Care for Magical Creatures—unless of course, someone wanted to work with creatures? Even the Board of Directors, aside from Lucius, were ill-thought to have us not be so exposed to other subjects for seven years. We should have been given slots of time, during the semesters, to try different subjects." He paused. "How do they expect us to know what we want when they won't even give us the opportunity to find out?"

"I know what you're saying," Harry interrupted him, quietly, just so Draco didn't think he wasn't following.

"Well, good," Draco didn't even have a tenth of a second to blink before he had responded, "I'm tired of forcing conversation."

Harry half-smiled to himself. It was almost as if he were mind-reading Draco, and it began to fascinate and mesmerize him. He unlocked his arms from around his chest, watching Draco sitting there, so silently. He was itching to keep talking, and Harry knew it. But, at the same time, he wasn't against hearing Draco talk about the lack of work Dumbledore had given his students. Draco was an achiever. Harry didn't know how big of an achiever, but he had had top marks back at Hogwarts, and he appeared to always have a quest for knowledge about whatever he was doing, "You're not forcing conversation. I was quite enjoying your bashing."

Draco ignored Harry's innocently snide remark, "For the record, I've studied most of those things outside of school—not in great quantities, but I won't lie about being gifted with the grand education of the Malfoy name. I spent many-a-Sundays of my life studying things I didn't care about, and many Saturdays on things I found earth-shatteringly mesmerizing."

Harry tilted his head to Draco, curious. He had never given thought to the complexities of Draco's life outside of Hogwarts. Well, at least not until he had moved into Malfoy Manor and had a look at the fine life that Draco led. He had known Draco was wealthy, sure, and lived in a circle of society Harry could never even have dreamed up. But, Draco's talents were not just schmoozing with the aristocrats. Draco, himself, must have been schooled on the many fine things in life—the arts, philosophies, music. He had probably grown up with lessons, every week, of certain instruments, or going to attend an opera here or a play there, "And, Philosophy? Are you knowledgeable in that?"

"I suppose this talk about Philosophy is going to lead to something constructive?" Harry nodded. "Then, yes."

"Oh," Harry replied, and when it came out of his mouth, it came out as devastatingly disappointed.

Draco's eyebrows lifted, and he looked at Harry from the front of the room, quizzically, "What?"

"Well, no," Harry quickly defended his unexpected tone. He, finally, cleared his throat and sat up, straight, with his hands pushed onto the wooden pew on either side of him. He didn't look at Draco, directly. He tried to appear calm and casual, "I was just thinking it's a shame for you, then, if you've learned about all of those things. Why would you care about having to learn so few of them at Hogwarts if you've already learned one of them?" Quick, Harry! Quick! Quick escape, and—oh, God, he was lying. He was lying about his disappointed tone.

Draco went to respond, though not nearly as defensively as Harry had been only seconds before.

Harry cut him off, holding up his left hand while his right hand placed over his stomach. He looked away from Draco, shaking his head at himself, "Oh, bloody—Malfoy... I feel ill, bear with me, here." And, he hesitantly looked back at Draco, whose mouth was in a slight "O", whose eyes were lit up with hysterical amusement, and whose cockiness became all too much for even the church room to suddenly handle. "I feel ill, because I was just lying to you, and if I lie to you about what I was lying about, it makes me realize I actually care about not lying to you, because if I lied, I would be hiding something, and hiding something would make me realize that I am, indeed, hiding something—and—and..."

Draco was nearly beaming, his smirk so hard and genius that even Harry's cheeks were hurting, "And?"

Harry dropped his left hand from its immobile place in the air. He hesitated, "And, I don't like lying."

"I think you're lying, right now, to get yourself out of telling me what you were lying about, no?"

Harry's eyes contorted. Draco continued his smug grin, and Harry could see something that resembled a dimple touching, not far from, the corner of Draco's mouth. He was waiting, patiently, for Harry's answer. He paused, again, but then sighed. Well, why hide it, anyway? They weren't the same as they used to be. They had a different relationship—completely, "I just assumed you would take Philosophy, is all." Yeah! DAMNIT!... No!

Harry sighed, again, and rolled his eyes up as he saw Draco smirk even harder.

"So, you sounded... possibly, perhaps, Potter, you sounded sad that I wasn't going to take Philosophy?" Draco hypothesized, as if asking Harry if he were correct about what he had taken from Harry's explanation. When Harry didn't respond, but rather let his eyes dart from place to place around the room, his mouth furrowing in something that resembled a zipper, Draco stepped in on his lie and crushed it. He knew what Harry's response had been to, when he had sounded disappointed, before. "Could it be, Harry—Harry Potter—that you weren't put off at the idea that I wasn't going to take Philosophy, at all, but rather I was... not going to take it... with you?"

Before Harry could respond, honestly, an automated reaction fired out of him. He scoffed, "No!"

"Liar!" Draco chided, like a child, victoriously, which earned him an elbow in the side. He hissed. "Potter!"

"Serves you right for being such a—a—a—whatever you just were. A show-off or some bloody something!"

Draco continued to nurse his right side with his right hand. It hadn't hurt, necessarily, the slam into his side—no, no, it had hurt. And, Harry seemed to notice it, too, because he was turned more toward Draco than he had been, before, and he appeared nervous, as if he were trying to figure out whether or not there was something he could do. He even began to chew on his lip, and his face began to show sorrowful emotion. But, Draco ignored all of these actions and reactions and concentrated on the conversation he wasn't going to let Harry leave and walk out a winner when it wasn't over, "Why would you want to take a Philosophy class with me, anyway?"

Harry's lips stayed pressed together. Oh, he felt horrible. Too horrible. He had hurt Draco Malfoy, whose face had flinched up in momentary pain. But, he seemed to be doing okay. It wasn't like he was... it wasn't like he was bleeding or anything. Angry with himself, and a little relieved that Draco hadn't thrown a punch at him in retaliation, Harry sighed down his defenses and gates and offered out his right hand, as he ignored Draco's question, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to hurt."

Draco growled at the hand approaching his own hand, which was clutched around his side, "That's a foul lie, if I ever heard one," he bit at Harry, and it came out like poison. When Harry's eyes met his, startled and dejectedly, Draco didn't bother to hide his agitation. "If you hadn't meant it to hurt, you wouldn't have done it in the first place, you great bloody sissy!" And, Harry's hand quickly returned to his lap and hid beneath the free hand he had waiting, Amused at this, Draco couldn't help the stuffy laugh. "You owe me for this."

Harry didn't argue with him, his forehead wrinkled in regret, his teeth clenched, "It was just a reflex—"

"Yeah? Draco Malfoy scores one over on you, verbally, and you resort to physical abuse?"

Harry could feel the blooding rush out of his cheeks. Draco's voice was serious. It was deeper. There was no teasing or kidding in it. There was no sexual banter hinting at the back of his tone. He wasn't kidding, or fooling, or even slightly entertained with anything, at that moment. And, Harry had never truly heard Draco speak like this. It was also the first time that Draco had referred to their prior relationship with such seriousness, about Draco Malfoy scoring one over Harry Potter, which he had easily done. Harry had just reacted—and, he had reacted stupidly, at that.

Speechless, Harry still hadn't found the right words to say, in response. He still felt terribly embarrassed. At last, after Draco staring at him, battling with the opposite eye contact, Harry spoke, and he nearly gushed, "I'm so sorry, Malfoy, I really didn't mean it to hurt!" Draco didn't seem so convinced, so Harry did something brave—well, stupidly brave. He stood right up, turned around to Draco and lifted his palms into the air while his fingers motioned Draco toward him. "Come on, free shot."

Draco stared at him for a moment, and then he snorted with strong laughter, "God, you are such a boy." He shook his head from side to side and pulled his hand from his aching body. He pushed himself up, though, in the spirit of good fun, and made fists in the air, in front of his face. In response, Harry blinked. This made Draco laugh even more. "Tell me when."

Harry mentally groaned, "We need to set some ground rules."

Draco peeked out over the top of his fists, his left eyebrow hooking up, "Okay. Set them, then."

Harry immediately went for the boundaries, "Not my face, not my groin. And, not my stomach."

Draco deadpanned, "That only leaves your legs and your arms, Potter."

"Oh, right, and that reminds me—my legs and arms are off limits, too." Harry sheepishly smiled.

Draco frowned, but did not yet drop his fists, "Okay, is that all?"

Harry smiled, blatantly, "Yes."

Draco dropped his hands from the air, momentarily. Harry thought he was going to get off easy. Well, he wasn't. Draco didn't actually want to hit him, per-se. Over the prior year, he had taken plenty of fist shots at Harry, and many of them had been hard blows. His tension to beat Harry up was nowhere near as strong as it had once been. In fact, he no longer wanted to beat Harry into a bloody pulp—okay, and not that he had ever wanted to, because it was always more Harry wanting to beat him into a bloody pulp. He put his hands back in the air as Harry went to move, "Great, turn around."

"Excuse me, what?" Harry asked, coughing and tilting his head. He stepped backward, honestly alarmed.

Draco made a circular motion with one of his fingers, "Turn around. I can still kick your arse—literally."

Harry didn't bother trying to come up with an excuse. Draco had tricked him. Stupid! Stupid! Harry just continued to stand there, facing Draco. He placed his hands on his sides and tried to think of a way to escape the situation. He openly scrunched up his face and turned his attention to the ceiling, contemplating where to go. Well, Draco had his number. Harry had never said that Draco couldn't take him from behind. Everything he had been referring to, aside from his legs and his arms, was on the front of his body. From behind, Draco could get the back of his head (though Harry was sure he wouldn't), his back or his butt. Damnit. He gave in, "There have been some amendments to the—"

"No, sorry, Draco Malfoy ruled, and he said you already stated your boundaries," Draco quipped, grinning.

