"To really know someone is to have loved and hated him in turn" - Marcel Jouhandeou
Slughorn was droning on in the front of the room. Usually, Draco would be captivated by the professor's discussion of fate-meddling concoctions (such as the Felix Felicis he lost to Potter sixth year), but today he couldn't muster the concentration. His pulse thrummed in his hand so that he couldn't hold his quill steady. His few attempts at notes had resulted in shaky sentence fragments that would probably be incoherent to him when reviewed.
Potter had come to class rumpled with recent sleep, softening even further at the edges when Slughorn started talking, and it was sabotaging Draco's focus. Draco glanced over at his partner, then quickly back. Right now Potter's head was slumped against his hand, pushing his cheek up in an endearingly childish manner. His mouth was soft in a dreamy sort of private smile.
In Draco's eyes, the sight was – not to put too fine a point on it – beautiful.
He counted to ten slowly and recited the twelve uses of dragon's blood before he let himself look again.
… & …
Harry felt Malfoy's eyes on him and smiled to himself. To be honest, the little jolts of adrenaline that accompanied his partner's periodic glances were the only thing keeping him awake at the moment. He'd been up with nightmares again for the better part of the middle of the night, and Slughorn's lecture was doing nothing to help.
The urge to look over at Malfoy had been tugging at him all class, but he'd been trying to resist. He wanted to see how often Malfoy's glances would come if he thought Harry oblivious to them, and the result was even better than Harry could have imagined – Malfoy's head turned almost every other minute.
Unless Harry was imagining it... There was a great power in wishful thinking, after all, and Harry was already drowsy – the perfect condition for daydreaming. His eyes slid toward Malfoy...
… and met Malfoy's gorgeous grey eyes, like polished granite, peering back at him. Harry's skin went warm with satisfaction. He hadn't been imagining it.
Malfoy immediately looked away, down at his parchment. But after a moment his head came back up and he met Harry's eyes again. This time neither of them looked away. They held their gaze steadily and wonderingly, without a trace of aggression.
Harry felt slightly winded. He hadn't thought a mere meeting of eyes could feel so intimate. He forgot he was in class, surrounded by his classmates (they weren't paying attention anyway, as most of them were asleep or soon to be). He wondered what Malfoy was seeing in his eyes. What he was thinking. What he was feeling. He wished he could ask.
After a minute, Malfoy blushed and bent his head toward his parchment. He didn't look up again, though Harry had every sense on overdrive in anticipation of it for the rest of the lesson.
The lingering memory of the connection made Harry warm all over. Its absence made him feel strangely lonely. He yearned for its revival.
… & …
The seeds were finally through being sorted. Tonight they were to organize the Potions cupboard.
"Sans magic," Slughorn specified sternly, before retreating to his office.
If Harry had spared any thought for it, he might've wondered why Slughorn spent so little time supervising students in detention for fighting, but his thoughts were too preoccupied with the hours of privacy allowed by the professor's neglect to wonder at it.
He kneeled down next to Malfoy on the floor of the Potions cupboard; they were starting from the bottom to work their way to the top. The room was only about four feet wide, which put them in closer proximity than they'd sustained in the last week since the corridor incident – maybe ever. They carefully kept as many inches as could fit between them clear, but even so Harry's whole consciousness was fixated on the awareness of Malfoy's body so near to his own. His skin tingled and tickled at every small draft of air moving in the space between them, at every brush of Malfoy's robes against his skin as they worked.
He cleared his throat, intending to speak to distract himself from the rising heat in the small room that was only partially in his mind.
"So I've made up with Ron," he said, then immediately regretted it. Why would Malfoy care about his relationships with his friends, for whom Malfoy had always expressed open and vocal disdain?
Malfoy turned to him, those exquisitely arched eyebrows raised. "Oh really?" he asked coolly.
Harry's gut twisted in anticipation of the cutting remark sure to follow, but then he noticed the flush in Malfoy's cheeks and relaxed some. He wasn't any more unaffected than Harry was.
"Er, yeah," he mumbled. "I think 'Mione forced him to come around."
"Smart girl," said Malfoy diplomatically.
"Yeah."
Harry pretended to be absorbed in shifting of boomslang skins to hide his embarrassment at introducing such a faux pas of a subject between them. It could have gone over worse, he supposed. At least Malfoy had been cordial about it, had refrained from whipping out the 'M' word he was so disposed to use in reference to Hermione.
"I'm, um, glad," said Malfoy a minute later.
Harry looked over in surprise.
"That Weasley came around, I mean," he explained, studying his hands. "You deserve to have your friends be understanding."
Harry felt baffled and extremely flattered. He was quite sure he'd never heard Malfoy speak so kindly before, to him or anyone else. He also doubted whether anything he'd told Malfoy had conveyed a need for understanding from Ron – though it was true – and wondered that Malfoy had drawn that conclusion.
