*****

In Your Pocket You Carry Devotion

“Harry, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Remus asked calmly, perhaps more calmly than another wizard might if an angry Harry Potter had just apparated into his flat. This fact only seemed to make Harry more angry.

“You disappeared after the Gringott’s raid,” he said, clearly waiting for a response. When none came, he continued, “I know you were in bad shape. The medical team tried to catch up with you after, you know.”

“Did they?” Remus shifted painfully in his faded armchair, trying his best to look like a man who simply enjoyed being seated. “I’m sorry to have caused them any trouble. I didn’t suppose I was as poorly off as all that.” He rearranged the blankets in his lap.

Harry sighed. “Remus, it’s no use, I know you can’t stand without that cane.” He pointed to the corner next to Remus’ chair. “Between the injuries done to you in the field, and those you’ve inflicted on yourself,” Harry gestured toward Remus’ mangled hands, “it’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

“If that’s true, I think I could do with one less miracle in my life.” Remus smiled wryly.

“You can’t mean that.”

“No, I suppose not,” Remus said, to avoid an argument.

“I’m sending someone to care for you. To bring you back to health,” Harry said.

“Sending someone?”

“Someone with the skill to help you heal,” Harry explained.

“In my home?” Remus felt ill. “Really, Harry, that’s the last thing I want right now.”

“You know St. Mungo’s isn’t safe anymore.” Harry was clearly impatient. “This is really the only way we can ensure your safety.”

“I don’t need a nursemaid,” Remus muttered, pulling a worn, green blanket over his left hand, which looked much worse than the other.

“That’s not up to you to decide right now.” Harry crossed his arms with authority. Remus ruffled.

“It most certainly–”

“You pledged yourself to the Order, Remus, and the Order needs you whole,” Harry interrupted. “So, no. It isn’t up to you.” His face softened. “It’s only temporary.” Remus looked away. Harry crouched next to his chair, his hand on Remus’ arm. “Remus, we’ve lost so many. We–” He stopped as his voice began to waver. He took a deep breath and began again. “There isn’t an alternative. We’re going to lose everything.”

“Haven’t we already, Harry?” Remus touched Harry’s hand. “This war has brought us seven years of terrible loss. The people we loved most are gone. What are we fighting for?”

Harry stood abruptly. “We can’t afford that kind of thinking right now.” He wasn’t looking at Remus.

Remus sighed. “I’ll need Wolfsbane. Your efforts are futile without it, you know that.”

“We’ve got someone.”

“It’s very difficult to find, Harry, especially now. My old contacts have all dried up and the ministry–”

“We’ve got someone.” Harry’s face was hard again. “He’ll be here in an hour.” With a *crack* he was gone.

Remus sank deeper into his chair, which was considerably less comfortable than it had been when he and Nymphadora brought it home five or so years ago. He couldn’t remember clearly now exactly when they’d moved into this flat in a Muggle neighborhood, far from wizarding London, which had become almost entirely controlled by Voldemort. They’d learned to use less magic in their daily lives to ensure they’d be inconspicuous, saving all their strength for the Order’s work, which only grew more dangerous each year. If he closed his eyes, he could still see her–short, pink hair and dark, shining eyes–waving to him as she apparated away, promising to pick up supper on her way home.

It was in this chair that he’d read the owl telling him that she wasn’t coming back. It was in this chair that he listened over and over to that awful music that she’d loved.

Dance, your final dance
This is your final chance
To hold the one you love
You know you’ve waited long enough

Nymphadora twirled, laughing, so graceful when she wasn’t thinking about it. She called to him, arms outstretched, drawing him in. He reached for her, but she had disappeared into a cloud of pink. He called her name, but his voice was swallowed up by the music as it grew louder and more chaotic until all he could pick out of it was the steady beat of a drum.

*****

It was dark in the room when Remus awoke, and he felt lost, uncertain of time and place. It was only after a long moment that he recognized the knocking on his front door. He reached for his cane, and pulled himself up painfully. The walk to the door seemed to take forever. Finally he opened the door to reveal the round, pink face of Neville Longbottom, accompanied by a fairly unpleasant odor.

“It’s a bit cold out isn’t it?” Neville said. “Sorry to be so late.”

“No, of course,” Remus said, stepping back from the doorway. “Come in, Neville.”

Neville’s eyes widened as he noticed the cane. “Professor Lupin, sir, I’m so sorry!” He rushed in, taking Remus’ arm with his free hand.” You should be sitting down. If I’d known–”

“It’s fine, Neville,” Remus said, leaning gratefully on Neville’s hand, and allowing himself to be led to his chair. “Did Harry send you?” he asked, tentatively.

