A/N: Firstly, I would just like to saw a big, HUGE thank you to the guest reviewer from the last chapter. Ohmygod, that was seriously the most beautiful comment. So uplifting. It's words like that which seriously give people motivation to write. Thank you so much; you're wonderful! xx

Chapter 10: My Idea of Horror

~Albus~

Whoever came up with the idealistic image of 'waking up with a smile on your face' is full of it. Really. It didn't happen. I was sure of it.

It is possible, however, to break into an achingly wide smile a split second after waking as a truly joyous memory sweeps you off your feet. I could stand testimony to that. And that is probably one of the best ways to wake up.

Awakening to the memory of my sort-of-date with Scor… it could only possibly have been improved if Scor was actually lying in the bed next to me. A thought that was ridiculously arousing in and of itself and served to keep me abed with my thoughts for a little longer than I usually would with the comfort of my own hand rather than Scor.

When I did finally clamber out of bed – after straightening and tidying myself with the assistance of a quick Scourgify – it was slowly and languidly, holding onto the last moments of the warm embrace of my blankets for as long as possible. I didn't technically need to be out of bed given that it was still the holidays, which meant I very rarely surfaced before midday, but blame it on my good-humour or whatever but I suddenly felt the urge to do something. Anything. Drifting idly over to my window, I peeled open the curtains to allow sunlight to flood through my room. White sunlight, filtered by falling snow and ice that left a foggy opaqueness on the glass, a chill that failed to pervade the room.

My mood refused to be dampened by the coolness that brought a shiver to my skin. Because last night… last night had been fabulous. In spite of the lack of privacy, and in spite of the potential for boredom in the face of the directors droning monotones, I – and I think Scor as well – had actually thoroughly enjoyed myself. Granted, the kiss was a significant contribution to that conclusion, as well as our few stolen moments before Scor left me on my doorstep and disappeared into the night.

It had been strange, glimpsing into the activities I'd only heard about through Scor's bemoaning of his busy schedule. Rightfully bemoaning, to be fair; if I'd been subjected to a dinner like what we'd had last night without Scor's company, or to a succession of such dinners, then I'd probably be whinging about it too. It felt good, though, to share that night. As though I'd gotten to know Scor just a little better. And even a little better was better.

Not to mention I'd finally met his parents. Sort of. We didn't really get to talk much – I didn't even share a word with – but Scor had informed me as we walked up the path to my house that they liked me. I'm not sure how he knew, as I didn't see him talk to them either in any sort of privacy either, but he seemed very confident in his deductions. Real confidence, not that fake front he put on sometimes.

That had made me happy too, almost as much as the kiss had. I keow Scor wouldn't dump me if his parents disapproved of me in the slightest – mostly because he told me as much, though I liked to think I'd already had that faith in him – but it was reassuring even so. I knew how much Scor's parent's opinions meant to him. That I'd apparently ticked a few boxes… it felt really, really good.

I didn't know why it was, but whenever I felt in a good mood I always had the urge to be around my family. Maybe it was an unconscious desire to offer them a bright, happy face for once in apology for the many times I'd offered them otherwise. I wasn't going to deny that if there was anyone I did want to see it would be Scor first and foremost, but the family came in at a relatively close second. By my Tempus Charm's eleven o'clock - early for me - I left my room, not bothering to change from the old shirt and baggy bottoms I wore as pyjamas, and made my way downstairs.

Our house wasn't exactly huge, but it easily held my entire family. Including James, despite the fact he was a national quidditch player and had more than enough personal wealth to find himself a respectable house of his own. I wasn't sure if he'd ever leave; he probably found it too convenient, too much of a hassle to find a place for himself. Typical James. But anyway, because of it's size, I didn't hear the voices of my family speaking in heated and anxious tones until I was already halfway towards the dining room, yawning my way down the hallway.

"...going to stay secret for long, we knew that." That was Dad, and he sounded regretful, almost guilty.

"It was never a secret in the first place," Mum replied. "And why should it be? There's nothing wrong with it, just Julianne Picket jumping on an easy target. She's a devil, that woman. Almost as bad as Skeeter was."

"I can't believe you guys didn't even tell me," James grumbled. He was quieter than Mum or Dad, sounding more as though he spoke to himself than to anyone in particular.

Lily's distinctive sigh sounded a moment later. "For God's sake, James, get over yourself. How could you have even missed it? He's practically all Al's talked about the entire holidays." I heard Mum and Dad's murmurs of agreement and could almost see James shifting from foot-to-foot as he did when he'd overlooked something obvious. It happened more often than he cared to admit.

I frowned, pausing just outside the half-open door into the dining-slash-kitchen area. They were talking about me. Talking about me talking about someone - which, let's be honest, was probably Scor if I considered the rest of Lily's statement - and it had them worried. Something about keeping it a secret? Who wanted to keep it a secret? Keep what a secret?

"It's not a problem," Mum reiterated, the force in her tone suggesting she was attempting to convince herself as much as everyone else. "It's not. We'll... we'll deal with this, like we have every situation beforehand."

"But this is Al," Lily pointed out, her voice slow and deliberate. My frown deepened at that; my sister sounded more than a little condescending. "He never deals well with stuff like this."

"Stuff like what," I interrupted as, having enough of eavesdropping, I stepped through the door. As one, four pairs of eyes snapped towards me; Dad and Lily were at the table, a newspaper spread between them - likely only just arrived as the Tuesday edition always came late. Mum and James leaned on either side of the kitchen island counter, Mum with her elbows propped on the granite tops and James slumping backwards, long legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded across his chest. Guilt flashed in varying degrees across each face and slowly Mum pushed herself up to standing straight.

"Good morning, Al. Or," she paused, her eyes flickering for a moment towards the grandfather clock across the room. "Yes, morning. Would you like anything for breakfast? Or brunch, I suppose is more appropriate."

Her voice was too casual for me not to suspect something was afoot, even had I not overheard the conversation that had abruptly ceased as I entered the room. Sweeping my eyes in a swift scan around the room, still frowning, I caught sight of Lily gradually slipping the newspaper from the table onto her lap. An obvious attempt to hide it, one that Dad evidently felt was futile given the resigned expression on his face. "No, thanks, that's okay. Um... What were you guys talking about?"