"Thanks," he said. He racked his brain for something else to say. "And your friends," he asked, to reciprocate, "are they understanding?"
"They don't need to be," said Malfoy flatly. At Harry's furrowing of brows, he amended, "I don't ask them to be."
"Oh," said Harry.
He didn't tell Hermione and Ron everything – far from it – but to tell them nothing... how could the pressure of so many things welling up without release be borne? No wonder Malfoy often looked so strained.
"I'm sorry about Crabbe, you know," he said. "I've wanted you to know that. I wish we could've..."
Malfoy looked at him for a long moment, and Harry almost fancied he could see the embers of Fiendfyre flickering in the depths of Malfoy's eyes. "You've lost more," he said.
"Have I?" Harry asked.
He wasn't sure how many of the casualties on the other side had been mourned by Malfoy, but he did know that Malfoy's parents were conspicuously absent from his life now, and Harry didn't know why.
When Malfoy didn't respond, he went on in a soft voice, "I hardly ever saw the three of you apart back then. Do you miss him terribly?"
It was a question that crossed the boundary from polite into personal, and Harry worried he might've overstepped. Whatever there was between them, however it might be growing, it was still fragile. Still, Harry felt, a mine field.
An expression of pain flashed across Malfoy's delicate features, tightening and sharpening them. "He was a loyal friend," was all he said.
… & …
Draco felt sick – to have Potter apologizing for what had happened in the Room of Requirement, apologizing when he'd saved Draco's life, as if Draco could ever again begrudge him some fault. And then to express regret for the loss of a life he'd never value, and concern for Draco's own well-being when Potter had given and lost so much more, when he didn't know the half of what Draco had done at the Dark Lord's command... Draco deserved everything he'd gotten, and Potter didn't.
"Potter," said Draco, looking up into Potter's eyes to avoid the sight of his shaking hands, "why are you being so nice to me? It's unnerving," he said, echoing Potter's own sentiment from mere weeks ago, back when Draco had still thought this was all just a game he controlled.
"Because I want to be," said Potter, as if it were a simple thing.
Draco didn't know whether he wanted to start crying or kiss Potter at that, or maybe just cry into Potter's chest with Potter's arms tight and strong around him. Oh, how he ached.
However, as none of these things were safe, he settled for reaching to pick up a vial of spiders' venom. His hands were still shaking, so the glass trembled between his fingers. Unbidden, Potter's hand extended out to encircle Draco's and steady his grip. Potter's skin was arm and ever-so-slightly rough and made Draco want to drop the vial and interlace his fingers with Potter's.
That wouldn't do either, so Draco did nothing. Their hands hovered in the air in front of them for the space of a breath – in, out – and then Potter extracted the vial from Draco's fingers and set it where it belonged.
Taking a deep breath, Draco willed his pulse to steady and his hands to still, then got back to work, doing his best to pretend Potter was someone else, just another daft fellow student to be tolerated. He knew from the start it was a doomed endeavor, but trying gave him something else to focus on aside from how eagerly his anatomy throbbed in the presence of Potter's.
… & …
Afterward, back in his room, Draco was restless. He tried to work on his remaining assignments, but couldn't get his thoughts to focus. Closing his Arithmancy book sharply in agitation, he spotted the small leather-bound copy of Romeo and Juliet laying open on the small table by the fireplace.
There was only a scene or two left to finish. He thought this might better hold his attention; he found their tale of love poignant, though he felt their affection to be somewhat more superficial than he dreamt of for himself, and the Bard's words exquisite. They had a way of lodging in his mind – or his heart, or somewhere in between, he wasn't sure – and rising to fit almost any situation which in some way stirred him.
"Palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss..."
He pushed memory aside and focused on the words.
When Romeo hassled the apothecary, begging for the "dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear, As will disperse itself through all the veins, That the life-weary-taker may fall dead," Draco's stomach spun with unease. He understood now Potter's muttering during the lecture on Nocturna Mortem. He couldn't help his eyes from settling upon that very vial now on his dresser, shining mutedly in the flickering light of the fireplace, so like Romero's own draft.
"Life-weary-taker" – that was apt. Yet Romeo pursued death to be joined in death. Draco would to isolate himself from life – to make room for life, for his own life rendered no good for others or even himself (Malfoy's were nothing if not pragmatically selfish). He was a sort of black hole of an existence, luring in and extinguishing all nearby light. A void of regrets and guilt that cast a pallor on any society he entered. He had nothing further to expect from life, no right to expect or accept anything offered to him, if it even were. Why he had even bothered coming back to Hogwarts, he could only explain to his benefit as being to tie up loose ends and find closure, but the truth of it was that he was above all else a coward and was merely formulating excuses not to let go so soon, reasons to postpone the inevitable end.