"Talking in the third person, are we, Malfoy? Does that make you feel good? To talk about yourself like you're some big-wig?" It was a weak insult, one of which Draco laughed at. He laughed in a way that made it obvious he felt bad for Harry's comeback. Defeated, Harry drew his spine up and tried to absorb some of the cocky, overly-inflated vibes that Draco had stolen from him over the few minutes past. "I have a proposal, then, will you listen?"

Draco lowered his fists about an inch, but that was all. Intrigued, he nodded, "If what you say makes sense."

Harry ignored him, "I propose that we revoke my stomach and arms in exchange for my back and arse."

"Hmm," Draco dramatically queried, searching Harry's face with thorough resolution and involvement. "That is tempting, and I would like to see your face when I do it..."

"Sadistic fool you are, Malfoy," Harry muttered, under his breath, but when Draco's eyebrows shot upward, challengingly, Harry forced a sweetly innocent smile. Draco glared in response, and Harry laughed. "I suppose it's not sadistic to you, is it? Wanting to see the pain you inflict on me? The-Boy-Who-Lived-Who-Has-Come-To-Destroy-What-Is-Left-of-Draco Malfoy's life?" Harry elevated his accent until it was strong, as if he were imitating Draco's accent—or the accent of every European wizard he had ever met and who expected him to be just as he dramatized... The Boy Wonder.

Draco answered him only one way, "Proposal accepted."

Harry sighed, heavily, purposely. He saw Draco shake his head. This was a sign for Harry not to sigh, again, or he was going to regret it. Harry had opened his mouth about Draco getting him back with a free shot, but he hadn't actually expected Draco to take him up on it, for some reason which he couldn't even find when thinking over the whole mistake of a response. He took a step backward, placed his arms in front of him, closed his eyes and drew in a huge deep breath to pace himself. Okay, he had gotten himself into it, and he was going to have to live up to his offer.

Draco dropped his arms, completely, and he tried not to laugh. Oh, come on, Potter! Didn't he know better than to close his eyes when he was going to be in a fight? But, no, this was not a fight. Draco half expected Harry to re-open his eyes, see that Draco's fists were down and realize that Draco had only been teasing. He didn't actually want to hit Harry. He had only been playing. He understood that Harry elbowing him was a quick reflex, and he didn't blame Harry. He wasn't a petty twelve year old, anymore. He didn't have to resort to revenge and pay-back. But, when Harry did not open his eyes, Draco realized that he... had free reign to do anything.

Harry twitched. He was waiting for massive amounts of pain to ensue. Any second... any... second... any...

"Potter," Draco spat, as coldly as he could, as he took Harry's hand, with a hard fury of a tug.

Harry flinched. God, what was Draco going to do to his poor wrist? It was his wand-wrist, too, which was not good news. Surely, Draco had to realize that they were both going to be needing his wrist over the next few months, in order to carry out their adventure? He took in a deep breath and flinched his eyes together as tightly as possible. Waiting... waiting... any... second... waiting... Finally, he opened his mouth to demand Draco do something, but he opened it all too soon, because Draco was doing something—just... not hitting him, but rather... something... soft... was... on the top of his left hand. It was warm, moist, light, and... Harry's eyes flew open, and he stared at Draco, gape-mouthed and wide-eyed.

Draco looked right at him, and it was not difficult to do so, though his lips were placed on the soft, pale, cool skin of Harry's hand. He was slightly leaned over, as well, and his palm was supporting Harry's. It would have been too easy to have taken any kind of shot on Harry, earlier. Plus, because the last thing he wanted to do was harm Harry, in anyway, the only other option was to do something that wouldn't harm him, at all, but rather stimulate him. Of course, whatever way that his lips stimulated Harry was up for Harry to decide. But, whatever the case, Harry hadn't expected something light—something charming—something... intimate.

Draco had been, very carefully, very subtly, supporting Harry's palm in his own left palm. He gently dropped it, as he stood his spine straight, again. His left hand disappeared behind his back, and, with his right hand, he reached up to his own face and stroked his thumb across the slight bit of moisture he had along his lower lip. All the while, he stared straight into the unfamiliar, yet increasingly less important, brown eyes of Judas Cliffdale. And, then, he looked down at the floor and casually brushed a piece of his own hair from in front of his eyes. He lowered his hand, licked his bottom lip, out of pure curiosity and innocence, and found Harry, again, who hadn't faltered from wide, innocent eyes and—now dry—parted lips.

"You really thought I would hit you, Potter?"

Harry blinked. He tried—and, he tried almost excruciatingly hard—to shake himself out of whatever trance Draco had just put him into. There had been a slap, a lightening bolt and a click in Harry's subconscious thought process. He didn't know how he had heard or seen any of these things, but they had been there. Draco Malfoy had kissed his hand. It had been an all-too-enjoyable sensation. It had been all too monumental. It had been all too... personal. It had been... an entrancing surprise. He couldn't fathom why he felt so splintched, suddenly, but he certainly did, and he was left staring at Draco's mouth, blankly, because of it, as if searching for answers as to why what had just happened had happened.

Draco watched him, ever curious and fascinated, "Potter?" Nothing. Wow. "Potter!" Silence. "Potter."

"What?"

Draco shifted, awkwardly, and he scratched his jaw, "All-right, there, Potter?" He took a giant step backward.

Harry resented this motion. He scowled because of it and didn't answer Draco. He simply turned away. What was Malfoy doing taking a giant step backward, anyway? Had he expected Harry to do something? And, what had that something, if it was anything, been? His mouth twisted, and his jaw clenched. It was completely silent behind him. He turned around, suddenly, and he was smiling. He couldn't help it, "You'll take any opportunity to kiss me, Malfoy, won't you?"

Draco repressed his laughter, but he still smiled, his lips closed together, "Well, I do love you, remember?"

"I don't think you're going to let me forget."

"I don't think you want to forget, but... that's a different subject for a different, less-serious gathering."

Harry didn't argue with him, this time. He didn't say anything at all. He let his expression do all of the talking, which seemed to infuriate Draco's spar-ready eyes. He was looking for a comeback from Harry, but Harry knew it wisest to save his comebacks for when Draco was least expectant of them. Because of this, he also knew that Draco was having a good time, there in the boring church, with nothing to do and no one to talk to... no one aside from him. He took this as a compliment, and turned his tone serious, "The only reason I wondered about your interest in Philosophy was because I've always wondered where you've stood on the issue of souls."

Draco sighed with an annoyed smirk at Harry, "You have not, Potter."

"You're right, I haven't," Harry admitted. He gave one, small shrug. "Do you think Voldemort has a soul?"

At this, Draco's laughter took over the entire service room until it was loud, hard and very obvious what his answer to Harry's question was. Harry, in response, was waiting for what was so funny about his question. Draco sighed. Here was Harry Potter, a near seventeen year old who should have been way more intense and ratified in his own experiences with Voldemort to answer his own question, "Do I think You-Know-Who has a soul! Come on, Potter—hahaha, oh my. No! The man is a psychopath! He has no soul!"

Harry watched Draco's reaction until he was sitting on the pew, again, appearing to have been in quite the bit of delight and aching pain from having been laughing so hard, "This shows your awkward humor, Malfoy. I've never seen you laugh quite so hard," he lightly threw at Draco, and it was the truth. From what he could tell, it was the first time Draco was laughing over something that he found truly funny, and what did he find funny? That Harry had to question him on if he believed Voldemort had a soul. He shifted and started for Draco, leaned forward with curious attention. "How are you so sure?"

Draco looked up at Harry, shaking his head from side to side, "Oh, come on! You can't honestly—"

"Why not?" Harry cut him off, swinging around and sitting himself right beside Draco.

Draco straightened his back, with his hands on his knees, and he stared at Harry, incredulous for the passing moments of time. Why not? Why not! Why not! Draco shook his head and turned away from facing Harry. He knew Harry wasn't trying to push the notion down, but rather play the Devil's Advocate, "Harry," Draco started, contemplating how to get his point across, "if you were walking down the street, and you had the sudden urge to murder a man, would that make you evil? I mean, really?"

Harry looked Draco's face over, cautiously. He didn't want to answer the wrong way, so he answered his own way, "Yes, because I wouldn't ordinarily want to kill a man who had never done anything to me, but in terms of where you're going with this, no."

Draco was slightly surprised, even though it was the answer he had been looking for, "Exactly, it may have been an evil thought, no doubt, but did you kill the man?" Harry nodded along with the point of what Draco was saying. "It depends on what you believe a soul does to a person. Now, if You-Know-Who were walking down the street, and he pulled out his wand and murdered that same man you had looked at and then turned away from, why would he have a soul? You have a soul, Harry, because it is the good. It is perfection, and that is how you take from good what you do. To kill someone, unabashed in the fact, afterward, how could that identify you to having a soul? No conscience—"

"No," Harry cut him off, immediately, "that's where the distinction comes, a distinction that I can't seem to figure out." He paused, and then turned to Draco with serious eyes. "A conscience is not a soul, now is it?"

Draco's lips fumbled for a second, but he didn't have an answer to Harry's question.

Harry stood up, with his hands on his sides, and started to pace in front of Draco.

Draco watched him, in the dark, move to one side and then the other. Each turn he made, in his minor circle, cast new and conflicting shadows over his face. He was deep in thought, and Draco wondered if he ever stopped thinking. He, then, leaned forward, over his knees, his eyelashes flickering from a closed, thoughtful state, "What are you?"

