A/N: Made my own deadline! Yay!

Thanks bunches to Nickole Riddle, Zelphie, The Dark's Desire, Shadowed-Seraph, Athena, Nelle, lilylupin7, Enivrement, Lanfear1, DestinyEntwinements, angel, luciud sikilmituile, MyFictionalAnnihilation, Gwen, kumak, sanzo, Wolflady, StarryGazer, sotty-chan, Purple Raveness, coriander, le-plume-beni, and ura-hd.

Special thanks to Ryan for constructive criticism and analysis that satisfy the increasingly obsessive workaholic in me. mwah

After Hermione leaves, Harry decides that now is an excellent time for a shower. The water is a bit too hot, but he doesn't mind. It feels good against his back and shoulders. He inhales the steam and tries to exhale the emotional excess that is working hard on choking him to death.

He stands there for a long time, until the danger of falling apart and having his second crying fit in less than twelve hours passes. As he shuts off the water, he has memories of the last time he had a shower like that. It was after he and Draco had been to the manor for dinner-- the night that Draco had told him that he could never be a decent person because he didn't know how to be a person, just a useful tool. He'd stood under the shower for an hour until the water turned cold in an attempt to evict him. He had emerged solemn and prune-like from the bath to find Draco waiting for him.

The boy was perched on the edge of Harry's bed. His fair skin seemed to glow in the semidarkness of the room. "I upset you," he said tonelessly. Harry, clad in just a towel, could only stare at the boy. Draco looked entirely out of place amongst the Gryffindor red velvet. It occurred to Harry dimly that he had only ever seen Draco against a backdrop of green, black, or grey. Even now, his pajamas were a strange smoky color, almost black but not quite dark enough.

"I was beginning to worry that you had drowned yourself," Draco said casually.

"You? Worry?" Harry echoed incredulously, tossing the towel in his hand back into the bathroom. Draco raised an eyebrow.

"You don't think I worry about you?" he asked. Harry crossed his arms, glaring at his uninvited guest.

"No, Malfoy. Off the battlefield, I don't think you give a damn about me."

"Now you're just being hurtful," Draco said. "Did I upset you as badly as all that?"

"What do you think?" Harry snapped. Draco steepled his fingers and looked down at them, apparently admiring the fine lines of his hands.

"I think I said too much. I think I thought your confidence was impenetrable. I didn't think that you would care about my opinion that much. I think that perhaps I should take back what I said."

"Why would you do that? You never say anything you don't mean…" Harry trailed off, wondering when he had begun to accept everything Draco said as truth.

"Potter…"

There was something in Draco's voice that made Harry look up. He saw something that he knew would haunt him until the day he died—Draco as a person. Not a statue, not a grim angel of death, not the antithesis of everything Harry was. Just a person. The sight shocked him so much that it took him a while to register Draco's next comment.

"What do you think I am?"

Harry blinked. "Excuse me?"

"What do you think I am that I wouldn't lie? Or what do you think you are that I wouldn't lie to you?"

"I trust you not to lie to me. My life and the lives of every student here depend on you not lying to me. Is my trust misplaced?" Draco went thin-lipped, his eyes suddenly bright. Harry knew with grim satisfaction that he had struck a nerve.

"No," he replied, so quietly the word was nearly lost in the sigh that followed. "You know I wouldn't risk losing your confidence by lying to you." His eyes flashed at Harry as he spoke. He obviously resented the need to voice this fact.

Perhaps Harry had delayed too long in taking a bath and had been tainted by the Malfoys. Perhaps his inner Slytherin was just maturing as he aged. Regardless, his next action was deliberately cruel. "But why? You said it yourself, what am I to you that you wouldn't lie to me?" he asked.

Draco glared at him for a moment, then chuckled. "Oh, Potter, for someone who is supposed to be one of the good guys, you are such a bastard."

"So are you, " Harry replied levelly.

"Am I one of the good guys?" Draco asked, seemingly amused by such a thought.

"You're not answering my question," Harry said. A small, secretive smile played across Draco's lips.

"So I'm not."

"Answer my question, Malfoy," Harry prompted, not amused. Draco raised an eyebrow, eyeing Harry's towel as if to question his right to be imposing while wearing a damp towel. "Malfoy!" Draco crossed his arms, lifting his chin a bit.

"You were the only person who thought I was sincere when I told Dumbledore that I didn't want to fight for Voldemort. You are the only person who ever had any faith in me without drawing blood first."

Well, Harry didn't know what to say to that. Draco looked at him evenly, waiting for a response.

"You were the only person I could consider as an equal," Harry said, after a pause.

Draco looked at him blankly, then dropped his head into his hands.

