Draco was gay. He had discovered his sexuality at the age of thirteen, when he had—against his will— developed a crush on Cedric Diggory. A crush he had rapidly concealed deep down inside of him, as he felt ashamed and disgusted by this idea.

Actually, it wasn't entirely true. Draco had discovered his sexuality at the age of six, when he had met the son of one of his parents' friends, a nine-year-old brown-haired boy, tall for his age, with a birthmark in the shape of a parakeet —at least from what he remembered.

However, no matter how many boys and men he had had a crush on, the young Malfoy heir would never admit it, nor would he accept his —unnatural— sexual attraction.

Growing up in an environment where all of the adults around him shared the same radical viewpoint on what was right and wrong made it easy for Draco to determine what path he could take in life. He had tried, though; the summer after his third year, during one of his only calm breakfasts with his parents, he had lied about having caught a Hufflepuff boy snugging one of his classmates. The disgusted glare his father had thrown at the paper he was reading while the boy was telling his lie, followed by the hateful, almost too disruptive comments his parents had made to describe their revulsion, had confirmed all his fears. He would never admit his homosexuality.

Sometimes he wondered if his father had read his mind one day, when he was thirteen, and if he had seen Cedric's image floating in his mind. He wondered if his father had put the boy's name in the goblet of fire and made sure he would end up in this graveyard to be killed. Then he would wake up from his daydreaming and realize how stupid this theory was.

Draco unfolded the letter his father had sent him the day before and reread it for the tenth time. It was only six in the morning, and the bedroom was in complete silence; even Crabbe's snoring had finally died down. The blonde boy was still laying in his bed, even though he had been awake for a couple of hours now. The black words written in the utterly sophisticated handwriting of his father upset him to the point of preventing him from sleeping.

So that was it? Using kids again to help the dark lord? As much as he despised Potter, he had no motivation to participate in their plans.

He shoved the letter under his pillow and turned to his side, his eyes fixed on the dark-haired young man sleeping in front of him.

But yet, he had no choice. If the dark lord wanted something from him, he had no option but to oblige. He quietly observed the boy, half concealed behind his curtain. Potter never closed them entirely, Draco didn't know why he did that, but he could always see part of his face —to his greatest despair.

Draco was gay, but if there was one boy who would never capsize his heart, it was Potter. His disdain for the "boy who lived" had started as soon as they exchanged their very first conversation. The possibility of being close to Potter had always been considered for Draco, no matter what his parents thought of the boy—the one who had destroyed their leader when he was just a baby. Draco loved being surrounded by powerful and influential people, so Potter had obviously been one of his targets. But something the young Malfoy did not support was rejection. So, by declining Draco's friendship, the dark-haired boy had also signed the beginning of Draco's enmity.

Was it ego? A part of jealousy? Undoubtedly.

Had he still hoped to become his friend one day? Perhaps, deep down.

Would he make an effort to become more lovable? Never.

The boy stirred in his sleep. His heavy, dark mass of untidy hair covered half of his face. It was one of the first nights Draco was not witnessing one of his agitated dream sessions. Potter had settled in their dorms for more than a week now, and as far as he remembered, the boy had had nightmares every night that he spent there—he had indeed not slept there every night, especially after Blaise's childish performance.

Childish? Well, he could have done the same. He had already made fun of Harry's mother not long ago. But seeing the picture suddenly burn and Potter's stunned, hopeless expression did not sit well with him. Blaise had explained afterward that he had done this to revenge the quidditch tryout's humiliation, and yet he was not satisfied. He didn't need anyone to take revenge; this vengeance was between him and Potter. The blonde boy was also getting tired of their constant bullying plans for Potter. Of course it had been funny in the beginning; he had even been the leader for most of their pranks, but as with all good things, there was an end—something his roommates didn't seem to understand.

One thing was certain: since the Gryffindor boy had switched his colors to green, Draco knew less and less what to think of him. Yet he was still the scrawny little prince who gained all the attention simply by breathing; he was still this pretentious I'm better than everyone; Dumbledore's and every teacher's favorite. He was also annoying, and loud at night. Draco hated his glare, his too dark, always angry, and depressed expression; he hated his hair, his attention-seeker scar, his eyes, his bony legs, his arms, back when he dressed in the morning; his tan skin, always darker in September when they came back to Hogwarts; his horrible, oversized muggle clothes he was wearing during weekends; he hated everything.