"What?"

Draco frowned, "You, Potter. What are you? You're a soul, are you not?"

Harry stopped pacing, distracted by the question, but then started, again, huffing, "That I know of."

Harry hated discussing what he was, and Draco didn't like the response he got whenever he attempted to show that he cared about knowing what Harry had been through and what he was feeling—neither of which he could ever come remotely close to feeling. Because Harry reacted this way, again, putting a large mental distance between them, and feeling the slight cold-front that came in direct result of Harry's blow off, Draco stood up, straight, and walked to Harry. He pushed him right off of his pacing track, and when Harry turned around, with a look of bewilderment and defense, Draco shoved him, again.

Harry stayed back the three feet, when he was done stumbling. He paused, "What the hell was that for?"

Draco walked to him, threw his palms out and shoved Harry, again. This time, he did it harder. Much harder.

Harry nearly tripped over a raised part of the front of the service room. He caught himself, twisted around. When he stood straight, again, he hurried around the opposite side of the raised platform, offensively putting the three or four feet of space between he and Draco. He caught his breath as he stared at Draco. What! Had he gone mad? Was he suddenly possessed? He wasn't smirking in the way that Harry had grown accustomed to. He wasn't grinning. He wasn't even sneering! He wasn't even loathing at Harry's existence. He was blank, and dark, and he stepped one foot up onto the platform.

Harry stared at him, trying his damnedest to figure out Draco's positioning, on all levels, physical and mental, without appearing to have been trying to do so.

Draco dropped his gaze from Harry's and tended to his untied shoelace.

Harry awkwardly watched, waiting in the terribly confusing silence, "Are you, er... all-right?"

"No," Draco slung, coldly, without looking up or waiting a second to respond. When he was done tying his lace, he dropped his foot down onto the wooden panels of the floor, again, and focused on Harry. "You're a soul, Harry. I don't have to ask what you are and expect you to answer. I know what you are. You're a soul. Within your soul, you have a conscience." Harry seemed unimpressed by this. "That is what I choose to believe. Voldemort has no conscience. He has a soul, but it is not like the souls you and I have. You should know this better than anyone."

Harry blinked, highly offended and on extreme alert at the amount of ferocious passion Draco was suddenly showing to him through whatever emotions he was currently displaying. He had to defend himself, "It was an innocent question!"

"And, I gave you the answer! He has a soul—just not a human one."

"Okay," Harry insisted, his tone hard. He followed the blonde toward the pew, again. Draco was heading for the isle, which annoyed Harry very much. He hurried around Draco's powerful stride for the door. He jumped in front of the other body and returned the shoves, ten-fold, that Draco had given him only a minute earlier. He might have been a little too worked up, because Draco ended up stumbling back quite a few feet, until he caught himself with his hand on the side of a pew, his elegant form askew. Harry growled, approaching him. "Malfoy, if you give me any more of your shit, tonight, I'm going to hex your face off and sell it on WEBAY for a measly knut."

"If you're still alive," Draco hissed back at him, closing in on Harry with a harsh intensity.

Harry didn't budge, and Draco hadn't expected him to, "I told you, Malfoy, I know about as much as you do."

"About what?"

"About me," Harry scolded him, as if it were obvious. It should have been obvious! He wasn't going to say it, again, after that night! It occurred to him, at that very moment, as he mentally fumed, that he had never explained to Draco that what he, Harry, knew about his situation was just about as much as Draco knew. He hadn't had time to find out all of the ins and outs, and Dumbledore hadn't thought it important—or perhaps it was too important—enough to tell Harry before he had left. "About what I am! Who I am! Let it go! When, and if—hear that, if—I find something out, I'll fucking let you know!"

Draco's eyes flickered over Harry's, momentarily, but he then turned away, feeling his blood pressure cool and his face fall subject to something that he might have considered defeat if he weren't standing in the same room as Harry Potter. He knew he had jumped on Harry's case way too fast and way too hard. There had been many times when it should have been clear to him that Harry knew very little about his own situation, and questioning that situation would only frustrate and anger the bloody hell out of his brilliantly tortured, hectic mind. All Draco seemed to do, when he brought up anything about Harry, was anger him, "What was it about Philosophy, Potter? Answer me, honestly, this time, would you?"

"It was an innocent question," Harry reiterated, but not meanly, trying to pinpoint where Draco's temper had disappeared to. It wasn't that his temper was awful. It wasn't like Harry's. Draco just became intense and hard to breathe around. It was almost like his anger sucked the oxygen out of the room. But, Harry had been trying to tell him to back off of the subject of his soul, over and over, and Draco hadn't accepted it as the end—of course, Harry had no answers for him, and THAT was the problem. THAT was why he got so upset and flippant. He had no answers, and he hated that there was no way he could find those answers, at least not on his own or without Dumbledore, who he wasn't supposed to have any contact with, what-so-ever, outside of random public functions, like the funeral or the breakfast Draco had hosted, weeks earlier, at the manor.

"And, yet, you continue to avoid the question," Draco drawled, at last, with a blank state at Harry.

"Would you rather me make something up, then, Malfoy? Will it shut you up?" Draco said nothing. Harry didn't try to think of a lie. He went with the truth, instead. "We've established that you and I are, to each other, what no one else can ever be. Right?" Draco squinted, but he did not lie. Harry continued, as if Draco agreed with him through silent conversation. "We're also standing here, you and I, trying to figure out what the hell we're supposed to be doing. You and I are pretty much a one-meal deal from here on out, you know? You're what I have, Draco, and you're it. If we were the last people on the face of the earth, and I was offered a meal, there wouldn't be a doubt in my mind, or even the slightest bit of hesitance, to share whatever meal I was given—good or bad, with you. So, regarding Philosophy, you're the only person I'd WANT to take that course with. We're of the same make—same minds. We're terribly different, but scarily alike. I've gone from despising your existence, in theory, to taking extreme treasure of the fact that now I don't despise your existence, but would rather die than be alone in this—yeah, and that's why I won't erase your memory where it regards what we have to do, and it's also why I'd hope we'd take some of the same classes next term, because I know I'm going to come out of this summer with one friend—and, it'll be you."

Draco began to hum, but only to himself, thinking over every little syllable Harry had relayed to him.

Harry watched, without hope or expectation, "It's possible that you won't come out of this with the same respect for me that I'll have for you, and I know it will be a large credit of respect, because I already do feel as if you've far outdone yourself, Malfoy. I've invaded your life, and the way you've handled it has been incredible. Therefore, my respect, if it means anything, is fully yours. And, if I never get that back, and in three months, or six months, a year, three years, five years... if we end up the way we started out, Malfoy, I'm still always going to feel about you the way I do—which, really, is sometimes confusing and complicated, and at times makes me want to turn you on mute..." He didn't laugh, and he wasn't even laughing inside of his head. The words were running out of his mouth, fluidly.

Harry had never been good with long monologues. He was usually the one who listened to such ranting. Really. Then, again, when those people spoke, it was of stories, it was not of feelings and emotions—two things which he had come to greatly appreciate. He didn't take the two expressions of himself and underrate them. He took them for what they were, because he knew that expressing them, the best he could, at times when he was feeling open enough to do so, would greatly show his ideal thoughts to someone else—someone he was vulnerable to, who rightfully hadn't abused that very power.

"We've never knowingly, or happily, shared a class, have we? Philosophy, from where we stand, here, just seems like the only acceptable and appropriate subject we could ever share. It's the only one that does justice to... to us, the situation, what we doing, what we're trying to do, and, God, if we're even alive by the end of this, I'd just want to sit there, with a Philosophy book opened in front of me and smirk at all of the words that great men have supposedly spoken in their most brilliant days about, uh, God, life, reality, knowledge, ethics..."

Draco was close to him. Almost too close. It was too dark, somehow, even though it was very bright.

"Asking about Philosophy was my way of setting a goal. I'm trying to see myself still alive by the time the term begins, if it does, and being able to turn to you—and, not Ron, and not Seamus, Dean or Neville—you, Draco, because you and I would have been together all summer. And, I know something is going to happen. A series of these somethings are going to happen, and I'm telling myself that we're still going to be alive after all of these events, and then in Philosophy, I can turn and look at you, whether you've hexed my existence or celebrated it, and laugh. I'd tell you that the Philosophical legends never had to do anything about what they were researching. They thought, and they researched, and they spoke about evil, but, you and I... we knew on a level no one else did."

"Pressure is nothing to you, is it, Harry Potter?"

Harry sighed all sorts of agitation at Draco's blatant dismissal of the answer Draco had been asking him for the whole entire visit. He rested back against the wall beside the door that was keeping them locked away from the world, locked away from prying eyes, prying ears and prying minds. He tossed his hands out, palms facing upward, at Draco, giving up, "What?"

Draco stood in front of him, "Do you realize the amount of pressure you've put on me, Potter? I mean, outside of you coming into my life and expecting me to take you in with open arms. Second, only, of course, to believing everything you've said, blindly, after you made my father disappear into thin air and expected me to take that without anger while it destroyed my mother..." He paused, the train of his thought about to change tracks. He switched it back and seriously peered into Harry's dark eyes. "As cocky or arrogant as you think I am, and as cocky and arrogant as I might come off, and have come off, I'm sure, since the moment we nearly met, I'm not that way purposely. I don't set out to be that way, I just am. But, just because I come off a certain way doesn't mean I have all of the confidence in the world to do something, blindly—"

"I'm not asking you to do anything blindly, Draco," Harry quietly spoke over him, which wasn't hard.