" I am too sober to have this conversation with you," he said, shaking his head.

"What!" Harry asked.

"I. Cannot. Talk. To. You. About. This," Draco said, enunciating for emphasis.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to be accountable for anything that inadvertently comes out of my mouth."

"Fine," Harry said. "You want alcohol? I'll get you so fucking pissed you won't remember anything about the next two days." Draco's eyes widened.

"You want to talk that badly?" he asked suspiciously, as if no one had ever gone to any trouble for his opinion. Harry sighed.

"Yes. I want to talk that badly. I don't understand you. We spend hours working together. You are the first and last person that I see every day and I haven't a clue what you really think, what you want, what you like." Harry threw his hands up. "You're so god-damned mysterious!"

Draco fell backwards onto Harry's bed, shaking convulsively. Harry had rushed over to him and rolled him over before he realized that Draco was laughing—the same way he had laughed the morning they'd woken up in the same bed--the way he always laughed when Harry did something that he found unexpectedly and thoroughly amusing. He sobered when he saw Harry standing over him. They stared at each other. Harry noted absently that Draco's hair was mussed. His pajamas were silk. Harry could feel it against his bare skin. He thought it was extravagant, but appropriate for Draco, who wore them as nonchalantly as Harry might wear the flannel pajamas he had yet to put on. Draco blinked. It was a languid gesture, his delicate lashes creating soft shadows against his skin.

The idea that there was anything soft or delicate about Draco was an intriguing one that had never occurred to Harry before. "You're staring at me," Draco said quietly.

"And you're staring at me," Harry replied. "Is this ok?" Draco nodded ever so slightly. There was a faint touch of color to Draco's lips and bluish tint to his eyelids, but otherwise, his skin was unmarred. It was surreal. Harry was not much of a judge in regards to looks, but he heard a lot of girls giggling about Malfoy and Harry enjoyed looking at him. It was somehow reassuring, and having permission to do so now was oddly satisfying.

Hesitantly, Draco raised his hand to Harry's face. He hesitated near Harry's forehead. Harry nodded, moving his face into Draco's hand. Draco pushed back Harry's hair, his fingers finding and tracing Harry's scar. Harry shuddered, as much from cold as from the totally unfamiliar sensation of another's touch. Draco frowned.

"Merlin, Potter, you're still wearing that damn towel. Take it off." Harry chuckled.

"I didn't know you thought of me that way," he teased.

Then Draco did something Harry never thought he'd live to see: Draco blushed.

"I didn't mean it that way. It'd just be embarrassing if we lost the war because you caught pneumonia because you were prancing around in a bath towel all night," he explained hastily.

"I didn't plan on wearing the towel all night," Harry said. Draco became visibly flustered. "But I'll change, if you promise not to move—and you don't look," he added.

"But that requires moving," Draco said. Harry shrugged.

"So look then."

It was too dark for Draco to see much. But Harry was surprised to find that he wasn't really concerned about it. He pulled on the lower half of his pajamas quickly and returned to find that Draco had upheld his end of the bargain.

"You're half-dressed," Draco said disapprovingly.

"Then I leave it up to you to make sure that I don't catch pneumonia," Harry replied. Draco frowned again.

"You're entirely too flippant about this."

"I suppose you think I should be more serious about being half-naked and on top of you?"

For the smallest instant, a look of fear crossed the blonde's face. "What do you want from me?" Harry tried to give the question serious thought, but halfway through, he decided to hell with it and kissed the blond boy. Draco responded immediately, kissing Harry as if he had been waiting for it, his body arching against Harry's, the silk of his pajamas oddly cool even though Harry could feel the heat of his body. If Harry had ever imagined what it would be like to kiss Draco, it would have been like this-- a sudden breach in Malfoy's infamous composure, hot and sudden and almost too much for most people to take.

When they parted, both boys were breathless. Draco raised an eyebrow. "Is that a towel in your pants, Potter, or are you just glad to see me?" Harry grinned at how quickly the other boy recovered, but he knew, now, what lay behind that often impossibly cool façade.

Harry hasn't thought about that in ages. The memory is bittersweet now, more bitter than sweet. He throws aside the towel with which he has been drying his hair in disgust. That's when he realizes that he's not alone. Lucius Malfoy is standing in front of his fireplace, his back to Harry. Harry gets half-dressed before he finally speaks.

"Why are you here?" he asks. It comes out harsher than he had intended. He's not sure that he cares.

"I don't know," Lucius admits, turning around. He looks tired, as if hours had passed between their kiss and now.

"Figure it out or I will ask you to leave," Harry snaps. His eyes are brilliant with anger.

"Why are you angry with me?" he asks. Harry clenches and unclenches his fists.