Was he in denial?

No.

Maybe.

(***)

Harry was late. This statement had started to become his new life motto. The young man seemed to have forgotten the concept of punctuality since he had switched houses. One of the main reasons was his new daily routine of waiting for this bedroom to empty before getting out of bed and getting ready. He hated the lack of privacy these shared rooms provided. Well, he had started to feel uncomfortable with men seeing his body since he lived with these Slytherin guys. Not only were most of them constantly mocking him, but one of them also tended to stare a little too much at him, even though he had no clue why.

The second reason was undoubtedly the new absence of Hermione in his daily life—the absence of her utter punctuality, which was also guiding Ron and him.

Harry reached the transfiguration class just in time before the last Ravenclaw closed the door. Professor McGonagall was standing at the threshold, collecting every parchment from the tired students.

She didn't hear Harry muttering "Crap" when he realized he had forgotten his homework in his room, but she sighed deeply as soon as her pupil entered the classroom, his eyes glued to the wooden floor and his hands empty.

"Potter, may I know where your work on vanishing spells is?" She inquired, not as loudly as she used to when requesting late homework.

Harry stopped in his tracks, eyes closed, as if it might help him disappear from her sight. He slowly turned around to face his teacher, who was shaking her head.

"I—I forgot it in my room, professor." He grimaced.

He could feel all the stares directed toward him as the pupils were sitting at their usual tables.

Professor McGonagall sighed "So if I conjure your homework, Potter, a parchment studiously filled with vanishing spell analysis will appear in my hand?"

"Yes, professor," Harry nodded.

The older woman did as she said, and a piece of paper —not as complete as she could have expected—indeed landed in her left hand. Harry went to join the rest of the class when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"May I have a quick word with you, Potter?" McGonagall asked, gesturing to the corridor with her head.

He followed her outside the classroom, a small ball of anxiety growing in his stomach. What had he done?

"Potter," she began with her usual strict tone, "I believe many of my colleagues, as well as myself, have noticed your new and unusual habit of being constantly late in class. Not to mention the lack of commitment concerning your homework." She waved the half-filled parchment.

"Is it being in Slytherin that made you lose all your will to succeed in your studies?" "Have you been influenced by your roommates? By Mr. Goyle?"

"No—no, professor."

McGonagall lowered the parchment, her eyes fixed on him, but with more empathy than two minutes earlier.

"Potter, is there anything you want to tell me?"

Harry raised his head to look at her. She was wearing the same worried expression he had already witnessed on Sirius and Lupin's faces—the expression of a concerned parent.

"No, I'm fine, professor, just a bit tired."

She frowned at his answer.

"I will pull myself together and stop being late, I promise." He added.

"I know you are going through a difficult ordeal, but you must remember you are not alone, Harry."

She never used his first name.

"I know Professor Dumbledore isn't here right now, but you should know that you can confide in me and, of course, your friends." "I will not let you down."

Harry stared at the floor and nodded quietly. He did not desire any pity, and yet, it looked like he was attracting it from everyone around him. His professor patted his shoulder once again before entering her classroom. He quickly followed and sat at an empty table at the back. He made sure to avoid Blaise's smirk directed at him, knowing this would only feed his urge to punch the boy for the second time.

"Please pair with a classmate and practice the vanishing spell." The professor announced, as soon as she reached her desk.

"And yes, Miss Patil, you can pair with whichever house you want; as far as I know, the headmistress is not here to monitor my class today."

Padma grinned widely at Harry, who smiled back, relieved to finally work with a friend. However, the young Ravenclaw didn't get the chance to reach Harry's table before a certain Slytherin took the seat beside him. Harry gaped at Malfoy with shock and outrage. The blonde boy didn't even look at him; he just sat at the table, right in front of Padma, who was standing there with her book in her arms, exchanging glances with Harry as though he knew what she should do. But Harry had no idea what was happening either; why was Malfoy pairing with him when Pansy was craving the mere sight of him? The Slytherin girl was also standing a few tables away from them with the same surprised expression on her face. The two girls exchanged a brisk look but immediately averted their eyes from each other, as neither of them wanted to pair with the other.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked Draco when Padma returned to the Ravenclaw tables to pair with MacDougal.