Draco hesitated, shifting. He looked down at his right palm. It was tilted upward, between he and Harry. He peered down into the small, empty crater that his cupped palm created, "I know, but I'm telling you, now. You don't seem to have any insecurity that you'll come out of whatever it is that we're going to end up ultimately doing, assuming that we even end up doing that. I've never asked you what, exactly, you're after, but I think that's probably the most unintelligible question to even ask. It's just... there, Potter. But, I'm not you. I don't go escaping death every year. Hell, I wash my hands twenty times a day to keep from catching a cold!"

Harry was staring at him.

Draco's eyes intensely found Harry's, again. He wasn't being overly dramatic. He was just expressing, to Harry, what his concerns were. They were large concerns. If Harry wanted to be consistent with honesty around Draco, Draco was going to have to be brave enough to be honest, too. He had nothing to hold back. He wasn't sure holding anything back would end up resulting in anything good, anyway, "What good am I, Potter, really—'

"Are you nuts!" Harry interrupted him, suddenly, with a loud laugh. He reached out and grasped Draco's upper arms, over the heavy, bulky robe. He gave Draco a shake, as if to get him to knock it off and realize what he was asking. But, Draco only scoffed at him, as if he were trying to be serious and Harry was ruining it. This startled Harry, completely. The whole idea of Draco even questioning what—"Draco, look at me."

Draco leaned in the few inches to Harry's face, nose to nose, and stared at him, pointedly.

Harry didn't push him away or acknowledge the fact that Draco was so close. He didn't mind. It didn't distract him or annoy him. If any distraction were to come from the closeness, it would have absolutely nothing to do with their conversation, at that moment, therefore making every distraction of their lack-of-distance completely pointless and non-existent if they were, indeed, pointed distractions. His hands, still on Draco's uppers arms, grasped, affectionately, "Who am I, Malfoy?"

"This should be good," Draco murmured, but it came out too loudly. Harry heard. "You're Harry Potter."

"No!" Harry exclaimed, loudly, right in Draco's face.

Draco couldn't help his slightly startled, somewhat off-put laugh as he put more space between their faces, as if, for the first time, realizing the predicament that such closeness with Harry Potter could present him if certain planetary alignments were perfect for such a happening, "Okay, then. You're Judas.'

"Er, wrong. Try again."

Draco smirked, "If you're about to tell me you're really You-Know-Who, give me a head start—to be, uh, fair."

Fair! Voldemort! HA! Harry shook his head, "Like he'd allow a head-start. He's getting old—anyway, guess again."

"I don't know, Potter, who are you?" And. Harry gently released his arms. Almost comically, his face lit up, his eyes widened, his mouth became a circle of awe, and his hands were suddenly beaming at the sides of his face. He looked as if he had just been kidnapped by unicorns and bunnies and taken to the land of acid-trips and sunshine. But, the incoherent look faded away, and his hands disappeared.

Only when Draco felt weight on his shoulders did he realize where Harry's hands had gone.

"Exactly, Malfoy," Harry expressed. Draco looked completely out of the loop. "I'm Potter."

Draco went to say, "Oh!" with sudden epiphany, but it came out as an expression, instead.

Harry grasped Draco's shoulders, "You're Malfoy, and I'm Potter. Do you know what we spent last year doing?" Draco laughed. His eyes looked up at the ceiling, and he pretended to sniffle, as if what he was recalling was a cute memory of them beating each other's faces in or hexing each other until the other was nearly incapable of existing, somehow. "Fighting, arguing, dueling, and we did that, because I am Potter, and you are Malfoy—the same Malfoy who recently told me that, if we would have been friends, we could have dominated the school. You're the same Malfoy who has given me fifteen thousand speeches about sticking together, and I particularly remember one in which you told me you weren't going to let me do any of this alone, because I am to you what you are to me, and if we're all each other have... yes, do you remember this?"

"Potter, I think I do recall saying that."

Harry tried not to laugh, "Excellent. Do you realize that I have never questioned that we could be brilliant, and you just did?" Draco went to protest against this, but Harry grinned. "You started talking about insecurity, and I was sure someone had possessed you."

"Like I said, I may come off arrogant and cocky, but as long as you're the only one who can hear me admit..."

Harry took note of the situation. Anything they said could never have been overheard or recalled by anyone else, in the entire world, "No, I understand. But, in regard to us—you and me, you shouldn't have insecurity about us." Harry paused. "Have I ever let you down?"

"No," Draco muttered, resting next to him on the wall. "Have I ever let you down?"

Harry smiled, looking up at the ceiling of the church. He almost said yes, but then he realized that, in the whole of their evil, sometimes petty, relationship, Draco had never let him down. Sure, they had despised each other, but Harry had never had any expectations on Draco's existence. If anything, the situation that very summer spoke of the way Draco had far outweighed Harry's expectations. He had taken heed to his own family and refused Voldemort. That was brilliant and brave, and... "Never."

Draco watched Harry's eyelashes flicker, "You won't tell me the whole truth, Potter. It makes me hesitant."

Harry closed his eyes, and as he did so, a sharp pain began to throb in his temple, "Oh, no," he groaned, bringing both of his hands up to his head. Another loud, thunderous rumbling began in his temple. It was so harmful and physical that it felt as if Harry was witnessing an earthquake, first hand, and the loud rumbling of the earth shifting was right below his feet. Except, the sound was felt in his head. Yes, he felt the sound, and it felt terrible. He knew he was in for a long night. He pushed himself off of the wall and turned to Draco, who seemed torn between impatience, yet again dismissed without answers to questions he had the right to know, and worry over what Harry had just obviously felt. He sighed, motioning Draco off of the wall, too. "We should go back. I'm starting to get a headache."

Draco stepped off from the wall. His hand cupped around the back of Harry's bent elbow, worriedly, as they walked a few feet, until they were standing in front of the door, "Is it that bad? Do you feel like you're going to be sick?" When Harry nodded, Draco frowned, and at Harry's own nod, the pain seemed to increase, and he doubled over with his head clutched between his hands. "Do you have to do anything to reverse the spell?"

Harry uttered something small under his breath, and a blue light shot out from the door and into Harry's outstretched wand. This was something that Draco had never seen before. Perhaps Harry had never seen such magic, either. The spell had actually retreated from the door and re-entered Harry's wand.

Harry tilted the wand up, as if he could see within it. He peered down into it, curiously, "Huh."

"Come on, let's get you home, Cliffdale."

Harry was being led out of the door before he really could realize it, "My head hurts like a bitch."

"You know who's a bitch?"

"Who, Malfoy?" Harry asked, hesitantly. Even though the throbbing in his head was getting louder by the second, he was still fully intrigued in what Draco was saying. For some reason, when Draco spoke, Harry didn't find it easy to tune out. It was because, when Draco spoke, he didn't annoy Harry. Harry didn't know when this revelation had introduced itself to his subconscious, but it was, apparently, true. It was a bit of a drag, too, to realize that he no longer scoffed at Draco Malfoy's very existence and drawling voice, but rather enjoyed that existence, and, at times, that drawling, sarcastic, unimpressed tone that he had come to love more quickly than he had ever grown to hate.

"The women who were in your life. You're going to tell me about, tonight, while I take care of you and force you to answer my questions at wand-point."

"Uh-huh," Harry humored him, with a slight stutter. Wait! He hadn't agreed to that!

They looked at each other. One expression was of forced innocence, the other of apprehension.

"If I fall asleep, I'll be fine," Harry dismissed, as expertly as he could manage. He failed. Horribly.

Draco turned to him, as they exited the church to an empty front lawn, "You're sure?"

Harry turned right back to him, silently, and stopped. Was he sure? Draco was asking him... a question. A nice question. It had a ringing of... kindness in it, which wasn't necessarily unusual, but for them, together, it was. Their relationship had mostly been based on fiery comebacks and respectable understandings, but it kept evolving, and that very night, and at that very moment, the realization of what it was evolving forward to boggled and awed Harry's own surprise, his own predictions about he and Draco surviving, and if not together, then solely. And, as he stared at Draco, he asked himself how sure he was that they were going to come out of it, together.

If Draco had been anyone else, Harry's hopes and expectations would have been lower, and he did question if both of them would come out, alive. But, Draco was Draco. No matter how timid to running right toward death that Draco seemed to be, he was also smart, agile, fast, and had a quick-mind. These things, Harry hoped, would equal a better chance of survival for Draco, and a better chance of survival meant a better chance for Harry's outcome, too.

If Draco had been anyone else, Harry was sure he wouldn't have felt so at ease.

Draco stopped, too, and he fought with his emotions, at first, "We are friends, aren't we?"

Harry didn't answer him. Instead, he felt his answer etching into his face.

Draco didn't need an audible answer, anyway. Harry's smile answered what words could not.

They were something more monumental than just friends. There just wasn't a word to describe their relationship, that was all! Amused at the depth he felt for Harry, which he knew was returned, he shrugged his shoulders up and reached to Harry's cloaked wrist with his fingertips. He gripped the material and began to pull Harry along side of him, "'If you're not going to let me take care of you, as friends should do, at least let me apparate you back. You look like you'll have an aneurysm if you even try."

Harry pulled the material of his cloak from Draco's grasp, and he stopped them. Draco began to turn, awkwardly, but Harry stopped him with an agile, quick move. He stood behind Draco, out of no where, wrapped his arms around Draco's shoulders, with an evil grin, though he was hardly anything but not willing to do so, and lifted his feet off of the ground.