“He told you, then.” Neville let out a long breath. “That’s a relief. At least I haven’t arrived entirely unannounced.” His brow wrinkled as he eyed Remus’ ragged frame. “You’ve got some fair wounds, I’d say, haven’t you? We might as well get started there.” He began to unpack some items from a small knapsack.

Remus was still confused. “You’re not also–” He searched for the most delicate wording. “Harry mentioned he had someone who could brew Wolfsbane potion.”

Neville set down a large, heavy-looking bowl with a brown cloth over the top of it. “Yes, we’ll be taking care of that problem as well.”

“Neville, I’m not sure how to ask this, but,” Remus hesitated, “Wolfsbane is a very difficult potion. I know you’ve come a long way since third year, but are you certain you’re ready for this? The effects when brewed poorly–”

“We’ve got a week or two to think about that,” Neville answered while rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s see about cleaning you up a bit, shall we? That’s a nasty bit of work you’ve done there.” He nodded his head toward Remus’ hands.

Remus was becoming impatient. “Neville–”

“I’m not much good with healing spells and the like,” Neville said, lifting the cloth from the top of the large bowl to reveal its contents, which, to Remus’ dismay, proved to be a pale yellow-green liquid, and the source of the noxious smell. Neville continued, “I’m afraid we’ll be doing this the long way ’round. Hand me those leaves there, would you?” He pointed at the bundle of green on the nearby table.

“Neville, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do,” Remus said, passing him the bundle of leaves, “but do you really think–”

“Terribly underestimated, Herbology,” Neville continued, uncovering Remus’ mangled left hand. “Once they’ve passed their O.W.L.s, people tend to forget all about it.” He dipped a leaf into the noxious liquid. “Before that, really,” He said, placing the wet leaf on the top of Remus’ hand and smoothing it down with his palms. The liquid stung as it formed into some kind of adhesive substance. Neville smiled shyly. “Not the most glamorous field, is it?”

“I didn’t mean–” Remus started.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Neville said, his smile growing a little wider. “Being forgotten has its advantages. Why else do you suppose they haven’t bothered killing me?” He prepared another leaf, applying it just above the other. “It’s not showy, of course, and it takes a while.” He smoothed the leaf gently. “But it gets the job done right enough,” he finished, wrinkling his nose. “‘Course there’s always a bit of a smell.”

Remus touched the leaf gingerly with his fingers and was surprised to find that it had taken on a soft, fuzzy texture, like the skin of a peach. The adhesive had ceased to sting, and was so firmly fixed, it felt like a part of his own skin. He wondered if he, in fact, had underestimated Herbology. “I must confess, I don’t recall anything quite like this in Encyclopedia of Toadstools.”

Neville chuckled, “No, you wouldn’t, of course.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “This one’s my own cross-breed, actually.” His face reddened a little, and his eyes seemed to be focused somewhere near his shoes. “I don’t get out much,” he said, his smile turning shy again. “It’s related to Alihotsy, so, you know, don’t eat it,” he said, eyes twinkling. “We should tend to your legs as well? Perhaps–” he looked around.

Remus realized Neville was waiting for him. “Yes, yes that’s fine,” he said, gesturing toward his bedroom. “Could you–” He looked wearily at his cane. “Would you help me?”

“Of course!” Neville jumped up and offered his arm.

Remus was embarrassed, but grateful. “I’ve been levitating myself generally, but it’s a bit tiring,” he admitted.

“No need while I’m here,” Neville said. “You can save your strength.” He guided Remus into the bedroom, letting Remus set the pace, for which Remus was grateful. Neville helped him onto the bed, and arranged pillows under his head. After a moment of awkward silence, Neville finally gestured meekly to Remus’ trousers.

“Oh, of course,” Remus said, removing them as hastily as he comfortably could, while Neville fetched his supplies from the front room.

Neville returned, and his eyes widened. He glanced at the supplies in his hands. “I haven’t brought enough,” he said, obviously trying to hide his shock. “We’ll take care of the larger ones, and I’ll go out for more in the morning.” He quickly busied himself with dressing the wounds on Remus’ legs with the remaining leaves. He worked in silence now, and Remus tried to think of a polite way to bring up the Wolfsbane problem again. Unfortunately, this process was hindered by his growing dizziness due to the violent stench now eminating from much of his body.

“It does… have an odor, doesn’t it?” Remus asked, feebly.

