A/N: HERE'S JOHNNY! I am once again back with another chapter after the kind of months-long hiatus my remaining few readers have probably gotten used to at this point. In better news though, we're starting to draw to a close, and I don't want to make promises, but I'm guesstimating around four to five more chapters.

Content warning: here be slurs! This is 1999, meaning it's firmly in Section 28 territory (if you know you know, bless your heart if you don't) and I felt it would have been dishonest to portray that time as a happy carefree era with no homophobia whatsoever. Since I wasn't alive for most of it and a toddler for the rest of that time, I can't speak to the accuracy of that part of the chapter. but yeah basically: here be slurs, and a bunch of homophobia (internalised and external). Consider yourselves warned.

Ron returned to class the following Monday. When the clock struck nine, he was escorted into the classroom by a not particularly happy-looking Mr Filch and wordlessly took a seat—not his usual one, but at a separate table at the back of the classroom, a fair distance away from the others. Once Professor McGonagall began the lesson, his quill started scraping on the paper like the others', but he didn't raise his hand even once—for all intents and purposes, he may as well not have been there.

This arrangement continued for the next weeks. Every morning, Filch would walk Ron to the classroom; every afternoon at four on the clock, he would return him to the solitary room he had been quartered in. After a few disapproving glares and sharp words from McGonagall, the rest of the students learned not to try gossiping or sneaking messages to Ron in class, and that was that. Soon enough, the stress of the upcoming NEWTs took everyone's mind off gossip, and before too long, the Ron situation had become the new normal—for most of them, anyway.

It was disorienting, Harry found. On the one hand, there was the clear and present urge to walk over to Ron, stop him after class, confront him, talk—but on the other hand, Ron barely seemed to notice there were other people around him, completely refusing to acknowledge Harry's presence. Oh, the first time he had walked into the room, Harry thought he had spotted something like relief on his face, but with how quickly that had been replaced by indifference, he couldn't even be certain he hadn't imagined it. Things hadn't been this frosty between them since their fourth year, since the Triwizard Tournament, and if there was a right way to go about this, he didn't know it.

The only person to speak to Ron at all was Hermione. Harry knew that she visited Ron every few days, and although nobody had outright prohibited any contact between him and Ron, she didn't offer for Harry to come along, and he didn't ask to. Whatever the pair spoke about didn't leave the confines of Ron's new quarters. Only once, taking him aside before dinner, she had thanked Harry for keeping Ron out of trouble. There had been no judgement, neither disapproval nor endorsement of his efforts, but Harry could only begin to imagine how she had to feel about the situation.

Not great, probably.

On the last Sunday of May, they met in a faraway corner of the grounds, hidden from sight behind an offshoot of the Forbidden Forest, and trained. Harry had proposed it, suggesting they take their minds off the upcoming NEWTs and maybe refresh their memory for the practical DADA exam, and Draco had all too readily accepted.

They had come a long way since the first time they had done this, in… Draco thought it had been November. Back then, Draco had still seen Harry as a bother, a necessary evil, a means to an end, and he didn't think Harry had really trusted him either. Now, after six months of shared studies (don't call them study dates, Draco, just don't), there were no such inhibitions.

We should have done this ages ago, some small, irrational part of Draco thought. Without deadly intent, the competition became an art, a dance—okay, stop. Bad direction.

Either way, refreshing memory was certainly a good idea. Advanced shield charms, deflecting spells, sophisticated camouflage magic, there were many things a NEWT examiner might ask him to perform that depended on precise motions. And if he got to see more of Harry than usual, sweaty, focused, and occasionally revealing a hint of a toned stomach or the flexing of a biceps… well, Draco wasn't going to complain.

After going through the basics for a while, they turned to more complex tasks. Instead of against each other, they were now working with each other, checking the other's posture or movements, correcting stances, pointing out flaws in the execution. For once, Draco could show Harry something about a subject other than potions as well, teaching him a little trick for the disillusionment charm (and ignoring who he had learned it from). After noon, they went back to duelling, letting go of all study pretence and just powering each other out in a way that rivalled their competition on the Quidditch pitch. Malfoy versus Potter, that was what it had always been about, that's what they did best. And once one took away house rivalries, teachers, and blinding rage, they were fairly evenly matched.

'We should do this more often', Draco panted when they flopped down into the grass afterwards. The sun was decidedly past its zenith, and every muscle in his body was sore from the exercise.

'We should', Harry agreed.

Now might be a little late for that, Draco thought. To think that they had wasted seven years on opposite sides… the thought felt foreign, but he had to admit (quietly, to himself, something he would deny ever entertaining if asked) that the idea of going back and starting over, doing better… there was a certain appeal. Maybe this was just the loneliness talking, maybe he wouldn't be having this kind of thoughts and feelings towards Harry if he were still surrounded by his old friends; Vincent, Greg, Pansy; maybe 11-year-old Draco would think 18-year-old Draco was crazy… but maybe, Draco thought, if he had made a different call all those years ago, had been less of an arse… suffice it to say, things could have turned out different, he concluded, ignoring the hopeful (delusional, he thought, not hopeful) part of him that insisted on fantasising about a very different way things could have turned out.