In an instant, not only Dad's face depicted resignation; it settled upon all four of them like masks of mimicry. Mum sighed softly while Dad sat forward in his seat and held his hand out to Lily in request. Even with all attention fixed upon her, Lily still looked as though she was considering making an attempt at flight, paper-prize in hand. Not that she would have gotten far; James would have her pinned to the floor before she made it halfway up the hallway. I knew this because it had happened before more times than I could count.

With a sigh that mirrored Mum's to the exact pitch, Lily pulled the folded paper from her lap and spread it once more across the table. I felt an upwelling of foreboding settle with steady growth in my chest; there are few things I hate more than newspapers. Especially the Daily Prophet.

"It's really not anything all that significant," Mum assured me. She swept around the island counter to my side, patting a hand on my shoulder in a comforting way that counteracted her words. It actually made me even more uneasy.

Cautiously casting a wary glance towards each member of my family, I stepped up to the dining table and propped my hands on either side of the paper. It took only a glance at the opened page to discern what all the fuss was about.

SECRET TRYSTS: MALFOYS AND POTTERS OVERCOME THEIR DIFFERENCES AT LAST.

Beneath the headline was a picture, and as I watched the reel play to its conclusion before repeating once more, I felt bile rise in the back of my throat. It was a picture of me. Me and Scor. Kissing. That first time, that single time, the only actual kiss we'd shared, and some arsehole had caught it on camera and sold it to the Daily Prophet.

Because of course they would. The scandal, of a Potter and a Malfoy being amicable, let alone in a relationship! I could feel my face tighten almost painfully as I drew my eyes to the fine, printed words below. They reeked of Julianne Picket so profoundly that her tagged name was unnecessary.

New Years Eve. A peaceful evening of light snowfall and celebration. In the aftermath of Christmas, it is a time for joy and excitement, for reflection and appreciation, for friendship and familial love.

For the children of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, it is a different kind of love that sings in the air. Cupid has fired his arrow once more and, as evidenced by the images gleaned from our source, appear to be more deeply embroiled than was previously considered.

The Potter's and the Malfoy's have always shared animosity. Since their days in Hogwarts, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have been temperate at best; avid rivals at worst. Despite the effects of the Second Wizarding War and the truce made between the two men, that they would never develop a bond of friendship was always apparent.

Not so, it would seem, for their children.

Enjoying an evening at the Hotel Marquess amidst the reputable Board of Directors, Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy were seen to demonstrate a closer-than-friends relationship throughout the dinner. "There was something about the way they looked at each other, about the way they sat beside one another, that made me think there was something going on deeper than was suspected," comments Ursula, daughter of Lord Hermenway. "Just some of the things that Scorpius was saying to my father gave me the impression he was showing off a bit. As one would before their boyfriend."

Our source, a chance passer-by, caught a glimpse of the pair wandering down Pearl Street in what appeared to be 'closer than casual' proximity. A suspicion that proved entirely true when, shortly after leaving their dinner partners, the young men demonstrated that their relationship was indeed more than Just Friends.

What can this mean for the relationship between the Potters and the Malfoys? Are the two families turning over a new leaf? Have the sons of our beloved hero and the respectable CEO of LeFay Connected initiated what could described as the most unlikely of unions between our respectable Wizarding families? Or is only disaster on the horizon for the young sweethearts?

And the question on all of our lips: how long will it last? For what possible motivation could there be for the initiation of these two most opposite young men?

The story continued with speculations that became more and more outrageous, bulked out with quotations from people I'd barely even heard of. I didn't read any further, not really. Like a magnet my eyes were drawn back to the black and white picture of myself and Scor. The ecstasy of the moment, the golden trim of that all-too-knew, happy memory in my mind, was tarnished by the greedy words of the media. By a fucking gossipmonger who had wheedled their way into the ranks of Prophet's reporters.

I knew I shouldn't care. I shouldn't; really, what did Picket know? What did anyone know of mine and Scor's relationship except what we expressly chose to tell them? And more than that, why did their opinion even matter? I knew it shouldn't. It really shouldn't concern me that anybody had an opinion about my boyfriend except me and perhaps my friends and family. I mean, why did they even care? Was it a slow week for news or something? What possible incentive could the Niffler Picket possibly have for sniffing out that particular pot of leprechaun gold?

I knew both mine and Scor's dads were famous; everybody knew that. They had been for years and their school rivalry was common knowledge for about as long. Not only were they renowned for their part in the Second Wizarding War but since then they had both been public figures; Dad was Head of the Auror department, the youngest there had been for generations, while Mr Malfoy was the head of that Le Fay International Relations and Funding business that was apparently a really big deal, though I hadn't taken a huge amount of interest in the subject until very recently. They were celebrities. Idols of a sort. People looked up to them as they would any idealised figure. With those bloody expectations, of course they would be the topic of conversation for anything within their behaviour that was deemed 'unexpected'.

Dad had always hated the publicity. Always. He'd never been one to revel in his celebrity status, and apparently, according to Scor, while Mr Malfoy had used his own fame as a stepping stone of sorts, he similarly preferred to keep out of the limelight. For our family, my early childhood had been a series of slipping into the shadows between camera flashes and attempting to avoid public notice as much as possible. No one wanted their every move to be common knowledge for the entirety of Wizarding Britain.

It had died down a little in recent years, thank God. There was still the odd story every now and again - Mum's brief stint as a coach for the junior Flying Squirrels team three years ago, James' rise into her footsteps and his latest athletic feats, Dads particularly noteworthy cases and their impact upon society - but generally nothing all that personal. There was the occasional rebuffing of the old stories, the questions of 'who were the Potters really?' and 'what were they like?' I'd come to hate those stories with a passion; it was horrible, having some random journalist make assumptions about your life from the most trivial pieces of information. If I'd known it would have such a huge influence on speculation as to Mum and Dad's parenting skills, I never would have so strongly insisted on going without shoes to that picnic in the Royal Botanical Gardens when I was twelve.

Everything was always honed in upon and blown out of proportion.

Admittedly, the story wasn't all that bad. I mean, there was no overt outcry over the fact that Scor and I were actually dating, only about what it would mean for our families. About possible under-the-table machinations that pervaded our relationship. And about what it meant for 'the world'.