And, in result, Draco groaned of exhaustion and misery, defeat and anger, and complete and utter regret of suggesting what he had. Harry didn't have the energy to apparate, and he wasn't going to try, not then. When he apparated, his head usually felt like it was going to explode, anyway. A certain amount of pressure always made his head tense and tight, and with a horrible headache approaching, he figured it best to let Draco do the honors.

But, Draco let Harry get comfortable, or as comfortable as he could be, "This is Deja Vu."

Harry muttered a tiny, distracted laugh. The throbbing in his head made him feel dizzy, but not dizzy enough to cloud his thoughts. He smiled to himself, after he laughed. Draco was perfectly comfortable. He wasn't even trying to battle with Harry's weight thrown over his back, "You offered."

Draco hissed and growled, under his breath, but he came up with nothing as a response, "Fine, hold on."

"Oh, I plan on holding on tightly, dear Malfoy," Harry suggestively added, his voice milky and low. "Take me home, I'm tired and my head hurts—oh, and don't try anything tricky with where we land. I'm not weak enough to shove you out a window."

As they apparated, Draco was muttering something about not being able to make any promises.

About an hour later, Harry was laying in his elaborate canopy bed, staring listlessly at the dark drapery above him. His head was pounding, and he had tried every spell, that he had knowledge of, in attempts to alleviate it. He was horrible with medical wizardry, which was material he wouldn't have been taught, anyway. The most common headache reliever, that most all wizards were taught, had proven to be not at all useful to him.

Over the last hour, Harry's temperature had increased, and he had come down with a fever. He didn't feel horrible outside of the headache and the hotness beneath his skin that was trying to break free, and he was grateful. He knew it was possible to get dizzy from the silent-room spell, and he was glad he hadn't had to deal with that, because he never acted like a man when he was dizzy. He whined and complained and became very irritable with those around him, especially if they... uh, breathed too loudly or moved too much.

The room was peaceful enough. Only a few of the candles were lit, and it created a dark-orange glow over everything, including his own skin. His curtains were whipping in from the light summer breeze, and his toes were playing a game of back-and-forth to the beat of a rhythm in his head. It was the rhythm of the pounding, which proved to be suddenly frustrating. He turned on his left side and beat the pillow below his head with his right hand, with a certain amount of hopelessness and regret, "I never should have cast that damn spell."

Draco had been sitting on Harry's floor for the past hour, halfway across the room, flipping quietly through one of the medical books from the bookshelf that Gregarold Cliffdale had sent Harry. Whereas Harry could not concentrate on anything other than his own breathing and how it annoyed him, Draco had taken on the responsibility of seeing if there was any way they could alleviate Harry's headache. And, if they could not, Harry had informed him that he would have to ride the headache out for the night, which they both figured to be a waste of the beauty of magical healing potions and such.

Harry lifted his head, at Draco's silence, and peeked down over the end of the bed, searching for the top of Draco's bright head. It was still there, and Draco was still flipping through one of the books. Only minutes before, Draco had been itching at his neck. It had infuriated and annoyed Harry, so Harry had thrown a shoe at him. It had hit Draco on the back, and though Harry had apologized profusely, through amused laughter, Draco had still not spoken to him. He was making a point to Harry, but Harry was too unfocused to deal with it. Besides, Draco was still trying to find a cure to help Harry, so Harry figured he couldn't have been that offended.

Even the noises that Draco quietly made, across the room, were extremely loud in Harry's own mind. It was an unfortunate effect of the spell he had cast, earlier. And, adding that onto the constant thudding, expanding and contracting of, apparently, Harry's whole brain, it made him want to rip his head off and scream just to scream, "I said I was sorry."

Draco turned his head to the right and glanced at Harry. It was simple, and then he looked away.

Harry fell back down onto the pillows, groaning with annoyance, "Fine, don't forgive me, you daft, cocky little git, but I won't apologize, again!"

Draco tagged a page in the book between his palms. He closed it, placed it on the floor, and then pushed himself up, with his empty hands, until he was on his feet. Still bent at the waist, he swiped the book up in his right hand and took his time in standing tall, again. He was exhausted, because it had been a long day. On top of that, there was a bruise welting into, what felt like, a bludger hit to his back. He was sore and annoyed, but still dedicated to what he had been looking for. He started for the end of Harry's bed, "I found a couple of things that might help you, but neither are without risk or side-effect, you arrogant, bitchy, lovely git."

Harry pushed himself up on his elbows, "What kind of side-effects?"

"Well," Draco began, with an informative deep breath, "one will get rid of your head-ache, but in the margin of the potion, perhaps written by Gregarold, it says in rather harshly capitalized letters that it has been re-titled as the "Acid-Trip" potion, and he made a note to suggest that he would never want anyone to endure what he had under it." Draco tossed the book onto the book of Harry's gigantic bed, between the two draping, separated curtains. He leaned forward and bent over the bed, his hands supporting him, watching Harry's hesitant expression. "Exactly."

"And, the second?" Harry asked, with hope. "Tell me the second one is better."

Draco opened the book to the tagged page, "The second has absolutely nothing to do with curing headaches, but curing headaches is the side-effect of the spell," he explained, and lifted the book up, so the cover was facing Harry. And, Harry, to read better, sat up, completely. He seemed weak, and Draco was very hesitant about testing the water on where Harry's patience was with him, or with anyone, when he threw shoes at Draco for sniffling ONCE.

Harry sighed, reaching his left hand out for the book, "That's a book on musical magic."

"I'm aware," Draco responded, though he tried to do it without sarcasm. When he saw Harry's eyes narrow, he immediately cleared his throat and looked away, so he wouldn't laugh. The book in his grip was swiped away, by Harry, and seconds later, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry throw himself back down into his pillows, lounging about over his perfectly made, dark, shadowed bed. His own eyes shifted back to Harry, seriously. "It's a spell that would make you not be able to speak for the rest of the night. When you speak, it comes out in musical notes, so it'd be like you singing instead of speaking. But, it does cure headaches, and there is a possibility you'd feel ticklish in your kneecaps."

"Ticklish in my kneecaps?" Harry asked, lowering the book from his eyes and trying not to laugh at Draco.

Draco pointed at Harry, "It may sound harmless, but people have died from being tickled. They laugh so hard that they can't catch their breath, and, so says in the margins of the spell, there have been deaths from this spell when the ticklish sensation has been overwhelming, but it also states that it is mostly women in their early twenties whose kneecaps act up, but ticklish sensations appear to be more enjoyable in young men."

"Hmm," Harry added, to Draco's introduction to the spell. "An acid trip or possible death..."

"Personally, I'd go with the acid-trip, but you and death have some sort of twisted relationship, and I'm sure you'd much more prefer to face that than, oh, a colorful day in a sunflower field on a simulated acid-trip."

Harry snickered, but only to himself, "I'm afraid to ask you whether or not you're speaking from experience."

"You've met my friends, have you not?" Draco asked, as if that meant something, though it didn't mean anything. Truth was, he wasn't into the drug scene. The world of stimulants in magic was unlimited. Spells were created all of the time for the purpose of recreational high, but Draco had never been interested. He much more preferred dealing with his teenage angst and depression through actually dealing with it and not avoiding it. But, he had an image of the opposite.

Harry's looked Draco over, once, but then smiled to himself and returned to reading about the spell they were going to use on him. Well, he could do with some laughter, if it came to it. He surely didn't want to die. He would have fought off Voldemort, but his real death would have been by that of... being tickled? Tickled to Death, Harry Potter! Yeah, some biography title. He sighed to himself, "Good."

"Good?" Draco asked, his voice high. "You're telling me it's good that I've done acid-trip-esque things?"

"No," Harry laughed and peeked, once more, at the blonde, "it's good that you haven't."

"I think I just implied that I have done stupid things."

"Implication means nothing. I know you're too smart and stubborn to go off and be what your friends are."

"I think I feel oddly flattered," Draco muttered and began to ponder over the satisfaction he was feeling.

Harry closed the musical book between his palms. He set his attention, with a full heart, onto Draco. Draco was sitting at the end of Harry's bed, with one leg pulled up and resting, and the other's foot still on the floor. He looked comfortable but not content. It wasn't like he was willingly going to relax in Harry's company, for reasons such as having been assaulted with shoes and such, and... well, it was Harry's bed, and outside of all of their innocent bicker about such flirtatious and time-passing issues as their boy-ish teasing about sexuality went back and forth, it was not as open to reality as it had been in theory, and for that very fact, Harry was saddened.

Draco frowned, "What?" He had watched something happen to Harry's eyes. They had softened so much.

Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows, once more, and focused, intently, on Draco's face. It was obvious that the joking banter of their relationship had not seemed to open up any real doors of friendship, the kind of friendship that was needed for Harry to look at Draco the way he suddenly felt he was. Carefully, he urged, "How are your friends, anyhow? I hadn't heard about them being around."

Draco gave a bitter, sharp laugh, "The last two weeks I've ignored everyone I've nearly ever cared about."

"Why?" Harry blurted, confused.

Draco stood up from the bed. Once he pushed himself off, he shrugged, "I've not felt very sociable, Harry."

Harry followed Draco's lean, fluid body around the end of the bed with his eyes. He didn't respond. Instead, he pushed himself all of the way up, though his head pounded even harder at doing so. He cared more about the tone of Draco's voice and his lack-luster grace than his own throbbing pain. He folded his arms over his chest, carefully watching as Draco began to pace at the foot of the bed, disappearing, periodically, for seconds-on-end when he would be covered by the curtains and two posters at the end of the bed.

Draco stopped, at the center of the foot of the bed, and turned to Harry, helplessly, "Why do you care?"

"Because, I care about you."

Draco blinked, "You care about me?" He asked, but mostly to himself. "When did this happen?"