'Hey', Harry snapped his fingers in front of Draco's face and interrupted his daydreaming. 'Are you listening?'

'Sorry', Draco's mouth kicked in, 'your talking must have bored me to sleep. Say again?'

Harry elbowed him playfully. 'I said, how does late lunch sound? I know how to get into the kitchen, we could grab a snack on the way back.'

'Sure', Draco agreed. Right. This was his life now. Nicking snacks with Harry Potter on the way back from duelling practice.

Mad world. But in a decidedly un-Malfoy thought, Draco admitted to himself that at this point, he wouldn't trade it for… many things he didn't feel like listing lest he lose the last bit of self-respect.

Monday started at seven in the morning and only went downhill from there.

Breakfast at 7:30, Transfiguration exams at 8:00. A hasty dinner at 12:00, followed by Potions exams at 13:00. The sheer prospect made Harry want to drop out and stay in bed eternally. Looking back, he didn't remember their OWLs being this brutal. Maybe he wasn't cut out to be a healer after all, not if it came with this sort of finals.

By 7:45, Harry had dragged himself out of bed, through a shower, and into the Great Hall, where the rest of the eighth year Gryffindors were already finishing up breakfast. He flopped down between Seamus and Neville, asked Dean to pass the butter, and snuck a glance past Ron and Hermione towards the Slytherin table, where Draco appeared to be in a similar state as Harry's. That made two of them, then. Outwardly, the Slytherin appeared more composed, but after the last six to nine months, Harry prided himself in the ability to read Draco a little better, and yeah—he was just as tired as Harry.

They met outside the Transfiguration classroom a few minutes later. Professor McGonagall hadn't arrived yet, and a crowd was beginning to form in the hall.

'You look awful', Harry greeted, earning him a disgruntled look from Draco and some curious as well as disapproving glares from bystanders.

'Good morning to you too, Potter.'

'So, are you feeling ready?'

Draco grimaced slightly. 'Sure. Whatever.'

Harry couldn't blame him. His own stomach felt like it was filled with lead, and his head like he had forgotten everything he had learned over the past eight years. Before they could commiserate any further, however, Professor McGonagall and the Ministry's examiners arrived, and their conversation was cut short. After a brief 'good morning' and a few words about how she expected them all not to disappoint her, the exams began, and Harry barely had the time to give Draco an encouraging pat on the shoulder before they were instructed to queue up for the first part of the practical exam.

Come noon, an exhausted Harry stumbled out of Transfiguration and rushed to the Great Hall, where he wolfed down half a dozen sandwiches before burying himself in his Potions notes. At 12:30, the great hall was emptied in preparation of the exam, and rows of cauldrons and workbenches were erected in place of the usual banquet tables. Five minutes before the full hour, the students assembled again, and this time it was Draco sending Harry an encouraging nod across the room before they began.

As it turned out, Harry didn't need it. Or maybe he did, and the encouragement worked its magic.

While he had barely been able to recall any of his Potions knowledge over dinner, now the information came flowing out of his mouth faster than the examiner—a young man who was visibly excited to be the one testing the great Harry Potter—could ask questions. After the theoretical exam, they moved on to the practical part, and save for a few distracted glances across the room to where Draco and another Ministry official were standing over his cauldron, Harry had never felt more focused and confident while brewing. With the memories of their shared studying guiding him, Draco may as well have been standing next to him to teach. Before Harry knew it, the clock had struck five, and his examiner was praising the quality of the Perception Draught he had distilled.

How far he had come, Harry thought once the class was dismissed and filing out of the hall. He spotted Draco up ahead and caught up with him.

'How'd it go?'

Draco scoffed. 'I believe the good doctor was not particularly fond of me. Fortunately, I don't get graded on sympathy.' He shrugged. 'I know my potions, I'll pass. You?'

At that, Harry couldn't hold back a grin. 'Brewed like a man possessed.' He turned serious. 'Thanks to you, really. I couldn't have done this without your help.'

Draco waved it off. 'I'm sure Granger or whoever would have done the same for you.'

'Oh shut up. Since when are you shy to take credit?'

'If you don't stop thanking me—'

Harry didn't let him finish. He only remembered Draco's aversion to embraces when he felt him stiffen in his arms. He flushed and hurriedly stepped back.

'Shit. Right. Sorry.'

Draco sighed. 'It's fine. You're allowed. Just… ask next time for Salaz— no touching without asking, alright?'