"Pairing with you, apparently." Malfoy spat, still not looking at him.

Harry raised his brows.

"And why? Pansy looked like she wanted to pair with you."

"She's annoying and really bad at transfiguration."

"I'm not good either. And I'm annoying too." Harry replied with a scoff.

"Well, yes, but not as much as her."

Harry looked around, hoping to find another partner for Malfoy. However, all of the tables were full, with Crabbe sitting with Goyle and Theodore with Pike. The boy sighed and refocused on Malfoy.

"And since when do you find Pansy annoying? I thought you liked each other." He inquired, his arms crossed.

Malfoy finally lifted his head as he glared at the boy next to him.

"Just focus on this damn mouse and make it disappear, alright?" He spat, gesturing at the tiny gray rodent that was gnawing the corner of a parchment in the middle of their table.

"Ok, ok."

Harry finally stopped questioning his classmate and started working on McGonagall's task; he perfectly knew how much he needed to refocus on his studies if he hoped to pass his O. . But it was way trickier with Malfoy sitting next to him for no apparent reason. The pale boy was not even paying attention to him; he was simply working on the spell quietly and earnestly.

He smelled good, Harry thought, as Draco's natural scent gradually impregnated his nostrils. He had already noticed this pleasant smell of apple mixed with spicy fragrances every time he went to the bathroom in the morning, but now that the two boys were so close, he could finally affirm it came from Malfoy.

"The mouse!"

Malfoy's voice slapped Harry in the face; he blinked several times when he realized he had been staring at the boy instead of the small animal. A wave of shame went through his chest. What was he thinking about? He definitely needed to control his daydreaming, especially when it diverted dangerously towards Malfoy —without any good reason.

Harry turned his head and pretended to concentrate on his work, trying his best to ignore the mocking and yet curious looks Malfoy's friends were giving them, as if they were impatiently waiting for a turnaround—a violent prank the blonde boy would have meticulously prepared. Pansy was the only one who wasn't smiling; she was fuming in her seat, and if she could have killed with her eyes, Harry would already be dead on the floor.

The former Gryffindor stood ready for any possible attack; he had become accustomed to the most creative and unexpected assaults from his roommates, usually verbal but sometimes, to his greatest regret, physical. Every move Malfoy made next to him made him flinch. He tried his best to hide it by scratching his arm or running his hand through his hair, but he somehow knew Malfoy had noticed his defensive reflexes, which made the blonde boy smirk more than once.

"You didn't get any nightmares this night." Malfoy commented after they had finally made the mouse vanish.

Harry eyed him narrowly, unsure of what he meant.

"We hear you, you know, almost every night." "You're not very discreet."

A feeling of embarrassment mixed with guilt rose in Harry's chest.

"Sorry..." he mumbled.

The picture of Blaise hearing him moan in his sleep ran through his mind, making him feel nauseous. Draco looked like he had guessed his fear, which he quickly rectified.

"I hear you every night; I don't know about the others." "With Crabbe's boisterous snoring, I'm not sure they can hear anything else from where they sleep."

It made Harry slightly relax, even though he wasn't completely convinced.

"What are you dreaming about, by the way?" "Looks pretty violent."

"Uh…"

Their awkward conversation was rapidly cut off by McGonagall, who was moving around the different tables and had finally reached theirs. She posed a number of questions to the two students, and much to Harry's relief, Malfoy quickly forgot his misplaced curiosity, allowing him to stop thinking of a lie to answer.

(***)

"Hagrid wants us to eat at his place on Sunday," Hermione informed him as she dropped a stack of books on the library table. The weight of gravity made Ron's and Harry's parchments fly away, causing them to use their quidditch reflexes to catch them back.

"Sorry," she said after she sat at the table.

"I think we should go; Hagrid has been very worried about you, Harry." The young girl continued, while Ron and Harry were both staring at their homework as if the divinity of laziness would fill their papers for them.

Hermione raised her eyes to her friends, still waiting for an answer. "Harry!"

"Uh?" the new Slytherin glanced at her, "Oh, hum, sure, let's see him this weekend."

Hermione sighed. "Parvati told me about what happened this morning."