He pressed on through the last scene and closed the book with wet cheeks. At least Romeo had had love to fight for, love to live and die for. Draco hadn't that same sweet comfort and inspiration; his only responsibility to love was to spare it his black stain.
… & …
It was one of those moments in life when things seem to rise and connect out of pure serendipity that the evening after Draco finished reading Romeo and Juliet was the evening Potter chanced to bring it up.
"I was wondering," he said, as if it had just occurred to him, "whether you ever finished reading that book I saw you checking out a couple of weeks ago."
They were back in the cupboard, standing now to sort the middle shelves.
"Which one?" asked Draco, frivolously seeking the pleasure of knowing Potter remembered their meetings in as great detail as Draco did, and at the same time attempting to act as if he either read so many books or encountered so many heroes that it was hard to distinguish any one incident, thereby making Draco appear both more scholarly and more sought after than he truly was.
"Romeo and Juliet," Potter specified.
"Oh, yes. I finished it."
"And?" Potter pressed, his eyes wide and eager and expectant in the dim cupboard. "What did you think?"
Draco considered this for a moment. "Honestly, I'm not sure. The language was exquisite and unfailingly romantic, naturally, but I can't help but think they behaved foolishly and impractically – surely any two people with more sense would have seen that a relationship between a couple such as them was impossible."
"You begrudge them their attraction?" Potter asked, his brows tightening along with the corners of his mouth.
"Not their attraction – their actions."
"Doesn't everyone behave foolishly in love?"
"Only if they are foolish themselves."
"What would you have them do, then, O-Practical-One?" sniped Potter.
"I don't know – repress it or ignore it, I suppose," Draco supplied.
"And live miserably for the rest of their lives?"
"It would hardly be the rest of their lives," Draco scoffed. "It was a passing infatuation – or it would have been if they'd allowed it to pass. Juliet was thirteen!"
"And no one can be sure of their heart at such an age?"
"Can one ever be sure of one's heart?" Draco asked quietly, feeling his own heart clogging his throat and sewn into the hem of his sleeve. He wondered if Potter realized he wasn't really talking about Romeo or Juliet anymore.
… & …
Harry watched Malfoy speak in a frustrated rapture. Watching the movement of Malfoy's mouth, the curves of his effeminate pink lips as they shaped his words, was a sight of singular beauty that could easily distract Harry out of listening if he wasn't very careful. Yet the words Malfoy's lovely lips were forming were so contrary to Harry's own hopeless romantic beliefs, so wholly disheartening if they were true, that it was sort of anguish to listen. Did Malfoy truly think that way? Or was it just a front to ward Harry off, or even a mechanism for Malfoy himself to keep far-fetched desires at bay? He couldn't know that they weren't so far-fetched at all in reality... It was so hard these days for Harry to draw the line between wishful thinking and what was really there between them. He did know, though, that this exchange was one of the most natural and forthcoming they'd ever sustained on good terms, and he didn't want it to end.
"Surely it would be better to follow your heart, risks be damned, than to be repressing it always," he argued.
"Not always, perhaps," Malfoy countered. "Just until the situation became both desirable and sensible."
"You sound like Jane Austen!" Harry exclaimed in exasperation.
"Who?" Malfoy's eyebrows went uneven in confusion.
"Muggle author – never mind. The point is, love isn't a formula or a balancing of scales! What role can sense have in it?" Harry wasn't quite sure why exactly he was getting so worked up over this; he just knew that for some reason it seemed imperative to get through to Malfoy.
"It has everything to do with it! How could they pursue their feelings knowing full well that everything they stood for and belonged to and owed their loyalty to went completely at odds to one another?" Malfoy's voice had a strained edge of pleading to it that prodded plaintively at Harry's heart, and he began to wonder if and when they had stopped talking about Romeo and Juliet.
"It's always about loyalty with you!" Harry cried. Then he thought carefully for a moment before continuing. "A person's past isn't all they are. It doesn't define their future. What if there are more important things than names and alliances? More powerful things?"
"Oh, don't tell me you're one of those 'love conquers all' people," said Malfoy. His voice broke mid-way through the sentence, betraying his attempt at blasé.
"Yes, I am," said Harry, quietly. He locked his eyes with Malfoy's. "I'm living proof that it's true."
Malfoy's lips parted wordlessly and Harry thought he'd had the last word until Malfoy said softly, "I think it's possible that some people can't be saved, even by – as you say – the most powerful brand of magic. After all, Romeo and Juliet died."
"Together," Harry said, and that was the last word.
They didn't speak again that night, not even to bid goodnight as they had taken to doing. It was as if they were spent, had used up all their words. Or perhaps that the words they'd used were so big there wasn't room for any more.