Harry sighed, "Don't do that, Draco. I care about you, and I know your friends are important to you—"

"Well, apparently, all of my friends think I'm arrogant and egotistical. Can you blame me for taking a break from that?" He asked, genuinely, as he walked toward one of Harry's open windows, with the intention of peering out onto the dark grounds or up into the brightly lit night sky. The moon phase was only about three days from reaching its full potential of brilliance, but even as it wasn't completely whole, that night, it still seemed like there was some outside force of light that lit up the grounds and illuminated the walls of the Malfoy manor in a very grand, spectacular way.

Harry slid to the side of the bed that faced the window, and he sat at the edge, silently, watching.

Draco rubbed at his jaw with his entire right hand, staring distantly out into nothingness, "Nice night."

Harry's eyes floated out to peer into the night sky, as well, but he didn't become entranced, "Kind of fits, doesn't it?" He asked, and Draco turned to look back at him with questioning eyes. "The weather has been horrible during the day, lately, but at night, somehow, it clears up... and it's beautiful out. But, when we wake up tomorrow morning, it'll be just as miserable and dreary as it was this morning. It's like everything that we're supposed to see in the daylight doesn't want to be seen, and everything in the night, that we're not supposed to see, wants to be shown—like some... abrasive whore whose never actually had sex."

Draco stared out the window, "An abrasive virgin whore who also wears black eyeliner that suggests a lifestyle of cocaine-filled nights with the men who pay for company rather than sex, but dare if their wives found out their husbands found someone else to be intimately emotional with while they were dealing with the kids..."

Harry stood up, "Not to mention what happens when they find out that the paid-company was a man."

Draco leaned over the edge of the open window, "The beautiful one with black hair and—"

"Bright blue eyes." Harry finished, joining Draco in leaning over the thick, cold, stone windowsill.

Draco looked at Harry with laughing eyes, "She'd seen him before and prayed at church for his cocaine habits on that next Sunday, but the only thing that he really ever snorted was his own self-achievement, because he fooled everyone around him into believing that he was the lowest scum on the earth, and not the self-made, clean, level-headed, virgin man who counseled and listened to other men tell him their deepest and darkest secrets."

"And, when he was being prayed for that Sunday, he was loading on his eyeliner—"

"For another night out with her husband and another lonely morning with a man not nearly as lonely as he."

"All he wanted was for someone to realize his mask was as large as those masks of men who paid for his company."

"If we were all a bit more like the virgin whore, we'd all be underrated and lonely, wouldn't we be?"

"You would know," Harry returned, under his breath, staring up at the moon.

Draco smiled, pulling his eyes from one of the pine-trees in the distance, "You think I'm him?"

Harry smiled, too, but didn't look back at the presence to his left, "Draco," Harry began, seriously, lowering his eyes from the brilliantly ethereal light above their eyes, above their knowledge. He turned into Draco, a bit more, leaning more on his right side than his left. But, Draco did not look back at him, just turned his own attention back up to the stars in a fast, awed-eye way, with slightly parted lips. It was like he had never seen the stars before, and Harry wondered if Draco always experienced such fascination with the stars. His name was, after all, Draco—perhaps his fascination was written in the stars when he had been born and his parents had looked down upon him and called him Draco. Perhaps.

"I've never known anyone to have worn a larger disguise than you. Ever. Not even Mad-Eye in fourth year."

Draco laughed, innocently, openly, but didn't say anything about the topic, "Look." He pointed.

Harry followed Draco's finger to the sky, and he looked for something of great importance, "What?"

"No," Draco corrected, quietly, of Harry's question. "Just... look."

And, two-equally aged wizards gazed upward, silently, at the infinite, eternal sky above them, so far away that they couldn't comprehend its complication. They understood that the beauty was that they respected the night sky for its distance, its complication and its complete and utter truth. It was the only thing that wasn't lying, that couldn't lie. It wasn't in their world. They could not manipulate it to be anything or do anything. It was above them. It was above their earth, above their knowledge, above everything in humanity and above all of the evils that they could ever be effected by.

Eventually, Harry was leaned over, sleepily, with his cheek resting on his fisted palm, staring upward, though his head had not stopped pounding. And, Draco, opposite, had turned around so that his back had been facing the scene outside. He had carefully rested upon his back, and he had been able to freely gaze at the sky, and he had done so, but in his own bedroom windows, many times, before.

At last, Draco lifted his hand and pointed to a certain ball of light, "That's Saturn."

Harry followed Draco's eyes upward until he found a bright, faintly-red stud of light, "It's bright."

"Yeah," Draco agreed, lowering his fingertip, distractedly staring up at the planet. "I'll admit... I loved Divination, but I wish there had been more astronomy involved."

Harry laughed, quietly, his eyes fixing onto Draco, not at all hesitant to do so, "Your name is Draco."

Draco grinned, but sadly, "Cornwell named me—said Draco was his favorite constellation."

"Mine, too."

Draco smiled but said nothing.

Harry watched him, feeling his cheeks beginning to ache and sting. He hadn't realized how long he had been smiling or grinning, even if, at times, it had been faint. But, he couldn't escape the fact that he was enjoying himself, halfway laying on a huge windowsill, staring up at the night-time sky, in all of its startlingly difficult glory, with Draco Malfoy next to him. It wasn't such a bad life to live. It wasn't such a bad place to be. In fact, it was not bad to be Harry Potter, at that moment, at all. He had never looked at the stars with his friends, before, like he was doing with Draco.

Harry looked back up at Saturn, "What's your favorite?"

"Constellation? Draco, second to Scorpious."

"How can anyone look up at that and not think that there is a God—or... or something? Something greater."

"One of the great Philosophical questions," Draco quietly countered the sudden ponder of Harry's.

Harry continued, "It's like... you look up at that—and... how can you not think something greater is out there? As far as the eye can see, it's the sky. It's stars, stars! Stars larger than Earth! Planets thirty times the size as earth! And, yet, we're living here, able to look up, and... it's almost a slap in the face to hear that people think there isn't a creator, and that this all came from nothing—that we came from nothing, just cells and... evolution and all of that—it's like people don't want to know that there is someone out there, greater than them. It's control and power and immortality—"

"The Dark Lord," Draco quietly interjected, not disagreeing with Harry in the slightest.

"Prime example, and I wasn't even trying to make it so," Harry returned, staring at the face of the moon.

"It depends on what you believe, though," Draco quietly began, after he had made sure Harry was done saying what he was expressing. His own cheek fell down to the cold stone of the windowsill below him, finally finding Harry's face. Harry was looking right back at him. "It depends on if you believe that everything has to come from something or if we know so little about where things come from, in actuality, that there are things we never see that come from nothing—"

"But, Draco, nothing can come out of thin-air. Something has to be created—air, water, fog, atoms!"

"That's what you and I believe, but there are others who find flaw in anything that humanity believes."

Harry rested his palm down on the stone and rested his cheek over that, watching Draco, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Draco returned and hesitantly pulled his eyes from Harry's. They returned back to the gigantic mystery above him. He had a moment, in the pause that took place between them, where he felt like he had been pulled out of his point of view and his body to see what was happening, to see that what he was doing and how he was feeling, was in result of laying there with Harry Potter and just being... Draco. Draco... just Draco. No Draco Malfoy, no Draco Black-Malfoy. He was just Draco.

"Socrates and Plato, they believed in a creator, because they believed in souls. And, if we're born with souls, and we're born knowing everything, but we have to be re-taught it in order for us to pull it out of ourselves, that connects us right back to the higher being. Descarte was a skeptic, and it wasn't that he didn't believe in anything; He just questioned everything in order to find out what was true and what was real, and in result, the only thing he found that he couldn't question was his soul—and, in order for him to realize that he had a soul that was imperfect, at times, he came up with the idea that there had to be a perfect being out there, in the universe, and that's what turned him to the notion of God. But, then there was John Locke, who believed we knew nothing when we were born—blank slates, if you will, and everything that we learn comes through experiences, and David Hume, who went on to add that we know even less by assuming that, indeed, something has to come from something else. Cause and effect, which we believe, now, to be... our entire existence... he believed to just be a sequence, so, to him, the idea that we HAVE to come from something else is a moot point, because he insisted that we only know a small fraction of causes in the ultimate scheme of the universe, therefore, in actuality, what we really know is... not much."

"Hume is an idiot."

"Spoken like a scholar."

Harry reached over to Draco's profile and held his opened palm about five inches above it.

Draco flicked the center of Harry's palm, "What?"

Harry smiled and dropped his hand over Draco's forehead, lightly, "One of the greatest things about you, Malfoy, is that you're ridiculously intelligent, and you're the least arrogant person about it. I'm surprised you never used your brains against me."

Draco rested his hand over the top of Harry's, closing his eyes, "I never use my intelligence as a weapon."

Harry grinned against the stone, tired, "I admire you, then. That's brave, and I commend you for it."

"Those of us that are truly intelligent don't use it in the face of others for the sake of doing so."

Harry's thumb bravely stroked down the curve of Draco's nose, "You have no idea."

Draco licked at the corner of his dry mouth, his forehead contorting in thought beneath Harry's hand, "It's strange, isn't it? We all come from somewhere. We all come from two people. We're all made of the same materials, the same humanity. Yet, some of us... turn into monsters, but those monsters once came from somewhere."

This time, it was Harry who added the very quiet, grumbled, "Voldemort."

Beneath Harry's hand, Draco's face seemed to shudder, and his eyes flickered open.

Harry watched, silently. But, Draco said nothing afterward, "We all come from somewhere."