But still... It kind of felt like shit. What I had with Scor was new and a little bit scary, but it was exciting too and I was actually having the time of my life. Which was saying something, because other than the dinner the previous night we had only been communicating by letters and - blessed be technology, I praise you - phone over the past few weeks. But even that had been special. Like a dam that had been broken between us to allow an onrush of suppressed thoughts and feelings to crash forth, we talked and talked and talked about everything. Both superficial and deep. Things I wouldn't have even thought to talk to Rhali or Ozzy about, like the fact that I had a secret herb garden of very unusual but still very legal magical plants out the back of Neville's place that was just for us. Similarly, Scor told me about things I'd never expected to hear come from him. About his old friends, about how he truly felt about following in his father's footsteps - which was not happy.

And that article... it felt as though it had stained the specialness somehow. Stupidly, because it wasn't supposed to have any influence at all. It shouldn't have. Shouldn't - and yet still somehow managed to. The nausea that had risen in the back of my throat returned with a vengeance and I had to clamp my mouth closed just in case I should happen to spill what remained of the delicious cuisine from the night before all over the table. It was a struggle.

I didn't know how long I just stared at the paper for, at the picture of Scor and I as it gradually became uglier and uglier. All I knew was that in that time I rapidly lost the precious glow that had shrouded me since the night before. Eventually, though, I became aware of Mum's hand as it shifted from gentle squeezing to compassionate rubs to my shoulder.

Without raising my head I glanced towards her. "This is what you were talking about, huh?"

Mum's face was sympathetic but warily so. As though she worried that anything resembling pity might cause me to snap. Was I really that bad? I mean, the instance with the exclusive speculation into my personal life that had been printed when I was ten... admittedly my reaction had been explosive then, but that was seven years ago.

Mum wasn't the only one to shroud themselves in caution like a blanket. Dad raised himself slowly to his feet and walked around the table towards me with so much casualness he looked like he was lost in the middle of his own house. "It's really nothing that huge, Al. Just Picket sticking her nose where it doesn't belong."

"Snooty cow," Lily chimed in helpfully, and it was a credit to the focus of everyone's attention that Mum didn't scold her for the mild curse. I turned my gaze with hazy numbness towards her. She was frowning angrily, accusingly, at the newspaper, as though to blame it for any slight it might have afforded. Which, admittedly, it had.

"There wasn't even anything in it that was that exceptional," James added, nudging his glasses further up his nose. I wondered with the same half-heartedness as I always did, with a detached curiosity that buzzed along the edges of my whirring thoughts, why he bothered to wear them still when optometrists had potions to fix eye problems nowadays. I think it probably had something to do with trying to look like Dad; he did, if one overlooked the extra half a foot of height. "I mean, she's grasping at straws if this is the best she can do."

"And she doesn't know anything," Mum continued for him. There was a hard edge to her tone, one that I recognised as being indicative of suppressed vengeful protectiveness. She met my eyes fiercely as I glanced back towards her, narrowing her own slightly. "You don't let anything that horrid woman says get to you, Albus Severus. What is between you and Scorpius is entirely your business and no one else's. These little clippings," and she sent her own venomous glare towards the paper, one that left Lily's impression floundering behind in its dust, "are complete bollocks."

Mum's curse startled me from my stupor. And not just me, apparently, for it wasn't only my own eyebrows that rose at her words. Oh, every one of us in the family knew Ginny Weasley had a wicked tongue back in the day; every teenager under the sun had the right to explore the boundaries of their vocabulary. She still did practice it when she was a little into her drinks, but never when sober. And she absolutely forbade such language in the house. At all times.

So it was unexpected to hear even such a laughable cuss as that. I felt myself feebly unravel from my spiral of muddled thoughts enough to attempt to appear as though I was steadying myself. I could only attempt, however, because inside my head my stupid brain was jumping from question to fruitless question, babbling on and on about the opinions of people that I didn't know and shouldn't care about and what influence if could have on mine and Scor's relationship.

"Thanks, Mum." I offered a weak smile, hoping it actually looked genuine. I didn't think I managed so well, because not a one of my parents or siblings looked even the slightest bit convinced that I'd brushed off the article.

Stupid, stupid article.

"I'm sure no one with an ounce of sense actually reads Picket's stories anyway," Lily muttered, her tone slightly hesitant as though she was cautiously testing the waters. Her fingers were gradually sliding the paper off the table once more. "You shouldn't worry about it."

"I'm not, Lil. Really, it's… it's like you said. It's not really that bad or anything." I gestured towards the newspaper a moment before it slipped into Lily's lap. "I mean, there was nothing even all that malicious in there."

"Course not," James put in. "Picket's never so obvious as that. Underhanded bitch."

"James," Mum warned, and though it was in the same tone as the one she always used to scold for bad language, I was pretty sure it was directed more at the statement as a whole.

"It's okay, Mum. Really, it's okay. I'm, um…" I trailed off, not sure where I was going with the statement. My entire family looked at me expectantly and a little worriedly. They knew I was upset, but like avoiding the elephant in the room I also knew that we would overlook that upset it until it became a problem.

We always had. That's just how we dealt with my anxiety problem. It was probably not the most appropriate approach, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Forcing another feeble smile onto my face, I sidled towards the hallway once more to flee from the kitchen. Any inclination to be around my family had dwindled with the death of my good-humour; it wasn't that I wanted to actively avoid my family or anything, but it was disconcerting to have them so concerned for me. I really didn't like it; much better to secrete myself into my room.

Mum caught me before I'd made three steps, however. "Won't you have something to eat? I can cook up some beans on toast if you'd like." Her tone was bright, a little overloud, in an attempt at casualness. The intensity of her gaze spoke otherwise, though.

I shook my head. "No… no thanks. I'm not really hungry." And, before Mum could protest further, I continued. "I think I might just go and give Scor a call. Just, you know, see how… everything is."

Mum's words visibly died on her tongue and she seemed at a little bit of a loss of how to continue. Dad took the baton of replies from her, however. With his own attempt at cheer, he gave me an affectionate smile. He was better at those forced smiles than Mum; I think it has to do with so many years being the prime target of the paparazzi. "Sure thing, Al. Just make sure you come down and get something for lunch, okay?"

"Yeah, will do, Dad." I nodded and, taking the opportunity he presented, I strode from the room, nearly ran down the hallway and up the stairs and fell into my room. It took an effort to close the door gently rather than slam it.