Harry nodded dutifully before wrapping him in a bear hug again, trying his best to put all his relief over the exam, as well as his general appreciation for Draco, into it. Going by the way Draco hugged him back, Harry figured he understood.

Hogwarts. He doesn't recognise the corridor, but he's certain it's Hogwarts. Yet something is off—he can't pinpoint it, but everything tells him he's in danger, even though there is nobody in sight, nothing to indicate a threat. Wand in hand, he searches, room by room, and can't find a soul, living or dead. He can't be certain if it's been minutes or hours, but the corridors seem to go on forever, familiar and yet so foreign. Once or twice he feels like someone is watching him, but when he spins around, wand at the ready, nobody is there. Still, he can't shake the feeling.

He doesn't remember how or when he entered a different corridor, but there he is. This time, he's certain he's not alone. His stalker, his predator is waiting just around the corner, ready to strike. He can feel them, the way his hairs stand on end and his back tingles. But he is prepared. He turns the corner, prepared to pounce, to face whatever is waiting for him, here he comes—his wand, where is his wand? His hands grip empty air, surprise attack turned into disaster, helpless, defenceless—

'I've been waiting'.

His enemy can afford the mockery. He is unarmed, an easy target. Finally, too late, he recognises the voice, the familiar drawl, the well-measured cadence, the arrogance he's hated for so long. Too late, too late now. The laughter reverberates around him, from nowhere and everywhere. A gust of air from behind, an echo from ahead. He spins around but he can't pinpoint the enemy's position. He is surrounded by a single man, caught unprepared, confused like a deer in headlights.

'I've been waiting for so long…'

The owner of the voice steps forward. Blonde hair, pale skin, cruel grey eyes, aristocratic features full of hatred. He raises his fist, ready to go down swinging, but the enemy doesn't seem impressed. He saunters closer, just a little closer, come closer, just one more step… he doesn't get the chance to attack. In one swift motion, his nemesis pins him against the wall, faster than humanly possible, with strength he is unable to fight back against. Completely at the enemy's mercy.

'Where have you been?', The enemy repeats. There is no malice in his words, the hateful expression gone, why had he ever seen hate on his face in the first place? He should be fighting, struggling, but why did he want to fight again? His lost wand is forgotten, the darkness is no longer threatening. He lowers his fists, the other man's face is so close now, his grip still firm, still pushing him against the wall, but he doesn't want to fight back, he wants to embrace him, let him hold him like this. So close now, closer, their lips meet, and…

Harry woke up. It took him a moment to realise where he was and what he had just awoken from, but then…

Fuck.

After trying to make sense of this new development for a few minutes, he threw back the sweaty sheets and swung his legs out of bed. There was a time and a place for world-shattering realisations, and it wasn't at night in the dorms. Picking up his wand, he quietly slipped out of the room, first heading to the common room, but then changing his mind and making for the showers instead. Nothing like cold water to deal with that kind of predicament.

Some fifteen minutes and a cool shower later, Harry had lit up the fireplace in the common room and planted himself in a chair by the fire, complete with a blanket and some hot cocoa. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't put off thinking about this dream forever, and an empty common room at, he peered at the clock, 2:30 in the morning was probably the best environment he was going to get in the foreseeable future.

So.

Yeah.

About that.

For this past year, he had often wished to forget his dreams, but never for this reason. Dreaming about Draco wasn't news, but… there was no denying it, this had been very different. For one, his dreams usually involved a lot less… he struggled to even think it.

Kissing. His dreams usually involved a lot less kissing.

Was it a nightmare? He couldn't say. No, that would be lying. He could say. Even thinking about it, his face flushed bright red, but… oh Merlin, why was this so hard to put into words, even in his thoughts. Nightmare simply… implied an amount of repulsion that had, well, not been given here.

He had bloody liked it, alright?

And by Godric did he not know what to make of it.

He remembered an incident from his childhood. Dudley had brought home a friend from school. Harry couldn't recall the boy's name, but Uncle Vernon had taken great issue with him. What exactly it was that had attracted his ire, Harry didn't even remember, but somehow, Uncle Vernon had concluded that the boy was a bad influence on his Dudley. 'Bent'. Obscene. Perverted. Dirty. Disgusting. He would not have a faggot in his house, he had roared, and he hadn't raised his son to become a poofter. It was the one and only time Harry had seen Dudley scared of his father, and Aunt Petunia had closed the drapes and urged Vernon to lower his voice so the neighbours wouldn't hear him.

The boy didn't come to visit again.

Yeah, Harry had a pretty good idea what Uncle Vernon would think of him if he knew. He wasn't sure what he himself should think, but any group of people Uncle Vernon hated couldn't be that bad.

He remembered Ron's remarks too. You ever wonder about it? If Malfoy's a poof, I mean. Sure looks the part… And the sentence that had preceded it, too… Did he tell you the tragic story of his life over biscuits and tea? Pour his heart out to you while you were making love over his Potions homework?