… & …
Georgia caught up with Harry as he left Potions a couple days later. He'd spent the whole lesson pretending to listen to Malfoy's mini-lectures on the subtleties of potion brewing while wondering what it would be like to kiss Malfoy – really kiss him, that is. He imagined that Malfoy's lips would be perfectly smooth and soft and supple, equally able to kiss him more gently and roughly than any one else.
He was therefore not in the mood to shoot the breeze with Georgia McDonnell. He was in the mood to sneak into the Prefect's bathroom and encourage the advances of this dream Malfoy his mind had so obligingly conjured.
"Harry," said Georgia breathlessly as she fell into step with him. "How are you? I feel like we haven't spoken in ages!"
"M'alright," Harry muttered. Then, to be polite, he asked, "You?"
"Oh, just completely buggered," she exclaimed. "I have this horrible Divinations exam next week. We have to predict the future in crystal – that is, crystal balls. Accurately, of course! Top marks only if it comes true. I don't know what I'm going to do."
"Oh, er, wow," said Harry by way of sympathy. "Sounds stressful."
Sounds bollocks, he muttered in his thoughts.
"Oh, it is," she assured him. "You have no idea. Well, anyway, sorry to be going so soon when we've only just begun to catch up, but I've got to be off – to the library, you know."
"But of course," Harry said seriously, nodding. "Study hard."
"Will I ever!" Georgia vowed. "Bye then, Harry!"
Harry made his way to the Great Hall for lunch and found Ron, Hermione, and Ginny already there. He sat down next to Ginny, kissing her cheek, then turned to face Ron and Hermione.
"Hullo," he greeted them.
"All right, Harry?" queried Ron.
"I've only just escaped Georgia," he said. "I need some pumpkin juice, fast."
Ron passed him a goblet. As Harry drank deeply from it, Ginny leaned into his ear.
"Learn lots in Potions today?" she whispered. "Like how many creases a certain blonde has in his lower lip?"
She pulled away and grinned wickedly. Harry blushed furiously.
Hermione appraised them keenly. "I will never understand you two," she said.
"Won't stop you from trying, anyhow," said Ginny around a mouthful of biscuit.
Ron looked at Harry sheepishly.
"What'sa matter, Ron?" Harry asked.
"I'm sorry I ever suggested you date Georgia," he said. "I didn't realize how not your type she is, even for a girl."
Harry laughed. "No worries, mate," he told Ron.
"You know," said Hermione, looking thoughtful, "that sixth year on your team – the really sweet, pretty one?"
"Charlie?" Harry supplied. "The Chaser?"
"That's the one. I've heard loads of girls complaining about how he won't flirt with them."
"Oh?" said Harry noncommittally, not seeing what this had to do with him, or with anything. It wasn't like Hermione to talk idly of gossip.
"He seems to like you," she stated.
"So?" Harry said, then, "Oh..." as comprehension sunk in.
"Hermione..." Ron groaned.
"What?" she said defensively. "He's really nice, and cute, too. Don't you want Harry to be happy?"
"Well sure I do. But I think he can pick out his own blokes well enough without your help."
Harry shot Ron a grateful look, and as Hermione opened her mouth to take offense at Ron's comment, he broke in. "Look, Hermione," he said. "I appreciate you looking out for me, but Charlie's really not my type, and I'd rather sort this out for myself if it's all the same to you."
"I don't know if you can," she protested. "You're so picky! What is your type, exactly?"
"Oh, er, I dunno... fit, I s'pose. And... clever?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well that narrows it down. Come on, surely there's someone you fancy right now? Anyone at all?"
Ginny nudged Harry in the ribs and smirked and Harry blushed again.
"Er, not really... Well, sort of..."
"Really?" pressed Hermione, piqued. She leaned forward, eyebrows raised. "Who?"
"I thought you weren't seeing anyone," said Ron, sounding affronted.
"I'm not," Harry hastened to assure him. "It's just a crush, silly really... In fact I'd really rather not say just now, if you don't mind..."
Hermione regarded him skeptically. "You'll tell us if something happens, though, won't you?" she cajoled.
"Of course!" Harry vowed enthusiastically, but he wasn't so sure.
Being gay was one thing; fancying – or even dating, if it ever came to that – Draco Malfoy was another entirely. He wasn't sure if his friends – even supportive Hermione – could handle it. He was sure they would never understand it, in any case. He couldn't even understand it himself, so how could he expect them to? Yet for whatever reason, he had the strangest and strongest feeling that it was only a matter of time and timing between he and Malfoy.
"So," said Ginny conspiratorially as they got up and left the Hall together a few minutes later, "how many creases does Malfoy have in his lower lip?"
"I don't know," Harry lied. "Honestly, Ginny, I do have other things on my mind than snogging Malfoy senseless." He rolled his eyes.
Ginny only smirked. "Oh really?" the curl of her lips seemed to say.