"Parvati?" Harry frowned; he didn't remember having seen her that day.

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Yes, Parvati, Padma's twin."

"I know who Parvati is, Hermione."

Ron finally averted his eyes from his paper, curious about what Hermione had to share.

"Padma usually shares everything with her sister, especially now that we almost don't have any class with you." "Apparently Malfoy decided to pair with you for a work practice?"

Ron raised his brows as he looked at his best friend, obviously unaware of this information.

"Oh, yeah." Harry shrugged. "I don't really know why."

He went back to his homework. He had nothing else to say.

But Hermione wasn't satisfied. "What did he want from you?

"Did he provoke you?" Ron added.

Harry's brows furrowed; had he provoked him? No, not really; they'd succeeded in vanishing the mouse in only two tries and had even received points from McGonagall for their effective work.

"No, guys, he did nothing," Harry replied with a sigh.

"That's weird…"

Harry didn't answer Ron's statement; he merely shrugged, and he started writing his potion essay.

"It's strange coming from Malfoy; I hope he's not hiding anything or making any pl..."
Hermione suddenly lowered her voice as her eyes were lost behind Harry and Ron, making both of them turn around to look at what had provoked her sudden silence.

Malfoy was standing there, in front of a shelf, with two books in his hands. The young man noticed the golden trio staring at him. He cleared his throat, and even though he had just arrived, he immediately rushed away from their table.

"Plan…" Hermione finished her sentence when the Slytherin vanished from her sight. "What's going on with him?"

"Oh!" Harry cleared his throat and dropped his feather. "Snape wants to resume the occlumency sessions!"

He had not particularly planned to talk about it with his friends, but the awkward conversation around Malfoy's behavior was making him feel uncomfortable.

"What?"

"Since when?" Asked Ron,

"He asked me after my detention last week."

Blaise and Harry had only shared three detentions together, as on Monday night, when Harry had entered the dungeon after his torture session with Umbridge, he had almost fainted two times in front of his classmate and teacher. Snape had then kept him after the detention to inform him about Occlumency classes and to ask him not to come back tomorrow, as Umbridge's detentions seemed to be sufficient punishment.

He didn't know if he was grateful for Snape's "act of kindness". The greasy-haired man hadn't even asked if he was feeling okay. Harry guessed he couldn't ask too much from him and accepted the offer without being asked twice. Harry had heard Blaise complain in the common room the next night—about "Harry's privileges", but Blaise hadn't made him pay for that—yet.

"It's a good thing; I'm glad he changed his mind." Hermione affirmed, a small smile on her face.

"Mmmh, speak for yourself."

If there was one thing Harry didn't want to add to his life right now, it was enduring mind dissection from his least favorite teacher.

"Come on, Harry, you need it more than ever!"

"But... What if Snape offered that to help you-know-who? It could be part of the ministry's plan, if there is one..." Ron suggested timidly.

Harry glanced at his best friend. He had forgotten about this possibility, and it was far from impossible. Hermione didn't appear to share their opinion, as she rolled her eyes once again.

"We're not debating about Professor Snape again, Ron. All I know is that Harry absolutely needs to work on his Occlumency, and Dumbledore trusts Snape for this task."

"I'm fine; I don't even have nightmares anymore!" Lied Harry.

A lie that was not very difficult to discern with the huge dark circles behind his glasses.

"Harry, you're sleeping in a room full of death eaters' sons; you need to try harder."

Hermione was starting to upset her friend. Harry wanted to spend the few brief moments offered to them talking about joyful subjects, taking his mind off things, not discussing Malfoy or Snape. He regretted talking about Occlumency.

"I told you, Hermione, I'm okay, and by the way, not all Slytherins are bad; actually, most of the girls from our year are pretty nice."

"Except Pansy," Ron laughed.

"Yeah, obviously."

Hermione didn't look amused; she was still frowning at Harry.

"You're not sleeping in the girl's dormitory, Harry, and as far as I know, the guys are not making your life easy; Blaise's nose can prove my point."

He shrugged and said, "Well, it's Blaise's nose that's broken, not mine."

Hermione's sigh could have blown out all of Dumbledore's birthday candles.

"You're not taking it seriously. And we're not stupid, if you took it out on him, he must have done something before."