"Yeah," Draco muttered, and then smiled, with a wry laugh to echo it. "If only we could go back and recreate where, exactly, he came from—"

"Say it," Harry interrupted, strongly. "Say his name."

Draco groaned. For a moment, it was silent, and then he turned to look at Harry. He blankly blinked.

Harry didn't retrieve his right hand from Draco's face. Rather, he moved his hand from Draco's forehead and slid it down onto the right side of Draco's cheek, opposite of him. His entire hand molded onto the distinctly carved, yet beautifully full, curves of Draco's bone structure. His thumb spread from the rest of his fingers, and it lightly traced over the shape of Draco's top lip until it settled over the full, dry mouth. But, Draco didn't appear put off or annoyed with the action, and Harry didn't want to pull his hand away. He liked touching Draco's face. He didn't know why, or how he had even found the courage or guts to do it, but it had happened, and it felt good.

"Say it."

Draco's lips curved under Harry's thumb, his eyes lit up, like fireflies, and they flew up to the sky.

Harry smiled, too, watching with amazement and curiosity. Draco seemed thrilled, now.

"Voldemort."

Harry's thumb moved back across Draco's lips, as he said it. The movement rumbled through his body as soon as it met his fingertips. The shivers it sent rushing through his body were nearly orgasmic. In result, his cheek lifted from his left hand, and he lifted his thumb from the right corner of Draco's mouth. A rush of adrenaline had seemed to shoot right into Harry's heart, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath in an innocently addictive way. Even one of his legs twitched from the motion, because it sent shocks of startled curiosity and warmth through him.

Draco's eyes sloped down from the sky. He tried not to smirk at Harry, but it was hard, "What?"

Harry quickly rested his cheek back down against his hand, "What? Nothing!"

Draco snorted with laughter, quietly, and he felt his eyebrows lift, "Would you stop it?"

Harry felt his face begin to droop, "Oh." He went to pull his hand from Draco's face.

Both of Draco's hands clasped around Harry's wrist, and he laughed even harder, "No, I don't care about the hand. The hand is appropriate, and I don't know how or why, but it is," he chuckled. He opened Harry's hand back up, through he did struggle to do so, at first. And, once it was open, he lowered it back down to his face. And, somehow, it molded right back over the side of his face in a way that felt enchanted. It was like Harry's hand had some sort of cushion that molded, perfectly, to warm his cheek. "I meant for you not to get all weird."

"Because, the hand is fine?" Harry laughed, too, loudly, confused as all hell.

Draco reached over, with his left hand, and he hit Harry's upper arm, threateningly, "Yes, the hand is fine."

Harry lifted his hand from the cool cheek, and he traced, lightly, over Draco's nose, as he pulled his fingertips back to his own area. But, Draco didn't seem depressed about it. He just smiled, genuinely. It turned into a suggestive smirk, which was immediately put to rest by the look Harry gave to him in return, which was something along the lines of, "Don't start, Malfoy." And, he didn't start, but he began laughing as his eyes darted back up to the moon.

Draco arched his back, stretched his arms up above his head, and craved to touch the moon with his fingertips. And, for a few fleeting seconds, he felt almost as if he were happy enough to do so. There was nothing more, anymore, that he enjoyed more than awkward moments of affectionate tension with Harry Potter. There was nothing he enjoyed, anymore, more than Harry, himself. And, he could hear Harry's snickering beside him. It made Draco happy, and he wouldn't deny it. He had someone beside him who completely had no idea who he was in some ways, but was so knowledgeable about him in others. It was amazing, and he had never felt anything else, in the world, like it.

Draco bent his arms and covered his face with his hands.

Harry's eyes lingered upon Draco's body for a long moment, and he cautiously examined the three or so inches of skin that was bared between the top of Draco's low-rising gray trousers and the bottom of his black, long-sleeved shirt. It was pale skin. It was toned skin. It was... Draco's skin. He mentally groaned and closed his eyes. He went to push himself up, placing his hands beside him, "Are we going to do this spell or what?"

Draco lifted his hands from his eyes and sat up on his elbows.

He watched as Harry backed away from the window. Hmm, "Answer something for me."

Harry hesitantly looked over his shoulder, trying to remain as casually innocent as he could, "What?"

The side of Draco's mouth began to twitch, "Whose body do you like better? Judas's or yours?"

Harry didn't have to think about it, "Mine."

Draco smiled, and when he saw Harry catch it, he immediately tried to flatten it.

Harry immediately spun around, amused, "What kind of question is that, anyway?"

Draco had a beautiful smile, especially when it was illuminated by the moonlight.

Draco shrugged, as he sat up. He stayed seated on the windowsill, "Whose body would Weasley's sister like better?"

Harry rolled his eyes up, immediately, but he didn't really feel annoyed. He thought it was funny that Draco was asking him what he was asking. He had had a brief rumored-romance with Ginny Weasley the year before. It had happened in the summer before sixth year and into the fall term at Hogwarts, but... Ginny hadn't been his cup of tea. She had annoyed the shit out of him, though he had never been able to exactly pinpoint how she had done so. He had never done much with her, except for kiss, but even the promise of more hadn't been able to keep him interested, "Judas's, I'm sure," he laughed.

Draco smiled, too, and nodded, not surprised by this, "And, uh, Brown?"

"Lavender?" Harry asked, with a loud snort of doubtful laughter. "I don't doubt Judas's."

Draco began to ponder what set Judas's body apart from Harry's. There were slight differences. Judas was a bit beefier than Harry had been. Harry hadn't been skinny, but he had been more lean than Judas's form. They were of the same height, because both had always been Draco's height. Their hands were different, as were their arms and such. Judas's neck was thicker, whereas Harry's had been a bit longer and more regal. It had always hinted of bait for the boys and girls of Hogwarts to blatantly stare at during classes, and Draco had seen students do so, as if Harry were a piece of sexually-angst flavored meat, sprinkled lightly with salt and well-done.

"Fair enough," Draco dismissed, curiously. "How about the Ravenclaw girl?"

"Chang," Harry returned, without a blink. "Judas, he's a bit thicker, built like Cedric Diggory."

"Hmm," Draco returned, with interest. "Did the bitter-bug bite you?"

"No," Harry laughed, and glanced at Draco. He couldn't have been more wrong. "No, it's just an automated response, by now. I assume you're going off of the rumors of last year's fling I had with her?" When Draco gave a simple nod of his head, Harry shook his own, picking up the book of Musical Magic from the end of his beautifully elegant bed, intricate with excessive carving and detail. "She was the first girl I ever really liked at Hogwarts. In fifth year we went on a date—she cried. And, she cried more. And, then some more, and it's not that the crying was a horrible trait, really, and I was pretty much over it, but last year, I had another small fling with her, to give it another chance, and she broke down, again, over Cedric."

"She almost cries more than you do."

Harry smiled, but he didn't bother to look up from the pages he was flipping through, "Almost."

Draco pulled his heels up onto the windowsill and wrapped his arms around his knees, "Granger?"

Harry gave Draco a slightly comical glare, "Dare I say neither, and answer with Ron, but..."

"But?" Draco immediately pressed, quietly, his eyebrows raising in question for Harry to continue.

"But, she's a power whore, and the only body she cared about was her own."

"Really? Granger? I always figured her to be the type to lay down her life for yours."

Harry's eyes flickered with slight amusement, and he couldn't help it, "Yeah, maybe if we were in movie-land," he returned, seriously, without hesitance. He saw Draco squint at him, curiously. But, Harry knew that Draco knew what movies were. He knew what CDs were, and he had admitted to apparating into muggle stores for music, so he couldn't exactly claim to not knowing anything about the muggle way of life. And, it was nice, because most wizards ignored everything to do with muggles, even half-bloods once they were fully circulated into wizard culture. It said a lot about a wizard of Draco's background and upbringing to have taken it upon himself to learn about muggles, even if it was just from a trip to a music store.

Draco lifted his chin from his right kneecap, very enthralled, "..."

Harry hesitated, for a very long moment, and then growled and hissed, "She sold me out."

Draco just blinked, "That's not... it doesn't seem like... why would she do that? I don't get it."

"I never cared to ask her why she sold me out to Voldemort. She's the reason I'm DEAD, Malfoy."

Draco felt gutted. He was completely speechless.

Harry closed the book between his palms, "I don't want to know why, because it doesn't matter."

Draco only nodded, his lips pressed together, "You should have let me kill her."

Harry couldn't help the small chortle that came through his own lips.

Draco did the same thing, and then covered his mouth with his right hand.

Harry walked back toward him, "Yeah, I might, one day."

"What a bitch, to show up at your funeral... the nerve."

"It's just like her. She thinks she's high and mighty, and always has. Uppity little power-whore."

Harry stood in front of Draco.

Draco watched him, in awe, shaking his head from side to side, "Are you sure she—"

"I know what she did, Malfoy, and I know how she did it. She did it purposely. It was not some misunderstanding."

"It just doesn't make sense."

"I know, Malfoy. There was something about her I always knew was off, anyway, since fifth year."

Draco's left eyebrow hooked up, and he skeptically looked at Harry, "Seriously?"

Harry sat down beside him, "Remember the DA? Dumbledore's Army?"

Draco nodded.

"She whored me out. Gee, Harry, why don't we start a group? It'll be you teaching us how to defend ourselves against Voldemort. Don't mind the fact that I never asked your permission. It was little things, and then in sixth year, something about her just changed. The summer before sixth year, I had stayed with Remus Lupin, and I didn't see much of anyone, except Ron now and then, and neither of us really spoke to Hermione. Something happened, that summer, but... it's not so hard to see, is it? People change in war-time. She was just after power, after knowledge. She craved being better than everyone else, though she tried to pretend she never did. She was the weakest one of us, and it proved to be Voldemort's in."