“You’ll get used to it.” Neville smiled again, this time much more broadly. He raised his eyebrows. “Haven’t got a hot date tonight, have you?” Remus winced involuntarily, and Neville’s smile was replaced by a look of utter horror. “I’m so sorry, Professor,” he said rapidly, “I’m an idiot, please–”

“Remus,” Remus said. “It’s Remus. I haven’t been anyone’s professor in a long time.” His head ached, and he couldn’t bear the sight of Neville’s pained, honest eyes one moment longer. “I think I need some rest now, Neville. I’m very tired.” He tried to smile, but he could feel the strain in his face.

Neville’s face flushed as he burst into motion. “Of course, yes.” He gathered up a few stray leaves and the dread bowl, stumbling a bit on his way to the door. “I’ll be just outside if you need me,” he said, closing the door behind him.

*****

It was late the next morning when Remus was awakened again by a soft knocking, this time from the door to his bedroom. “Come in,” he said as clearly as he could manage, though his voice was rough with sleep. Neville’s head appeared in the doorway.

“Is this all right?” he asked, softly. “I’ve brought more leaves. I thought you might like to close up the rest of those scratches.”

“Yes, of course, come in,” Remus said, gesturing him in. “I must tell you that I’m quite impressed. I haven’t slept this late in a very long time–the effects of greatly reduced pain, I’m sure.” He smiled. “That will, at least, be my excuse.”

Neville smiled now, too. “I don’t think you need much of an excuse to catch up on a bit of sleep, after what you’ve been through. I had no idea. I haven’t seen wounds like that in some of the worst battles.”

“Mostly self-inflicted, I assure you,” Remus said. “The older I get, the less ability I have to heal between full moons.” Remus sighed, dreading his next words, “Neville, I’m afraid I must ask–”

“Well, we’re going to patch the rest of these up right now,” Neville interrupted, setting up his leaves and the bowl of foul liquid. “I expect you’ll be up and walking again in a few days. You’re far to young to be hobbling about like an old man,” he said with what might have been a wink, though Remus was quite sure he’d imagined it.

“This war has aged us all beyond our years, unfortunately,” Remus said. “You’re a young man of what now?”

“Twenty-four.” Neville replied.

“Are you really?” Remus was genuinely shocked, and feeling even older than usual. “How quickly time has passed. Perhaps it’s just me, then,” he laughed.

“Come, let’s have a look.” Neville pulled back the blankets covering Remus’ legs, less shy now than he had been the night before. “These are healing nicely. I might add a bit to some of the larger ones.”

Remus sighed again. “Neville, I must ask about the Wolfsbane potion–”

“We’ll worry about that when I’ve got you healed up, Prof–” Neville stopped himself. “Remus.” He faced Remus earnestly. “Please, just trust me.” When Remus hesitated, Neville went on, “I promise I won’t let you do this to yourself again. I just need a bit of time.”

“Very well, Neville.” Remus was too tired to argue, though he was not greatly comforted. “I hope you can understand why I’m anxious.”

“Yes, of course.” Neville looked solemn in a way Remus couldn’t quite place. “All right, that should do for today.” He patted Remus’ legs gently and glanced out into the hall. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

“Yes, thank you, Neville. That’s very kind.”

Neville grinned. “Life does have its necessities,” he said, gathering his supplies and heading out toward the kitchen.

*****

The next week passed easily, more so than Remus could have imagined. It was comforting to have someone else around the house again, and Neville was an easy soul to have about. He seemed to have made himself right at home–perhaps more so than Remus had ever felt himself in this cold, shabby Muggle flat. In some ways he was helping Remus to feel at home too–the easy way he moved around the sitting room and tiny kitchen, talking to the plants without a trace of embarrassment. There were more plants in the flat now that Neville had arrived, and they somehow managed to dress up the place, something Remus would not have thought possible.

In the afternoons, Neville would shut himself up in the kitchen, occasionally for hours at a time. Neville never spoke of what he was doing there, and the room was always spotlessly clean when he emerged, no matter what horrid smells (and muffled profanity) had seeped out from under the door that day. Remus was certain he was attempting to make Wolfsbane potion, though what surprised him was that he found himself increasingly distressed, not with the unsurprising evidence that Neville’s attempts were not going well, but with Neville’s absence during those times. Remus had spent so many of his years alone, it seemed almost comical that he should be unable to bear it now.

Some mornings, Neville took Remus to the Muggle park down the road to stretch his quickly healing legs and get a bit of air. It was too dangerous, even in Muggle areas, for either of them to stay out public for long, so these outings were always brief, but Remus looked forward to them a bit more than he was prepared to admit. They strolled slowly, Neville’s steady hand on his arm, ready to catch him at any moment.