The answer was this: five deeper ones in the middle and countless smaller ones on either side, all the way up to the corners of his mouth, where the crease deepened every time he frowned, smirked, or – as he was starting to do occasionally around Harry – smiled.
… & …
Tonight they were to brew a drought of Aging Potion for Slughorn to use in class with his third years. He left them a parchment with the instructions on it, then promptly left, with his usual admonishment about knowing whether or not they were working even if he wasn't in the room. Harry was beginning to doubt whether that was true, and was sure Malfoy did as well, yet they both continued to put in the hours without complaint.
"Potter," said Malfoy, without looking up from the cauldron, "can you go fetch some wormwood from the cupboard?"
Harry, who loved watching Malfoy at work brewing potions, tore himself from the sight of Malfoy's agile features compressed most becomingly in concentration, and headed for the cupboard.
He looked around for the wormwood and found it situated on the highest shelf, just beyond his reach.
"Malfoy?" he called out. "I can't reach it!"
He heard the sound of a utensil being set down on the desk and of footsteps approaching the cupboard. Then Malfoy was right behind him, reaching up over his head to grasp the wormwood, the sleeve of his robe sliding down to expose a pale, defined forearm.
Harry turned slowly in place and found himself standing chest to chest with Malfoy, who didn't move away to make room. Malfoy's arm was still above Harry's head, braced against the shelf. The pale glow of his skin in the dim light of the cupboard was thoroughly stunning – the proximity even more so – and Harry caught his breath. Malfoy's face was just several inches above Harry's, eyes staring down into Harry's with the tangible potency of a caress, and warm breath wafting across Harry's face with each exhalation. Neither of them moved – though it was all Harry could do not to wind his arms around Malfoy's taut waist and tug him forward until he could feel every line of Malfoy's body tucked against his – and suddenly Harry was filled with the heady idea that they were about to kiss. His lips parted... Malfoy's lips parted...
Then Malfoy said, "You could've just used Accio, you know," and dropped his arm and stepped away.
"Oh, right. I, er, forgot," said Harry lamely, neglecting to point out to Malfoy that he could just as easily have told Harry to do so rather than coming in to do it himself – also without magic.
"You forgot you can do magic?" Malfoy asked, raising one eyebrow sardonically.
"It happens," Harry muttered.
He made to leave the cupboard, but as he was pushing past Malfoy the other boy stopped him.
"Potter," he said.
"Yeah?" replied Harry, his heart beating heavily in his chest.
"There's something I've wanted to tell you."
Harry's palms began to sweat. "Okay," he said.
Malfoy swallowed, like maybe he was trying to swallow whatever he was about to say. But it came up anyway. "That day in the library, I was over getting my book from the shelf, and – and I overheard you talking to Ginny." He flushed. "I'm sorry."
It took a second for Harry to remember what he and Ginny had been talking about that day, and then when he did, the magnitude of it was so that the fact that Malfoy had just apologized to him for the first time in his life was lost on him. His pounding heart took on a whole new rhythm as frustrated arousal turned into anger.
"What?" he said loudly. "You know?"
Malfoy's cheeks were flushed too, but if Harry were looking rationally he would've seen that Malfoy didn't look so much angered or upset as scared. However, nothing about Harry was rational just now. The anxiety of his ever-increasing attraction to Malfoy needed an outlet, and since a sexual encounter was evidently non-forthcoming, an eruption of temper would have to do in its place.
"You sneaky, slimy little lowlife Slytherin!" Harry exclaimed. "What gives you the right to listen in on people's personal conversations?"
Malfoy's mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. It was just as well. Harry was in no mood to listen to reason.
"You knew? You knew all along and you never told me? I can't believe you! Why are you telling me now, anyway? Planning to spread it around the school? Or maybe you're thinking bigger – selling it to Rita Skeeter? Even she's probably not too keen on you anymore, but for money and a scoop I imagine she'll talk to anyone."
"No," Malfoy said loudly, a trace of his former chilly acerbity creeping into his voice. "I'm not going to tell any one."
"Why not?" challenged Harry. "Why should I believe you?"
"Because I only do things that benefit me – you ought to know that by now – and trust me, telling the world you're gay would not in any way do me any favors."
Harry was in no state to contemplate what Malfoy was trying to imply, but the boy's levity had thrown a wrench of doubt and confusion into his tantrum. He wasn't sure what Malfoy was getting at, or, really, why he was even so mad in the first place. Hadn't he been operating as if there were a tacit understanding of this very issue between them? Did it matter so very much how Malfoy had found out?
No, but it mattered that Malfoy had heard it from Harry's own lips, while Malfoy had yet to admit a thing.
"I have to go," said Harry.
Then he pushed Malfoy aside and ran from the room, not caring that he was leaving Malfoy to finish the potion alone, and even less whether or not Slughorn caught him bailing his detention early.