My hands flew to my phone at my nightstand without my deliberate consent as I slumped onto my bed. Scor picked up on the second ring, even though I knew he was supposed to be heading out to a formal lunch with his friend Tatsuya.

"Al?"

"Scor. Did –?"

"You saw the article?"

I released a heavy breath that I really hope didn't sound as much like a sob over the phone as it did in my own ears. I strove for casualness in my reply. "Um, yeah. Yeah, I saw it."

"Are you…?" Scor's voice was deep and intense and I could almost see him glaring at some distant figure accusingly. I bit my lip in wait for his words, readying a light-hearted reply as I listened to the buzz of background crowds on his end. When he finally continued it was not as I'd predicted. "Al, I really, truly must apologise."

"You- What?"

"Honestly, I am so terribly sorry for what happened."

Sitting up straight on my bed, I frowned. Confusion warred against the nausea that still swum through me and tickled the back of my throat. It actually managed to balance it out a little. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Scor sighed heavily, sounding a lot older through phone than he did in person. "It was my fault that it happened in such a public place. And just after the Director's dinner? There was bound to be someone waiting to take a snap or two. I'm just really –"

"Why on earth would you apologise for that, you idiot?" I actually laughed incredulously at that. Genuinely laughed. And if it was a little on the hysterical side… well, I hoped the distance of electronic communication would cover for me. "I seem to recall that I was as much a participant in the situation as you were." I paused, frowning once more. "I mean, I assumed I was."

Scor chuckled on his end of the phone, though he too sounded a little strained. "Well, I don't know who else it was if not you."

"Exactly. So don't try and apologise for me. You sound stupid."

"Thanks for your kindness, Al," Scor muttered sarcastically. But then his tone smoothed and became concerned a moment later. "But really, are you alright?"

I went right on back to gnawing at my lip. "I guess." I wasn't. And as soon as our mutual teasing stopped, I was made aware of the fact again. "I'm just… I mean, it'll pass and… ho-how are you? Did your Dad get angry at you or anything?"

"Father?" Scor replied, as though clarifying. He sounded faintly incredulous. "Was Father angry? About the kiss or the article?"

"Both, I guess."

"Well, he didn't care a wit that we kissed. That's what boyfriends do, you know," Scor relayed condescendingly. I chose to overlook that condescension for the moment. "But about the article? Yeah, he was angry. Really angry, actually. He said that the media has no business in the affairs of his child and that child's personal life."

I made a noise of agreement. "Yeah, my family sort of said the same thing."

"I think more than anything Father was just angry that our picture was taken without permission. I'm fairly certain he taken out a restraining order for that sort of thing, though I'm not entirely certain if it includes me in the fine print." He sighed again, and I could almost picture him squeezing the bridge of his nose in that way he does in weary exasperation. "I spoke to him about what to do."

"And?"

"Well, Father's quite practiced at manipulating the media. Even if such manipulation involves intimidation and blackmail more often than not. From about the moment he opened the paper this morning he was right on top of pushing for a counter article to allay any beliefs that our relationship is for political or underhanded purposes. Or, in fact, that it's anyone's business but ours."

I felt my lips smile waveringly as I listened to Scor's words. My nerves were still frayed and I actually found myself twitching a little in my attempt at sitting immobile. I wasn't feeling better exactly, but the simple act of talking to Scor at least stopped me from feeling worse. I honestly had no idea why I was still feeling so highly strung; it hardly even seemed related to the article anymore. Just my nerves being a pain in the arse. "Does he think he'll manage it?"

"I'm not sure. But even failing that, I'm certain that he'll jump on Picket's back to quell her flapping tongue. Or quill, more appropriately."

"That would be… good."

There was a pause from the other end of the phone. When Scor spoke once more there was a note of concern – or deeper concern – underlying his tone. "You're not alright at all, are you?"

I had to take my own pause at that. It was always harder to keep myself composed when someone actually spotted how close I was to falling apart. "I'm fine, Scor. Really, it's just stupid, and Picket is being stupid and annoying, and it's all just really, really stupid."

"Yes," Scor replied slowly. "But do you –"

He cut off abruptly and in a hollow echo that bespoke a third party speaker I heard something that sounded like a question. Scor replied, too quietly for me to make out, as though he'd dropped the phone from his ear, and was clearly directed to someone else. There was a short, fast exchange between them, an assurance of kinds to finish up, and the sound of the phone being handled rustling down the line. "Al?"

"You've gotta go. Sorry, I won't keep you."

"No, Al, really. It's alright. Tatsuya's just –"

I sighed with an attempt at my usual scolding exasperation. I had to blink back a sudden fuzziness in my eyes as I fastened my gaze on my knees. One hand rose to tug sharply at my fringe, an attempt to calm the steadily rising nerves once more. "Scor? Shut up and hang up the phone."

"I'm not going to just stop talking to you now –"

"You'd better, 'cause I'm gonna hang up on you." I swallowed around a lump in my throat painfully. "You'll just be talking to a dead phone. Or I can put Caesar on, if you'd like."

"Al," Scor reattempted, his voice serious and hard in concern. Did I really sound so bad as to warrant such worry? I mean, I wasn't the only one freaking out about the article, right? Sure, I might be a bit more all over the place than Scor, but… "Tell me what's going on. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking…" I paused, swallowed again and fought once more to control the wavering of my voice. "That I'm absolutely starving. And you're keeping me from my breakfast."

The sound of Scor's breathing filtered through the phone for a moment. How he managed to make even those soft exhalations seem frustrated was beyond me. Eventually he gave a soft laugh, though that one didn't sound very sincere either. "You're not fooling anyone, you know."

I had to smile at that. It really was a bit of a feeble attempt. "Yeah, whatever. Go away now."

"I'll talk to you later, Al."

"Okay. Talk later."

And the phone cut out.

Giving another sharp tug to my fringe I tossed my phone onto the doona beside me. Falling back onto the mattress, I stared at without really seeing the ceiling overhead and attempted to get a handle on the pointless clamouring of my thoughts.

The talk with Scor had helped temporarily, but that help didn't last long. Logically, I knew the situation was nothing huge. I knew how fickle the media and their puppet-strung readers were with every new story that arose. What made an appearance on the front page one day would become old news and irrelevant the next. So even if there had been something incriminating in the article – which, really, there hadn't been; just a whole lot of pointless circling around stupid, unanswerable questions – the hype would die down soon.