"He's just a kid and a prick." "He didn't do anything harmful; I just lost my temper to childish provocations."

"Childish provocations…" She parroted quietly.

"Must be pretty bad to make you react like that, mate." Ron said.

Harry closed his potion book loudly and collected his belongings scattered on the table.

"I'll finish my homework in the common room; I'm tired."

"Harry!"

"See you tomorrow."

He ignored Hermione's protests and walked towards the exit, exhausted but also frustrated at being the source of concern all the time. The more he thought about it, the less he wanted to confide in his best friends, as much as he loved them. He felt like he needed to keep most of his Slytherin life for himself, as well as his secret garden.

"Why are you always feeling angry…" He asked himself on his way back to the common room. He took a deep breath in an attempt to cool his negative energy and passed through the snake door leading to the dark, greenish room. He was becoming accustomed to the general ambiance of it; the dimness wasn't bothering him as much as before, and he even started to feel comfortable on the various large leather couches by the fire —still not as much as in the Gryffindor room.

Theodore was sitting on what seemed to be his favorite armchair, as he was at this exact spot almost every night. Harry had not expected anyone from his dorm to be downstairs; he considered turning back and working somewhere else, but another part of him wanted to join the young man.

The memory of Theodore not reacting to Blaise's provocations that night came back to him. The boy had actually never done him any harm. Harry dropped his bag on the opposite side of the armchair, next to a black sofa, where he slouched after removing his shoes. He crossed his legs before opening his bag to retrieve the potion essay he absolutely needed to finish. The two boys focused on their own business for a few minutes. Theodore was reading a book whose cover was concealed behind his hands. It didn't look like a school book, much less their potion book.

Harry sighed as he tried to concentrate on his essay; he was always so distracted.

"You didn't finish the essay for tomorrow?"

Theodore's calm voice, which Harry had not heard much of until now, made him startle.

"Uh?"

"Your potion essay—you're not done?" He asked again with the exact same intonation.

"Oh, hum, no, not yet."

"You need any help?"

Harry looked up. The boy was staring at him, his sleepy blue eyes fixed on Harry's face, waiting for an answer.

Did he want help? His first instinct was to decline, especially when the help came from an unknown person. However, his face was telling otherwise; he felt extremely weary and knew he would never be able to wrap up this difficult essay without external help. Theodore seemed to understand as he got up from his armchair to join Harry on the sofa. Without a word, he asked for the parchment with his hand and started to fill in the dark-haired boy's homework. Harry didn't know how to react or what to say. He watched him do his work in silence, his arm wrapped around his drawn-up legs, his fingers absently playing with his toes under his brown socks.

"Why didn't you participate in Blaise's —joke— the other day?" He finally asked without thinking, his curiosity finally taking the lead.

Theodore continued to write nonchalantly, as if nobody had interrupted him. He eventually cast a quick glance at his couch neighbor before replying:

"The burning your parents' picture —joke—?"

He pronounced the word "joke" with the same sarcastic tone Harry used.

"Yes."

Theodore finished the last sentence at the bottom of the parchment, then cast a spell Harry didn't know on the paper. The words started to deform until each word matched Harry's handwriting. He handed the essay to the impressed and grateful boy and settled on the couch more comfortably.

"I saw my mother die when I was seven." "It wasn't pretty to watch."

A certain discomfort settled in the room.

"My father was so upset that he got rid of every single memory—pictures, jewelry, garments—that reminded him of her. He was never concerned about my feelings or whether I needed or wanted to remember my mother. No, he just selfishly grieved in the worst, most toxic way possible."

"I'm sorry," Harry replied.

"Anyway. I just don't think burning your parents' picture was a funny joke. I wouldn't take too much risk by saying that you probably don't have a lot of tangible memories from them." Theodore concluded, looking at Harry.

"No, I don't." Harry's gaze was lost in the almost extinguished flames of the chimney. "Thank you"

"For what? Not having intervened?" Theodore chuckled.

"Yes, for not taking part in their bullying."

The tall boy raised his brows, his smile slowly evaporating.

"You really think all Slytherins are bad, don't you?"

Harry shrugged. "Not all Slytherins! Malfoy's friends... well, yes, that's what I thought." He admitted.