Strangely, it didn't cross his mind that Malfoy might hand him in. And he didn't.
… & …
"God, Harry. No wonder you're still single," said Ginny after he finished relaying the events of the previous night's detention. "He wasn't trying to threaten you; he was trying to broach the subject of whatever almost happened between you. And you had to go be a hot-headed prat, as usual..." she huffed exasperatedly.
Harry had actually suspected this much himself once he'd calmed down enough to think it through. He'd just wanted to hear Ginny say it because her agreeing made it more real, somehow.
"Oh," said Harry.
"Harry," Ginny sighed, "this is getting ridiculous. You need to just talk to him about this already." Harry shot her a look of panic. "Or don't talk to him – whatever you prefer." She smirked; Harry stuck out his tongue. "Either way, just do something already. I'm sick of you being so strung out on sexual tension all the time."
"You're sick of it?" said Harry. "Think about how I feel!"
"Exactly," she said. "So get a move on."
… & …
Malfoy looked up from a textbook he was reading when Harry walked in to detention that evening, then back down, without a word.
"Hey," said Harry as he sat down.
"Hi," replied Malfoy robotically.
Harry fidgeted with a fraying hem on his sleeve.
"I'm..." he began. This was just as hard as he thought it would be. "I'm sorry I overreacted yesterday."
He didn't know how Malfoy would react to his apology, and braced himself for the worst.
For a minute, Malfoy continued to stare at the open book in front of him. Then he spoke. "It's understandable."
"It is?" Harry questioned, surprised.
"Why should you expect any better of me?" Malfoy asked. "Both the things you accused me of are things I've done before."
"But not any more," said Harry, partly a statement but mostly a question.
"No" Malfoy agreed. "Not anymore."
"Um, so what's our assignment tonight?" asked Harry, not-so-subtly changing the subject.
Malfoy shrugged. "Nothing. I don't know. He hasn't shown up."
"Really?" said Harry. "That's odd."
Malfoy nodded and stared rather absently at the same page he'd been ostensibly reading ever since Harry had arrived. "You know," he said, in a voice Harry hadn't heard him use before, but which sounded familiar nonetheless for some reason Harry couldn't quite name, "if my father were here, he'd probably tell me I was going soft for not using this against you."
Harry identified the familiarity in Malfoy's voice – it was the same tone Ron or Hermione or Ginny used when they were discussing something private, something between close friends. That Malfoy was speaking thus now, and to Harry...
There were so many things Harry could think of to say in response to Malfoy's statement, the most pressing, perhaps, being: So why aren't you? Instead, he brought up something he'd been wondering about for a while now.
"Why isn't he?" he asked quietly. "Here, I mean. What happened to him?"
Malfoy looked at Harry, his eyes flat and his expression bleak. "You really want to know?" he asked.
Harry hesitated, then nodded.
Malfoy waited for a moment, seeming to gather himself. "My parents survived the battle," he said. "You know that much. They went back to the Manor afterwards. I went... away. I couldn't go back, not yet. Too many memories."
He looked at Harry as if for approval that this vagueness was acceptable. It was; Harry had many such memories himself and understood. He didn't plan to set foot in Grimmauld Place any time soon.
He inclined his head and Malfoy continued.
"We all thought that with the Dark Lord gone and his followers dispersed, our time being meddled with and manipulated by his influence was over. We were fools. It wasn't. Another Death Eater – I don't know which one; if I did, I'd have gone after them, believe me – went around the bend. He decided that if the Dark Lord had died, his Death Eaters had a duty to do so as well, so he set out to fulfill that duty for us. He showed up at the Manor..." Malfoy broke off. But Harry didn't need him to finish.
Harry felt like he was choking. He could too clearly picture the green light, Malfoy coming home to find his parents sprawled lifeless and abandoned on some floor – the parlor, perhaps. Or maybe they hadn't even made it that far – the entrance hall.
"That's awful," he croaked.
He wanted to reach over and touch Malfoy, to offer reassurance, but Malfoy looked so stiff that he didn't quite dare.
They shared silence for a long while; Harry listened to the clock tick and his heart beat, thinking about something else he'd wondered about since the start of term.
"Malfoy," he said quietly, not wanting to disturb the other boy if he didn't care to be disturbed. "Can I ask you something else?"
It was Malfoy's turn to hesitate, then nod.
"Why'd you cut your hair?"
Malfoy bit his lip in a very un-Malfoy-like manner. "It's a bit complicated."
"I can take complicated," Harry assured him.
"Okay." Malfoy let out a gust of air. "I guess I cut it because long Malfoy locks aren't who I am anymore. They belonged to my father and to the Dark Lord and to a persona that, admittedly, I used to cultivate proudly. But that time – that me – is over. Maybe it died with my parents. Maybe it died before that – in the war. I don't know. I just know that I wanted to have some kind of... physical representation of who I'd become. Catharsis, I guess you could call it."