Still, even knowing this, even with the reassurance of Scor and my family, I couldn't help the jumping and fluttering in my belly that clawed towards queasiness, or the rising throbbing in my temple that I knew would manifest into a headache within the hour if it wasn't quelled. The pointless thoughts that I attempted stem because they were – yes – pointless and unhelpful and blown far out of proportion had already begun to impart their effects towards my physical state rather than simply my mental instability.

I knew the drill; I used to have panic attacks of sorts when I was younger, so I was familiar with how to cope with rising anxiety. Even if I couldn't always do anything about it. Breathe slowly, close my eyes, attempt to relax taut muscles and concentrate on the rush of air into and out of my lungs rather than the whirlwind of thoughts in my mind. It worked sometimes, and I knew that Mum and Dad thought that it was because of these professionally taught coping mechanisms that I was actually handling my anxieties with any competency.

It did help. To a degree. At least, it did when I could actually manage to shunt my hammering thoughts to the side long enough to think with a modicum of clarity. It wasn't the main helper, though, not really. James and Lily at least knew it was because I relied on an anxiolytic of sorts with my Harproot. Mum and Dad didn't know, of course. I would never hear the end of it, and I was pretty sure they'd go so far as to deliberately shackle my Herbology hobby if they did. Poor Neville; he'd probably cop some of Mum's famous scolding for it too.

So while I did use my 'independent methods', I could pretty assuredly state that was the drugs that worked the miracles. I should probably get that looked into, find a different crutch, but… well, it worked.

And at that moment, the inclination to snap a leaf of Harproot from the little plant on my windowsill was awfully tempting.

I resisted for a little while, pondering the ceiling and struggling to maintain steady breathing. It didn't take long, though, for the urge to grow too great. Sitting abruptly upright, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, relief already tingling across my skin at the anticipated easing of the Harproot's effects.

I'd hardly made it across the room, however, when my door swung inwards. I stopped short, glancing over my shoulder and refusing to look guilty.

Ozzy stood in the doorway. His appearance was so unexpected that any attention given to maintaining my presence of innocence abruptly dissipated.

He leant against the frame of the door, panting with his head half bowed as though he'd run to my house from his place at St. Albens. Which, given his competency with Apparation, he likely almost had. It was not unheard of for Ozzy to miss his mark by nearly a kilometre; I honestly didn't know how he passed his test. He seemed rumpled, his crop of hair somehow managing to look askew, his baggy jeans wrinkled as though picked up from being discarded on the floor and white t-shirt threaded inside out. He was even more of a mess than usual, which was saying something. Even Ozzy admitted he was a little haphazard.

"Hey, Ozzy. What are you doing here?" I attempted off-handedness, and it was actually surprisingly easy to mimic considering my only-gradually dying jitteriness. The intent stare that Ozzy turned upon he deterred any furthering of the attempts, though.

"Is it true?"

I frowned, taking a half step further away from the doorway, away from Ozzy. It was unintentional and I felt sort of guilty for doing it. More so when a flicker of hurt flashed across Ozzy' face as they dropped to my feet. "What?"

His eyes rose to meet my own once more. With one hand he reached behind him and pulled a newspaper from the back of his jeans. I felt my heart sink. "This," Ozzy supplied, quickly opening the paper and holding up The Article.

I swallowed thickly as the cause of my only slightly curbed distress confronted me once more. I cursed that I hadn't thought to harvest my Harproot sooner. "Which part of it?"

Ozzy glanced between myself and the paper, his face hard and tense. I didn't really know why; was he angry that Picket had printed the story? Or angry at the possibility of a 'fake relationship'? "All of it. You. Him. Are you… together?"

A frown impressed itself into my brow, quelling my nausea slightly. That was not exactly the direction I'd thought the conversation would take. "What, me and Scor? Are we seeing each other?" At Ozzy's curt nod I raised a quizzical eyebrow and looked pointedly at the paper held in his hands. "Um… well, yeah. They've got the photographic evidence and everything. Is that… is that a problem?"

I hadn't thought it would be. I hadn't thought that Rhali or Ozzy would possibly have a problem with Scor and I dating. After all, they liked him, didn't they? Or was that the problem in itself? Were they freaked out that two of their friends would start dating? I'd heard of friendships falling apart over such things. It made me feel terribly guilty that I hadn't told them both sooner; I'd wanted to, as soon as Scor and I actually got together, but it didn't seem right to break the news to them with Scor's absence, which he had been for the entire holidays. So we decided to wait.

Apparently… that was the wrong decision.

Ozzy slowly lowered the newspaper, his grasp white-knuckled on the edges. His face was still hard, sharp, strong jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles bulged. And he wouldn't look at me, instead training his gaze on the floor at my feet. That was the worst part. His eyes were horribly blank.

When he spoke, Ozzy's voice was pitched low, lower than I'd ever heard it. "A problem… I don't… it's not… I just…"

He was stumbling. Ozzy was stumbling. That was strange enough in itself because Ozzy was always casually eloquent, easy with words. But more than that, he… was that tears? His eyes looked glassy with them. "Ozzy, what is it? What's… Have we made you angry? What part? What -? That we didn't tell you? 'Cause if it is, Ozzy, I'm really sorry, we just –"

"All of it."

I stuttered to a halt at Ozzy's words. He hadn't spoken loudly, hadn't moved a muscle, but the slight crack in his voice bespoke barely withheld emotion. I felt an entirely new anxiety rise within me, for an entirely different reason. Ozzy was upset; I'd made Ozzy upset and I didn't even know why. "What do you mean? I don't know what –"

"All of it," Ozzy repeated, peering up at me with his head still bowed. His eyes were still glazed but tears hadn't yet fallen. "You and him, together. I can't… I hate it."

Oh. So it was how I thought. "Are you weirded out by two of your friends dating? 'Cause if it is, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I didn't…"

My voice died as Ozzy slowly shook his head. He had fixed his stare back on the floor and was swallowing again and again in quick successions. "I… I don't like you dating him. You can't… you can't be dating him…"

"Why…?" Anxiety caused my voice to warble slightly and I stunted my sentence for fear of making a fool of myself. Ozzy didn't need any furthering of the question anyway.