"I'm not." That's true. It's not Lucius' fault that Harry completely lost his head and did something that he knew he shouldn't have done.

"Then why do I get the impression that you are?" Lucius asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm angry with myself," Harry replies.

"For kissing me?"

"For forgetting the reasons why I shouldn't have kissed you," Harry corrects.

"What, may I ask, are those?" Lucius says. Harry knows Lucius well enough to recognize the signs that Lucius is bracing himself for what Harry says next.

"You've hurt people." Harry winces when he says it. His voice sounds small, his answer inadequate. Harry's answer wasn't what Lucius was expecting. He seems to wilt, his shoulders dropping a little.

"We've had this discussion before," he says, his voice laced with tiredness.

"Did we?" Harry asks, running a hand through his hair.

"You know my record," Lucius says simply.

"Do I?" Harry asks.

"You tell me," comes the reply.

Harry takes a breath and begins to recite: "Lucius Malfoy. Number of unforgivable curses: unknown. Number of deaths caused: estimated at 30. Number of deaths that can be proven: 5. Attempted to use a horcrux of Voldemort's to open the chamber of secrets. Pardoned before he could be brought to trial by Minister Ron Weasley at the personal request of Harry Potter." That last part isn't in Malfoy's file. Harry has seen the official file in the records of the Ministry. No one would dare connect Harry Potter to something like Lucius Malfoy, infamous Death Eater, walking free. Instead, Ron had made something up about Lucius contributing valuable information to the search for and persecution of other Death Eaters.

"You've memorized my record," Lucius says, raising an eyebrow. Harry shrugs.

"So?" he asks.

"Only aurors are required to memorize the files of known death eaters."

"Maybe I just wanted to." Because Harry has learned that Death Eaters don't stop being Death Eaters. They just go underground. It was best to know the enemy and their strategy before he ended up flat on his back and staring at the sky, but seeing nothing.

"That's obsessive of you," Lucius notes. You have no idea, Harry thinks. This is my life. This will always be my life: counting the dead, recalling war records on everyone I encounter. This is my life.

"Maybe," is what he says.

"You know my record, yet you've stayed in my home and slept in my bed with me right beside you."

"So?" Harry says, aware of the irrationality himself.

"Either you're an idiot with a death wish or you think there's more to me than my record."

"I don't care if there's more to you than your record," Harry insists. It's a lie. Lucius allows himself a small smirk—the all-knowing kind that Harry hates.

"So you're an idiot with a death wish," he says. Harry sighs, suddenly bone-tired from the stress of the past day and a half.

"I'm an idiot for thinking for even a moment that maybe we could be something more than acquaintances."

There's a moment of silence in which Lucius digests this information. "Does it matter what I think about all this?" he asks quietly. Harry shakes his head. "I thought so. You will still serve as Sebastian's chaperone." Only the slightest change in tone indicates that this is a question. Harry nods. "Good." There is another moment of silence. "Will this make things awkward between us?" Harry nods again, forgetting where he has placed his voice. "You are still welcome to sleep at the manor whenever you feel the need."

"Thank you." Harry finds his voice at last, somewhere in the back of his throat. The look on Lucius' face indicates that Lucius hardly thinks that the matter is worth thanking him over. He is remotely cool and Harry can feel the chill distinctly.

"When you think we can be more than acquaintances, you know were to find me," he says. His voice reveals nothing. Harry is unreasonably disheartened and he can only nod again. Lucius turns to leave, hesitates and then turns back to Harry.

He leans forward. His hand caresses Harry's cheek. Harry closes his eyes, and when Lucius doesn't move further, he does, closing the space between them and finding Lucius' lips. Lucius doesn't respond for a moment. Then he moves and his arms are around Harry and his hands are in Harry's hair. The Lucius who was so cool and composed a moment ago is gone and replaced by someone Harry can only find when they're alone and the masks come off. The first kiss melts into another, and another.

"You want me," Lucius says, kissing Harry again. Harry breaks the kiss, stepping back.

"Yes," he says, looking at the fire, at the floor, anywhere but Lucius.

"Then why?" Harry's eyes meet Lucius'.

"I can't love you," he says.

He says it softly, but the answer is brutal nonetheless. Lucius' face goes blank, the way it does when emotion threatens to overwhelm him. He closes his eyes and nods. Harry thinks he's going to be sick as he watches Lucius turn away. Lucius pulls a card from his robes and into the fireplace. Without a backward glance, he steps through, disappearing from sight.

Feeling suddenly cold, Harry wraps his arms around himself and cries.

So that was a bit of a bummer, ne? Comments and criticism welcome. Review!

Love,

J. Silver

P.S. Happy New Year!