There was a pause in which Harry absorbed this. He almost wondered if Malfoy had been slipped Veritaserum at dinner, so honest and forthcoming was he tonight. Maybe he just felt bad about eavesdropping, or grateful for Harry's apology. Maybe it was something else entirely. Maybe it didn't really matter.
"Well I like it," said Harry, truthfully. He'd always found Malfoy's ponytail to be a bit showy and absurd. Besides, the new short cut highlighted the dramatic structure of Malfoy's high cheekbones, and the rakishness of it was undeniably sexy. "It suits you."
A timid, beatific smile slid across Malfoy's lips, and Harry was seized with a sharp desire to do something to show Malfoy what his honesty meant to Harry. Reciprocate, maybe, or confess his feelings, or just simply lean over and kiss him. He wasn't sure.
But then the classroom door banged open and Slughorn wobbled in.
"Sorry I'm late, boys! Got held up in the third floor corridor. Peeves was trying to incite the portrait hall to mutiny..."
Harry and Malfoy glanced at each other and tried not to laugh.
"Not to worry, though. I sorted him out." Slughorn glanced about himself, looking a bit flustered.
"What shall we do tonight, sir?" inquired Malfoy.
"Do? Oh. Well, so much time has been wasted there's hardly much left to do anything useful now, is there? Why don't you just go for tonight."
… & …
Draco gasped when Potter walked into Potions the next morning.
Not because he was on time (which he was), but because Potter's head was shorn. Sometime between detention last night and class this morning, he had taken wand to hair and cut it all off, every last unruly, beautiful strand. No longer did it tumble across his forehead, sway sexily into his eyes, tickle his earlobes, or flirt with his collar. No longer did it gleam in the light like bottled Nocturna Mortem. All that was left was a sort of soft-looking black fuzz.
Potter approached their shared desk amidst a crescendoing roar of whispers, but he was paying them no mind. Instead, he was grinning at Draco sheepishly, shyly, excitedly, expectantly. He sat down and Draco was still staring.
"Harry... Potter..." breathed Draco. "What have you done?"
His hand reached out tentatively of its own accord toward Potter's hair. He hesitated, hovering an inch from Potter's scalp, before closing the distance and making contact.
The fuzz was soft and ticklish, just as Draco had suspected, and it was with great force of will and regret that he pulled back again after stroking it lightly instead of rubbing his hand across it until his skin was raw. His hand fell down between them and bumped into Potter's, and then somehow, without missing a beat and so naturally Draco didn't immediately notice, their pinkies curled together, linking them under the table.
"I cut it," said Potter simply, his mouth still quirked upwards at the corners.
"But... why?" Draco asked, though his pounding heart was trying to tell him he already knew.
Potter looked at his lap bashfully. "You said, last night, that you cut yours to cut away a bit of the cancer of the war's influence on you, right?"
Draco nodded dumbly.
"Well, I have my fair share of cancer, too," said Potter.
Was it possible for a person's heart to implode from sheer power of emotion? Draco wondered. He ached with the intensity with which Potter's gesture touched him.
"You didn't have to do that," he said through a tight throat.
Oh, sweet hell, how he wanted to touch Potter back. To brush his fingertips across the skin of Potter's face, to trace his lips and the exposed lightning shaped scar on his forehead. To freeze time and just sit and marvel.
"I know," said Potter in a private, low voice meant just for Draco, "but I wanted to." Then Potter's eyes glinted. "Do you like it?" he asked, shy and flirtatious. "You always teased me about how messy it was before."
Like it? What trifling, every day words to describe something such as this. Draco was sure that nothing like this had ever been done for his sake before in his life.
"True, I did," said Draco. "But now I find I may actually miss it. It's grown on me," he admitted shyly.
"Yeah?" asked Potter, pleased.
"Yeah," said Draco.
"Well no worries. I'm sure it'll all be back by tomorrow. It has a tendency not to take well to trimming." Potter grinned mischievously.
"Hence the mess," said Draco, biting his lip and smiling at once.
"Hence the mess," Potter agreed, his face bright.
The class was in a frenzy when Slughorn arrived, late again. It was hard to say what was causing more of a stir: Harry Potter's shorn locks, that they matched Draco Malfoy's, or that same Draco Malfoy ruffling that same Harry Potter's hair in a way that seemed – for lack of a better explanation – fond.
And they didn't even know about the hidden pinky embrace.
"Quiet! Quiet!" Slughorn commanded. The his eyes fell on Potter and blinked at him for all of a minute.
"Nice hair, Mr. Potter," he said.
"Thanks," said Potter, before turning to smile conspiratorially at Draco.