"Because." And he raised his gaze once more, his eyes heated behind the tears. "Because you should be dating me."

I stared at him. And stared. And stared. A pervasive blanket of numbness seemed to well within me before crashing with the force of a semi-trailer. "No I shouldn't."

"You –"

"No, Ozzy, I shouldn't. You fancy Lily. I mean, I know we've slept together. A lot. But you like –"

Ozzy was shaking his head again, more firmly now. "No, I don't."

"Yes, you do –"

"No, Al, I don't. It's you. It's always been you. I've fancied you for years now. Since second year."

I went right on back to staring. And staring. My mind didn't seem to be working properly. "But… but you said… because I look like Lily –"

"You honestly think you look all that much like Lily? I still can't believe you actually believed that excuse." Ozzy barked a harsh sound that could have been laughter but didn't particularly resemble it. It sounded more pained than amused. "But even so, no, I don't fancy Lily."

"But you said –"

"I know what I said!" Ozzy scrubbed the back of his hand across his forehead furiously. "I just said it because you said you didn't like me back the same way! And… and with that… if I couldn't date you, then at least I could…" He trailed off, still furiously rubbing his forehead and half-hiding his face.

And once more I went back to staring. Except beneath that my mind was a tumultuous cloud of confusion.

Ozzy. Ozzy fancied me. He fancied me enough that he actually wanted to date me, was upset at the thought that Scor and I were in a relationship. We'd slept together, with me under the allusion that it was purely physical, when for Ozzy –

Oh God. Oh my god. Ozzy fancied me, and we slept together, and I didn't even know, and now he was upset that I was dating someone else, and… and…

It was a bad day. It was a very, very bad day, and not just for the article in the newspaper. My nerves were wound as tightly as a bowstring, almost painfully taut. The lights suddenly seemed too bright as my vision wavered. I felt a wave of dizziness course through me, in tandem to the roiling in my gut. My legs became weak and I allowed myself to slide into a jumbled heap on the floor. Detachedly I was aware that I was breathing heavily, in short, sharp pants that seized my chest, but it was with a mere flicker of awareness. A similar flicker arose with the disjointed sound of words that I somehow perceived as being Ozzy's. They sounded strange, though, and were entirely unimportant considering the thoughts racing through my mind.

Guilt. I realised it was guilt in a horrified sort of way. How the hell had I managed to do that to Ozzy? How had I not noticed? This whole time, I'd thought we were sleeping together for the same reason; that it was purely for physical satisfaction. And it was. For me.

But not for Ozzy.

God, I'm a terrible person.

Terrible. Horrible. Disgusting. Poor, poor Ozzy, oh God, I'm so, so sorry. And how he found out about Scor and me. Could it have been any worse?

The crushing in my chest was sharply painful, had crawled up my throat. I couldn't see anything anymore, couldn't hear anything except for the thoughts running through my mind, the thudding pulse in my ears. Panic attack, I realised with certainty, detachedly recognising the familiar sequence for what it was.

Of course I'd have a panic attack now. Wonderful.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I struggled to gain a hold of my breathing. If I didn't manage it quickly then I'd pass out in a minute or so. I knew this, in the small corner of my mind that wasn't in the throughs of freaking out.

Breathe in… breathe out… breathe in…

I chanted the mantra, out of time with my own breaths but still striving to fulfil it anyway. It was bloody hard! Especially fighting with the ranting guilt and confusion that battered away at my mind in a raucous demand for attention.

But slowly, gradually, the constriction in my throat began to slow. The pounding in my head, both from what I realised was my heartbeat and the self-disgusted string of words on constant repeat, eased just slightly. Just enough for me to realise that my chanting was being echoed by words that weren't my own.

"Just breathe, Al. That's it. In and out. Breathe in… and out… in… and out…"

Ozzy. He was helping me. Even after such a revelation – and the expression on his face, in his eyes, flared in my mind once more – he was still trying to comfort me. To help me as I pathetically fell victim to my own nerves.

Even before I regained my visual senses, my eyes swum with tears. Blinking rapidly, my lips started babbling without my direction, a muffled echo in my ears. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, Ozzy. I didn't know, I really didn't even think that… that you… Or I never would have… I wouldn't have forced you to –"

"Al." Ozzy's face appeared before me, swimming into clarity. His brow was furrowed, but in concern this time rather than pain and his shoulders were hunched to his ears. He was crouching, I realised, because… because I was sitting in a tangle of limbs on the carpet beside my bed. Yes, I remembered falling down now. That used to happen sometimes when I checked out in a fit of panic.

My breaths were easing, slowing to gasps that still heaved my chest but slowly allowed me to regain something approaching steadiness. The over-bright intensity of the sunlight trickling through the window dimmed like someone was turning down the dial on one of those dimmer-lights. I was very happy to have the ground firmly beneath me, even if it did rock slightly. Ozzy was talking, but I couldn't quite make out the words. His voice was gentle, calming, soothing.

Like Ozzy always was.

Sucking in a shaky breath, I squeezed my eyes together tightly once more before meeting Ozzy's stare. He just looked so concerned, any distress for his own situation overwhelmed in the face of my own.

That only made everything so much worse.

His lips were still moving, but I couldn't hold back my words to wait for him to finish whatever he was saying. "Ozzy, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know." I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back the rush of emotion that threatened to bring forth a sob.

Ozzy was silent. He stared at me for a moment, eyes intense but still kind and caring; it was just so like Ozzy that it was heartbreaking. "Of course you didn't, Al. I didn't want you to know."

I shook my head hunching my shoulders and dropping my chin to my chest to avoid his gaze. "I should have known. I should have. Ozzy, what I did to you –"

"What you did to me?" Ozzy's voice was incredulous enough that I raised my gaze. His eyebrows had risen, tenting above his eyes. "Al, I can assure you that everything we did together, every single time we had sex, it was entirely because I wanted to."

"But…" But I didn't know. I wanted to say. Didn't it hurt, to think that I didn't return your feelings? Because really, I didn't. Through all of the guilt and shame, the shock and confusion, I knew that much. I loved Ozzy, but it was a different sort of love to what I had for Scor.