Theodore nodded with a light sigh. "Listen, the largest part of Slytherin's students grew up learning very narrow-minded values from their parents, and some of them are part of very powerful and dangerous families who never hesitated to thrive in the dark arts."

Harry frowned at him. Of course he knew that; he had even clearly seen Theodore's father among the death eaters in the graveyard. He nonetheless refrained from saying anything.

"What I mean is... It's not surprising they're coming after you; you know that, right?"

Sirius' words kept turning in his mind: He shouldn't trust any of the Death Eater's children; he shouldn't even approach them, much less have a chat with them. But something about Theodore felt different. The young man didn't look like he approved of any of his father's actions; he didn't even include himself in the group of Slytherins who could despise Harry for being who he was. He slowly nodded at Theodore's statement.

"Blaise… Well, Blaise can be a nice guy. But he is very resentful, and bitter. He loves his house and every single value it contains. He is also very protective of his friends, especially Malfoy,"

"What's about me?"

The two boys turned around to see Malfoy approaching the sofas with his books under his arm. Theodore nodded at him with a subtle grin and refocused quickly on Harry.

"That's the main problem with Blaise; he never knows where to stop. But I'm glad you're changing your perception about this house." He told him before getting up.

"Just... don't be grateful just because I did nothing; you can't content yourself with so little."

He picked up his book from the armchair, patted Harry on the shoulder, and walked past Draco. The two friends greeted each other, but to Harry's despair, his long-time enemy didn't follow Theodore up to their dorms. Instead, he sat on the freshly empty armchair.

"Why are you following me, Malfoy?" Harry growled, tired of seeing the boy's face so regularly.

"I'm not following you. In case you didn't notice, we share the same house, the same classes, and the same bedroom; pretty difficult not to see each other."

Harry rolled his eyes, Malfoy was definitely turning around him, way more than the previous week, when he had perfectly succeeded in avoiding him even though they "shared the same house". He decided not to insist and shoved his book in his bag.

"Were you talking about me, Theodore, and you?" Malfoy asked after crossing his legs, his favorite sitting position.

"No, we were not." Harry spat.

"What were you talking about then?"

"Why do you care?"

Malfoy shrugged; he looked like he expected to share a full conversation with Harry, even though the latter was about to stand up.

"I'm just curious what Theodore Nott and Harry Potter could possibly talk about."

Harry stopped packing his things, and with his bag on his legs, he glared at the boy.

"We were discussing Blaise's dubious sense of humor." "Perhaps you can enlighten us; you share pretty much the same values."

"Oh, you mean the burning picture?" Malfoy chuckled.

"I don't recall you laughing when it happened; you even looked surprised, didn't you?"

Draco stopped laughing. The weak flames lit the left side of his face, highlighting his sharp bones and hollow cheeks. He was oddly attractive, as fascinating as he was frightening. It was the first time Harry saw something other than disgust when looking at him.

"I don't remember what was crossing my mind when it happened, Potter." "Maybe I was just surprised; it was pretty unpredictable, to be honest."

"Or you just finally discovered a part of you that actually had a bit of humanity," Harry suggested.

Malfoy grimaced, as if the word humanity were the worst insult he had ever received. "Hell no, how could I have any humanity in your presence!"

The sarcasm in his voice was not difficult to catch. Harry smiled, feeling relaxed enough to fall into his game.

"It would kill you to show me your good side, right?"

"I don't know what good side you're talking about." Malfoy crossed his arms.

Harry eyed him with amusement, completely overlooking his entourage's advice. He was actually funny—way funnier than he thought. And if there was something the two boys definitely had in common, it was their sarcasm.

"I'm pretty sure I got a glimpse this morning, though." Harry noted, before he finally stood up, throwing his bag over his shoulder.

"I was not being nice; I was just avoiding Pansy's disastrous transfiguration skills."

"Yeah… sure." Harry turned around and sneaked between the sofa and the table.

"Wait, you didn't answer me this morning; about your nightmares!"

"My only nightmare is you, Malfoy." Harry sighed.

He had absolutely not planned this answer, and he immediately wanted to slap himself for that. As much as it was a basic and childish response, it could also be totally misinterpreted.

"Hum—I—Good night."

He was almost certain he noticed Draco's cheeks blushing as much as his own as he dashed towards the stairs.

What a nightmare.