Looking back now, that was rather… ironic wasn't quite the word, but there was something about it Harry couldn't quite put his finger on. Bitter, maybe. Nobody had made love over any homework, he had never thought of their meetings like this, but apparently the accusation had still hit closer to home than he had realised at the time. He had never taken Ron for the bigoted type… but then again, until a month ago, he hadn't imagined that Ron could hate anyone, even a Malfoy, enough to almost kill him.

Either way, he had a pretty good idea what Ron would think of him, too, and the thought weighed heavy on him.

But was it even true? Maybe it had been a nightmare after all. Harry could hardly be held responsible for his subconscious self's dreams, could he? It wasn't like he—but whatever dementi he came up with felt wrong and only made his dilemma worse.

Poof. Faggot. Sodomite. He'd heard the words, everyone had, thrown around as insults from kids and adults alike. Smear the queer on elementary school playgrounds. Did having a steamy dream about Draco make him one of those words? He had no idea. Was this what—who he was? He replayed the dream in his head and was once again glad nobody was around to see his face redden. Everything the adults around him had told him would indicate that he should feel repulsed at the thought—but he didn't. Unfamiliar, new, surprising, curious, yes, but for all the questions it raised, Harry felt anything but repulsed.

The thought of kissing Draco—a man, a Malfoy, a Slytherin—was… he almost couldn't bring himself to think it.

The thought was good. Pleasant.

Bloody hell.

He knocked back the rest of the cocoa and went to get himself another, with a shot of Firewhiskey this time.

The realisation was hard to grapple with. The thought occurred to him—what did this mean for him and Ginny? Had he—no, that had been real, all him, from the heart. That didn't help him get any closer to a conclusion either, but he pushed the thought aside. Stay rational, he admonished himself. How would Hermione approach a problem like this? Logically. Scientifically. He went over his time with Draco. Surely, if he was actually… there would have to be clues, right?

He looked back and found more than he liked. What he had felt hugging Draco. His reaction to finding out what the gossip about them was. His reaction to the Prophet article—oh, he had been angry, but maybe something more? Fear? Denial? But there was more. The various times he had been distracted by Draco's presence… hell, just the other day, he had thought of Draco as good-looking. Purely objectively, of course—or maybe not.

By Godric, what a mess.

For the sake of it, he tried to imagine himself with Draco, ignoring every part of his upbringing that told him what a horrible and disgusting idea that was. Hugging, like they had done before. Holding hands, perhaps. Stealing away to a quiet corner of the castle grounds, just to themselves. He thought of their meetings in the library, and having a quiet corner to themselves took on a whole different meaning, viewed through this lens. And then there was Draco's throwaway comment about coming to the dorms with him. The way his imagination had immediately kicked into high gear.

Harry Potter, gay. The press would have a field day if they ever found out. Draco's warning came to mind, that associating with him was dangerous. Thinking of it now, Harry couldn't deny the logic of it. What the hell had he gotten himself into.

His thoughts returned to the library. As far as the rumour mill was concerned, the two of them may as well be together. Unless you were planning to accompany me to my dorms? Draco's face had been undecipherable; Harry could only guess what he thought of… well, people like Harry, apparently. Considering his upbringings, probably less than nothing. If he found out, their friendship would probably come to a very sudden halt.

There wasn't enough Firewhiskey in the world to process that realisation.

So where did that leave him? Fallen out with his best friend, reputation once again assaulted, grappling with the fact that apparently he was… yeah. How wizards treated such people, he had no idea. It had never come up. Oh, there had been rumours about Dumbledore after his death, but that had been in Skeeter's book, and she wasn't exactly a credible source. Harry vaguely recalled an incident during the Triwizard Tournament, but he couldn't recall what had become of the couple. He didn't remember much in the way of judgement then, but it wasn't like he had paid attention to it. He had simply never had a reason to care… until now.

Until it affected him, personally.

Him and Malfoy. What a concept.

How had he not noticed? He had been obsessed with Draco all year. Hell-bent on redeeming him, persuading himself that Draco deserved another chance, that he'd changed, that he was friend material… all the signs had been there. Harry briefly wondered if anyone else had noticed, even before the Prophet had started smearing them.

Draco. He couldn't stop thinking about what Draco would think of all this. Not that there was any realistic chance—no, of course not—but in theory… for all Harry knew, Draco might just turn out to be the most tolerant person he knew. Far reach. But a man could dream…

A/N: World-shattering realisations and existential crises, ho! I didn't mean for that last part to be that long, but I wasn't gonna cut short the only big inner coming out scene I got. I hope I've somewhat done it justice. It's hard to capture the whole denial-negotiation-acceptance thing that happens in such a moment in just under 2000 words (I can tell you my "shit am I gay?" moment took way longer than one evening), but I've tried my best. Let me know what you think!