And, in knowing that now, in knowing how Ozzy felt, I could only regret that we'd slept together. It was casual, no strings attached, but still, it wasn't fair. Not to him. If he truly fancied of me, it was a cruelty to dangle that metaphorical carrot.

"We shouldn't have been… Ozzy, we shouldn't have been doing that."

"Because of how I feel?" Ozzy had sunken onto his knees before me, his gangly limbs folded far more gracefully than my own. He rested his hands on his thighs, the newspaper between his fingers slipped forgotten to the floor. His concern had faded alongside the harshness of my breathing, though he still kept a watchful gaze fixed upon me.

Ozzy… I'm so sorry. You're such an incredible person. You deserve so much more than what I've given you.

I trained my eyes on his fingers because that was the only place I could force myself to look of him. I nodded. "I shouldn't have… I mean, I shouldn't have tempted you like that." It sounded ridiculous to my own ears but I realised it for the reality that it was. "It wasn't fair to you."

"Wasn't fair to me?" The exasperation in Ozzy's voice told me he was rolling his eyes, attempting casualness but not quite achieving it. "If anything, it's you that was treated unfairly, Al."

"Me?" I struggled to raise my gaze. It was hard, but finally I managed. Ozzy's stare rested upon me as a physical weight and I suddenly felt very weary. Panic attacks did that; they were utterly draining. I hadn't had one in years, but the effects are hard to forget. "How exactly do you figure?"

Ozzy shrugged. He'd apparently completely lost any awkwardness or embarrassment in confessing his feelings. "I knew you didn't see me like that, Al. But I just… I wanted you desperately. I still do, you know, even though I know it's never going to happen." I attempted to speak but he drowned me out. "I was selfish. Desperate and selfish. I just wanted anything of you that I could get."

He sounded like he was at a confessional. I stared at him, meeting his hooded gaze. Worn; that was how he looked. Worn and resigned. A prisoner walking the rickety plank of a ship. My mouth was hanging open slightly, and I struggled to close it before speaking. "You really do fancy me, don't you?"

It was a stupid thing to say. Absolutely stupid. Cruel, even, to point out the obvious, to reiterate it so pointedly. But Ozzy only nodded. "I know it won't come to anything. And I know it's wrong to still have sex with you anyway when we're on such different pages, when we think of it so differently, but I couldn't help myself. I didn't think you'd actually agree when I suggested it, but then you did. It felt like I'd been given the most wondrous gift in the world." He shrugged one shoulder loosely. "I thought once, years ago, that you might change your mind. I know better now, but I just couldn't help myself."

His words weren't meant to be a reprimand, but I felt myself flinch anyway. They smacked me like a whip and my guilt resurfaced once more from where it hadn't been entirely muted, though for an entirely different reason this time. I felt like I should have returned his feelings.

And when I thought about it, really, it was stranger that I didn't. Why didn't I? Ozzy was fantastic; he was one of the best people I knew. Why the hell didn't I fancy him?

The only reason was that I simply… didn't.

"I know you don't fancy me, and likely never will," Ozzy continued as though he'd heard my thoughts. His gaze upon me was sad but steady, and I felt like I was glimpsing an old pain that had long since healed but still had the ability to twinge at inappropriate times. "But for me, that doesn't change anything. I like you, Al, a lot. So much that I'd rather just settle for being your friend than nothing at all."

I shook my head slowly, not in denial but in miscomprehension. "But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why the bloody hell would you fancy me?"

Ozzy snorted. "There's so many reasons, I couldn't even count them. And you'd likely not believe any of them if I told you."

I frowned, the weight of the situation easing slightly as we fell back into remarkably easy conversation. Even if the topic at hand was a little touchy, it really shouldn't have been so comfortable. "Are you teasing me?"

"Not at all."

"Then you're taking me for an idiot."

"No, not that either."

"Then tell me."

I don't know what pushed me to ask for it. Maybe some sense of validation? Maybe with the intent that, in asking for proof, I could prove myself that Ozzy didn't really see me that way. Maybe to show Ozzy that he didn't actually fancy me. But for the first time since he'd entered the room Ozzy smiled. There was confidence and fondness in his expression that didn't really encourage my hopes. "You're smart –"

I snorted.

"- and funny –"

"I'm sure only to you."

"- and gorgeous."

"Now I know you're making fun of me."

Ozzy ignored me. "You're weirdly obsessive –"

"And that's a good thing?"

"- and it comes across in the things you love, the things you're passionate about, because you just get so caught up in them that the whole world seems to fade out of importance when you do. And you might seem lazy about some things – maybe a lot of things – but I know that's only because they just hold no interest for you.

"You don't like appearing to be good at things because it draws unwanted attention. And you don't like seeming better at anything than me, because you don't want me to feel stupid. And even though you really do hate it when anyone does offer you more attention than you want, you'll always take one for the team if it looks like your friends will cop it if you don't. You hate peas but you love beans, your favourite colour is blue but a really ugly blue because you've always felt sorry that no one would ever pick that shade to be there favourite colour, and the pair of gloves you wear for weeding are actually about ten years old and just enlarged because they were your first and you can't bring yourself to replace them with new ones."

I stared at Ozzy, eyes wide and staring. It wasn't so much the words that left me dumbfounded but the tone in which he spoke, the small smile on his face and slightly distant expression in his eyes. I'd never seen Ozzy look like that before. It rendered even my protestations mute.

"You treat your plants like they're your children and when you think no one's around you talk to them and sometimes sing. And I love to hear you sing, even if you're not all that much of a singer, because you've got a weirdly beautiful voice anyway. You always have dirt under your fingernails but it never bothers you, except in Astronomy for some reason when you decide that cleaning them right then is the most important thing in the world. And even though you do suck at Astronomy, you'd never ask for help from me or Rhali, even when you're so ready to offer it to the both of us if we ask in return. And –"

"Wait," I choked out, holding up a hand. I felt like I'd been dunked in a tub of cold water and, far be it from the warmth and adulation that compliments should elicit, I felt faintly sick because… yes. Ozzy did like me. He liked me a lot. And it was painfully obvious even from just the expression on his face to say nothing of his endless tirade of observations. "That's… that's enough. I…"

"You believe me now?" Ozzy met my eyes kindly. There was no pushiness in his expression, no urging for reciprocation. I could only nod in reply. "Good. Then at least we've got that settled."