Draco was staring at his knees, in disbelief.

"And, Ron... the night we realized the turn she had taken... he was... horrified. He was the one who realized something was off. Came screaming down to me, at the lake, talking all kinds of nonsense. I don't know how he managed to see if before any of us, but he did. I couldn't imagine—you know how much he loved her? Poor guy, I still feel horrible for him." He paused. "That was the thing about Hermione... she craved... something more. She didn't seem like the type, to everyone, who would turn against me, against Ron, against Dumbledore. But, she never had the connection Ron and I had to each other. She was smart, and... well, that was kind of it. It wouldn't have been hard to brainwash her, and I know everyone thought of her as very stubborn and too good for her to switch sides, but... I really just don't know how to describe it. There was always something about her that just didn't settle right. There was a common-sense lacking in her or something. It was probably the events of the summer of fifth year, when the war was in full swing, and then in sixth year, I pretty much ignored her existence in the beginning. You know that. I paid more attention to Ron and you than anyone... just in very different ways, is all."

"If you ever blame yourself for her turning against you, again, I'll slit you a new scar," Draco bit.

Harry turned into Draco, slowly, "I wasn't,"

"You were, Potter, and it makes me sick. I could have told you she was bad from the start."

Harry smirked, "How do you figure?"

"Purebloods are five-times more mentally powerful than mud-bloods, Harry," Draco laughed, as if this were obvious. And, when Harry looked at him as if he were scandalized, Draco frowned. "Why do you think people are so against the tainting of pureblood? Just because? No! The repercussions of tainted blood damn the purity of magical function. The less pureblood we have, the less powerful our future generations become. And, eventually, if things keep up like this, and wizards go off and marry muggles like they're doing so often, and more mud-bloods come in, with no magical parentage, at all, we're going to end up with very weak magic, and it's even possible, a hundred years from now, magic could be so weak it could barely exist."

Harry looked down at his book, gripping it between his two hands, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

"She was susceptible, from the get-go, to being enthralled with Voldemort. Even if she started out against him, the more you fought him, the more intrigued she became. It's a classic case, Potter. You can't put a power-hungry, book-worm mud-blood into a best-friend status with a powerful wizard like yourself, because she has no way of competing and feels inferior. She seemed stable because you and Weasley were around, but if you and Ron had gone your separate ways, you would have been able to stay just as strong, independently. But, she would have crumbled. Your very blood is the blood that runs through Voldemort. Everywhere she looked—at you or at Voldemort, which she was doing in the face of the war, like everyone else—she was reminded of what it was that she could or could not have. She was a pawn from the very beginning. Dumbledore knew it, Voldemort knew it, the Death Eaters knew it, and I fucking knew it—the only person who didn't realize it was you."

"Dumbledore did not know!"

"Come on," Draco insisted, quietly, searching Harry's eyes. "Dumbledore knows everything, and I don't doubt that he could easily read through a mud-blood book-worm who got her nose into every damn situation you got yourself into. You are Dumbledore's family, and he has always loved the hell out of you. Don't you think he's kept a close eye on every man, woman and squirrel who has stepped within a hundred feet of you? She might have been your friend, but friends don't matter in time of war, nor do enemies. For God's sake, Potter, look at what happened with us. You spent more time with me than you did with anyone else, last year, and I was your damn enemy. We ended up shaking hands on the last day of school, in front of the entire world."

Harry rested his head against the side of the window, miserably, "It is my fault, Draco."

"Of course it is," Draco easily returned, "but it's not your fault that she turned the way she did."

"What is my fault, then?"

Draco turned to Harry, fully, with deeply impassioned eyes, "Turning away from a Black for a mud-blood."

And, Harry paled, completely, and his lips slightly parted. Wow, "You just referred to yourself as..."

"I am a Black, Harry," Draco whispered, cautiously, and lowered his eyes. "You were right, things could have been very different if I hadn't been a Malfoy from the get-go. I can't not regret it, but at the same time, you're here right now, Harry, aren't you? For whatever reason we could never have gotten along for the last seven years, you're here, now, and look at what the hell we're doing. You and I, Draco and Harry—for the first time ever. The past doesn't matter, anymore. It's a new start. A new chance—and, if it's the last thing I do, I'm going to help you rip out Voldemort's questionably beating heart from his cold, lifeless chest, and I'm going to kiss you and tell you to never, EVER doubt me. You haven't been able to defeat him, because I haven't been with you, plain and simple."

Harry was laughing into his hands, leaned over his knees, "I'll allow the boasting, but not the kiss."

"If we were standing over Voldemort's dead body, I think you would be happy enough to kiss me."

"I kiss people I'm attracted to, Malfoy."

"Oh," Draco replied, disheartened. "What about sex? Do you have to be attracted for sex?"

Harry snorted into his hands. He reached over with his left and gave Draco an affectionate shove, "You really believe that I've been failing because you haven't been helping me the last seven years? And, for the record, I've hardly failed—no, wait... he did kill me." Harry laid his head in his hands, after he said this aloud, and he became instantly depressed. In theory, the world thought Voldemort had won, and Harry was sure that any day, and soon, Voldemort was going to rise. Whatever he was doing in biding his time just made his return more anxiety-ridden for the entire wizard world.

"No," Draco returned, softly, almost... in a lovingly friendly way, "I think you haven't had the right person next to you, is all."

"And, you're the right person..."

Draco frowned, "I am."

Harry smiled, lifting his face from his opened, empty palms, "I don't doubt you're my match, Malfoy."

"Wow," Draco immediately replied, with a strongly cynical laugh. "You don't know what I would have done to hear that two years ago. If my father—Lucius, I mean—ever heard you say that, he'd die."

"Lucius won't be dying anytime soon, but the next time I see him, I'll let him know."

Draco chuckled, rubbing his hand over his chest, not realizing it, "Potter?"

Harry watched Draco's hand, curiously, from his palms and out of the corner of his eye, "Yeah?"

"You swear he's okay." It wasn't a question.

Harry straightened his posture, reached over and grasped Draco's shoulder, "I swear."

"Whose body would I like better?"

Harry smiled, pushing himself up off of the windowsill. He didn't have to question this, in his head. He simply smiled at Draco, "Do you really have to ask me that, Malfoy?" Draco smirked, so Harry's eyes half-closed, purposely, and he gave Draco a cute growl. At this, Draco moaned with tired laughter and pushed himself up, at last, off of the windowsill and back down on the floor. And, before Harry could really breathe, Draco was standing right in front of him with crossed arms and a beautifully innocent, genuine, friendly smile. "Can't you guess what I would say?"

Draco shook his head, "Tell me, Potter. Whose body would I enjoy more?"

Harry shrugged his right shoulder up, shyly, as a nervous defense mechanism, "Well... mine."

Draco's lips, closed together in a contented grin, smiled, "I will enjoy your body one day, Potter."

Harry laughed, and when he did so, his lips vibrated, "Suuuuuuuure, Malfoy!"

"Of course, I'll need to enjoy Judas's body first. After all, technically, if his body is more pleasured by men..."

"Okay, you need to back off," Harry insisted and pushed Draco away, laughing.

Draco smiled, intrigued, from five feet away, "Is that how it works, then? Cliffdale's body reacts to men, then?"

Harry's eyes squinted, evilly, and he shot Draco his middle finger before he jumped back onto his bed.

Draco smiled, his eyes lighting up, "You're playing hide-and-go-seek with me, now?"

"Go away!" Harry loudly demanded, slightly agitated. "For the record, yes, but I will not discuss it with—"

"How do you know, then, Potter?" Draco jumped on the question, swinging around one of the Harry's bedposts to peer into the huge space of the bed. Harry was laying in the center, his hands over his face. Oh, it was too lovely of a topic to just easily pass on by! This was a huge development for all parties involved! Even if Harry wasn't gay, Judas's body, apparently, reacted to men and not women, which was obviously something Harry had had to have realized or experienced, already, to be so sure of what he had said. And, this, of course, pulled Draco in like a magnet. He jumped onto the bed, on his knees, laughing hysterically with delighted eyes. "ANSWER ME!"

Harry grabbed a pillow, sat up and put all of his might into swinging it at Draco.

Draco was hit off of the bed, but he was back in seconds, and he was laughing even harder, "Who was it?"

"Fuck off, Draco, I'm not answering that."

"Was it my father? I've noticed you get a little pink in the cheeks around him—"

"GO TO BLOODY HELL, MALFOY!"

Draco's eyes were on fire, and Harry was battling with his covers, "Tell me! Who will it harm!"

Harry rolled his eyes, "Why does it even matter?"

"I'd just like to know! Did you watch some naughty images on the Network? Channel seventy-three?"

Draco, once more, was hit with a pillow. But, this time, he didn't allow himself to be knocked off of the bed.

"It was you, Malfoy. The night you were kissing what's-his-face, I got something off of it physically, I think."

Draco smiled. He stood up from the bed and walked toward the door, silently.

Harry watched him, half amused, until Draco was at the door, with it opened, "Goodnight."

Draco was still smiling, "I'll be in, later, to check on you. If you need me, I'll be in my study."

"You know, you didn't put the spell on me," Harry reminded him, hesitantly.

Draco nodded, simply, itching at his left shoulder with his right hand, "You'll fall asleep soon, I'm sure."

Harry rested his head back onto the pillows, grinning ever-so-lightly. He was surprised that Draco was containing his obvious glee, "Goodnight, Malfoy."

"Goodnight, pal."