For his part, Draco wanted to laugh out loud, out of sheer irrepressible exhilaration.
… & …
Draco was fidgeting in his seat again as detention began that night. This time out of impatience for Slughorn to leave them alone. Something that had changed between he and Potter last night had been solidified this morning, and Draco was yearning unabashedly to learn what that shift would mean for them once they were left alone. But he wouldn't find out until Slughorn bloody left already.
Slughorn was bent over some papers at his desk, finishing a bit of grading. Three minutes ticked audibly by, then five, then ten. Finally, Slughorn set down his quill and began to stand up with a shuffling of papers and a wriggling of girth.
"Polish all the glass in the cupboard," he instructed them as he went out the door.
Draco and Potter exchanged a look and went for the cupboard. Draco paused just inside and leaned against the doorframe, in no way ready yet to get to work. Potter, who was trailing him, couldn't pass through the doorway without brushing against Draco. Which he did, but then refrained from passing all the way through. He fixed himself in front of Draco and leveled him with a brilliant green gaze that curdled Draco's insides into a heady anxiety of anticipation and made his skin tingle.
"You were right," Draco said quietly, reaching up to finger the curling tendrils of hair at the nape of Potter's neck, "it grew back already."
He hardly knew what he expected to happen next, but expectations became immediately irrelevant.
What happened next was Potter wrapping his arms around Draco's neck and tugging him forward until the six-inch gap upwards and sideways between them was closed, and then kissing him.
Potter's lips were soft and careful, like a whisper. They first just pressed to Draco's and lingered there, unmoving and light. Then he pulled back so there was the barest space between their mouths and waited, the space posing the unspoken question: "Was that okay?"
This was the moment to push Potter away. But Draco couldn't move, didn't even have feeling in his limbs, much less the ability to push someone away. Especially someone as gloriously comfortable and arousing all at once as Potter.
Draco couldn't think about it; his body thought for him, leaning into Potter and pressing their lips together: "Yes."
He hadn't known kissing was like this. It was nothing like Pansy's sloppy, pushy advance. It wasn't even like Draco's own desperate and rough accost of Potter two weeks ago in the corridor. It was gentle and urgent. It was scared and bold. It was forgetting to breathe and hot breaths across skin. It was safe, and the most dangerous thing in the world. It was relief, and agony for want of more.
Potter was lapping at Draco's lips, pressing fast, repeated kisses on his mouth that were making Draco dizzy. He gripped the doorframe behind him.
He sighed into Potter's mouth, which caused Potter to take advantage of Draco's parted lips to slip his tongue through them. Draco's fingers alternately tightened and relaxed in Potter's hair as Potter's lips met his again and again and again. He relaxed into the soft wetness of Potter's mouth and lips and tongue, and into the firm warmth of Potter's arms encircling his body, holding him close. He could do this forever and be oh, so content, he decided, licking and sucking and sliding his mouth against, with, and within Potter's.
Potter broke their mouths apart and began pressing soft kisses on Draco's cheeks that made him well with sweetness so poignant it was almost sad, the wetness from Potter's lips drying on Draco's face like tears. Then Draco had to have the heavenly pleasure of Potter's mouth on his again, so he caught Potter's lips in a long closemouthed kiss.
Too soon Potter pulled their mouths apart again.
"Po–" Draco gasped as Potter pressed his lips to the underside of Draco's neck, opening his mouth and pressing his tongue to the hot skin. "Potter..." he moaned, tipping his head backwards against the doorframe and exposing his throat. Potter cupped the nape of Draco's neck and one side of his face in his hands and proceeded to kiss all the salty beginnings of sweat from Draco's skin as Draco clutched at Potter's robes and puffed warm pants of breath into Potter's hair.
And then Potter's lips were back on his and Draco was gently sucking on Potter's lower lip and oh...
Oh, this was delicious.
"Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purged..." supplied the Bard, on cue. But instead of enhancing the moment, the words reverberated around Draco's mind with the dissonance of clashed symbols.
What was he doing? He was infecting Potter with his poison, feeding Potter more and more of his darkness with every kiss. That was why he felt so light now.
Draco's tremblings of desire became tremblings of panic.
No, he couldn't be the one to corrupt the one good thing left in his life. How could he have forgotten his promise to yearn but not hope? To look but not touch? He could only ruin Potter, never bring him happiness. Could never be for Potter what Potter could be for him.
With a gasp like the precursor to a sob, Draco pushed Potter away for the second time, and it tore at his heart even more sharply than it had the first.
"I – I can't do this," he choked out, looking at a chipped stone on the floor to avoid seeing whatever was in Potter's expression right now. Whatever it was, good or bad, it could only hurt. Potter reached for Draco's arm and Draco's throat clenched like it was trying to strangle itself.
Then he turned and ran.