A hush fell over the both of us as we just stared at one another. It wasn't uncomfortable, but the silence was certainly loud. "Shit, Ozzy."

"I know," he murmured, a little sadly.

"Shit, I mean… I didn't even realise."

"Yeah, I know."

Swallowing, I wetted my lips to speak something other than a croak. "Does Rhali know about this?"

"About how I feel?" I nodded. Ozzy sighed, humming thoughtfully. He seemed peaceful, relaxed even, despite the bombshell he'd just dropped. Or perhaps because of it. It was as though a weight had fallen off his shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe? I wouldn't be surprised, but then she hasn't said anything. Not to me, anyway."

"And obviously not to me either," I muttered, dropping my eyes down to my hands.

"She's good at keeping secrets, Rhali is," Ozzy supplied redundantly.

I nodded in reply. "True. I didn't find out she was taking Muggle summer courses until Easter in fourth year."

"That's a year earlier than I found out."

"Sorry. I should have told you 'bout that."

"No drama. I worked it out for myself eventually, didn't I?"

"Yeah, eventually. Took you long enough."

"Hey, you just said that you only found out a year before."

"Yeah, and the fact that you took twelve months longer isn't much of a credit to you, Ozzy."

Ozzy chuckled. I did too. And just like that, somehow, impossibly, the horrible situation took a turn, setting its shoulder and digging its heels into the ground to start the heavy trek back up the hill from confronting the intensity back to the easy camaraderie that Ozzy and I had always shared. The confession, the realisation, still sat upon me like a heavy burden, as though while Ozzy had been freed of its weight I had acquired it instead. But that was alright. If anything, I deserved to take something negative from the situation, even if it was solely my own guilt and understanding.

We chatted for a time, idly exchanging quiet nothings, until my stomach announced indignantly that I'd been awake for far too long without filling it. So we headed downstairs, fixed up a substantial lunch – because though Ozzy professed he'd only had breakfast himself an hour or two ago, he always ate half of mine, no matter how large the portion size – and called Rhali to invite her over. After which she came, in a flurry of huff and indignation that we'd apparently shared a morning without the grace of her company.

The rest of the day passed with remarkable ease. Far easier than it should have, given the circumstances. Given what I'd discovered. But regardless, it did. Ozzy, Rhali and I had always had an easy friendship, as capable of spending time in silence as in conversing in deep, profound exchanges. Or, as it happened, lazing about in the living room, sprawled on couches and watching crappy daytime TV.

Lily invited the Scamander twins over for dinner, which was a fairly common occurrence. She had a thing for the twins; she seemed to find them unerringly funny, even when they did absolutely nothing at all. For their part, Lorcan and Lysander seemed pretty oblivious to her fondness but grateful for the invitation nonetheless. And besides, Mum has always had a soft spot for the Scamanders; she'd apparently been close with Auntie Luna when they were in school.

They brought their friend over that night too. Unexpectedly and unannounced, of course, which was just so typically Scamander that no one was really all that surprised. His name was Alan. Or Angus. Or Geoffrey, I'm not sure which, but whatever. He was a bit of a weirdo, which was saying something when Rhali, Ozzy and I were in the same room as him for most of the evening. Not only did he seem even more out of it that the twins naturally were, but because he actually spent more time with my friends and I than with the kids his own age. We didn't really care, nor even particularly notice – and why would we when there was crappy TV to watch? – but it was still a little weird.

And I don't know, maybe there's something about me, some sign or label that I didn't realise was tacked onto my forehead, but he knew I was taking. Geoffrey – or Angus – promptly approached me as he was leaving, gave me a blissfully detached smile that bared his crooked front teeth and matched his glazed blue eyes perfectly. He handed me a little wrapped wax-paper parcel barely bigger than my thumbnail and said "Here, a couple of MAs. They're really, really good. My friend Patrick calls 'em 'Forget-Me-Nows' 'cause that's what they do. You should give 'em a go when you need 'em", and then promptly left. I stared after him bemusedly, shaking my head. Was it really that obvious that I used? Though I could generally pick others when I saw them myself – I'd known Angus was on something or other from the moment he'd stepped through the front door – but I didn't realise I was that obvious. It was a little embarrassing, actually.

Still, the sentiment was… sort of appreciated, I guess. I hadn't taken my Harproot because Ozzy and I had very deliberately moved on from triggering conversation topics as we'd left the heavy stuff in my room and I was bloody exhausted even after spending the day doing nothing. Not that I'd take the MAs, of course. I wasn't one for partaking of the strains currently making the rounds and not just because my tastes didn't run to trends of fashion. I didn't like taking anything I hadn't made myself; that was one sure way to end up lying face down in the gutter one day. So I'd flush them as soon as possible. Even if the idea of momentary forgetfulness did sound sort of appealing.

When Ozzy and Rhali left, I called Scor. It was late as he'd been out all day, but he picked up on the second ring again nonetheless. He was all cringing regret when I explained what happened that day, that I'd had to tell Ozzy and Rhali – the latter of which had appeared distinctly unsurprised by the revelation – and showed nothing but regret for Ozzy's plight.

He had, however, shocked me a little when he said, "But it was sort of obvious, now that I think about it. Ozzy fancying you."

"What?" My voice was loud in my incredulity.

"Well, I didn't have to have seen you two together to realise the fact."

"Except that you didn't realise it."

"Inconsequential," Scor replied with a sniff. "My point is, we really shouldn't be all that surprised."

I sighed into the speaker. "Yeah, whatever you say. I don't know. I feel really, really bad about it. I mean, he's my friend, Scor, and I didn't even realise."

"I know you feel guilty." Scor's voice was attempting sympathy, something that I'd come to realise he wasn't all that adept at showing. "But it's not your fault."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know that too." I did, logically, even if I didn't feel it exactly.

"Don't be so hard on yourself."

I paused, silent for a moment, until Scor urged me to speak with a questioning, "Al?" "Yeah, I got it. Thanks, Scor."

We talked only briefly longer – Scor had to get up before six the next day to go to some breakfast sitting across the city – before hanging up. I didn't feel better, exactly, but it was nice to know that Scor was there to support me in this. And to tell me what I already knew when I needed to hear it from someone else.

Crawling into my bed with an unwarranted weariness, I sunk beneath the covers with the idle hope that tomorrow would be less exhausting.