In the evenings, Neville read to him from one of the dusty books from Remus’ shelves, or from the small stack he’d brought with him. Remus preferred Magical theory and Neville liked Muggle fiction (for which he loudly blamed Dean Thomas), so they would take turns choosing each evening’s entertainment. Both of them ignored the stack of unread copies of The Daily Prophet growing steadily by the front door. It was these moments Remus particularly treasured, when he could imagine for however short a time that he was truly not alone and all was right with the world.

*****

The morning of the full moon, Remus awoke, and for the first time in over a week felt the loneliness and dread he had become accustomed to since Nymphadora’s death. Neville had already shut himself up in the kitchen when Remus emerged from his room to find a pot of tea and a bit of toast waiting for him on the table next to his armchair. Neville was whistling to himself, not quite tunefully, just loudly enough to be heard through the closed kitchen door. Remus sat down to his tea and toast, which were both warmer than he expected. Thank you, Neville, he thought, letting himself sink into the comfort of his chair, avoiding the inevitable for just a moment longer.

Dance, your final dance
This is your final chance
To hold the one you love
You know you’ve waited long enough

“Hurry up, Remus”, a rough, familiar voice said, and Remus turned, face to face with Sirius’ hungry eyes.

When his eyes opened again, the shadows in the room had grown long, and the tea beside him, cold. Remus rose in a panic and burst into the still-closed kitchen to find Neville at the center of a mess of dirty, dripping pots and pans, more of them than Remus was actually aware he owned.

“Neville, you don’t have to pretend about the Wolfsbane. I know you’ve tried. It’s all right. But I need you out of the house now. It isn’t safe for you to–” Remus stopped abruptly, terrified as he felt the madness begin to rise up from his chest. “Now!” he shouted.

Neville thrust a cup of green, steaming liquid at him. “Drink this,” he said.

Remus clung to the nearby countertop, attempting to hold back what he could. “Neville, please, there really isn’t time–” he cried.

Neville was forcing the cup to his lips. “Just drink it.” His voice was demanding.

“What is it?” Remus asked. It was becoming very difficult to speak.

“Tea,” Neville said. “Well, a bit of a special tea,” Neville was talking very quickly and Remus was still not drinking. “Believe me, it’ll go down a lot better this way.” Remus was losing his balance. “Please,” Neville pleaded, “trust me.”

Remus grabbed for the cup in desperation, and Neville helped hold it steady as he drank the green liquid down. It was hot and cold all at once, and it seemed to be grabbing at the walls of Remus’ throat as it slid down. Remus looked frantically for an escape, somewhere to go where he could shut himself up tight, at least long enough for Neville to find his way to safety. Then suddenly it was gone–the madness, the fear–gone as quickly as it had come upon him. Remus staggered toward the floor, caught at the last moment by Neville’s sure hands. Neville steadied him against the table and stood, holding Remus at the shoulders, watching him expectantly.

Remus breathed slowly, finally able to speak again. “Neville,” he said, “what have you done?”

“I’m not quite sure yet.” Neville’s voice was very low and his eyes were fixed on Remus. He was still holding Remus’ shoulders. “Come with me, will you?” He pulled Remus through the kitchen door and into the bedroom, toward the pair of crooked French doors overlooking the neighboring tenements.

Remus shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Neville pointed to the full moon, flat and pale, just barely visible in the early evening sky between the tops of two buildings. “That speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

“Neville,” Remus whispered, “what have you done?”

“It’s something–” Neville looked a bit unsteady himself. He ran his fingers through his hair, which had become damp with perspiration. “I’ve been working on it for a while. It’s better than I’d hoped, really. I thought you’d grow some extra hair at least.” He was smiling tentatively now. “Maybe a bit of a snout.”

“It’s gone. The feeling–” Remus inhaled sharply, trying to find the words. “No, not gone. I feel it lurking, just below, but–” He stared at Neville, all further words lost.

“You’ll have to drink this tea at least three nights after to be safe,” Neville said. “I’ve got quite a bit of it made up already, and I’ll be sure you have enough to last a long time. You know.” He hesitated. “In case something happens.”

“Neville, have you any idea what you’ve done?” Remus knew he was repeating things, but he felt helpless to express himself.

“I–I believe so. You’re–” Neville’s face had gone a bit pale. “You’re happy, aren’t you?”

“Happy?” Remus laughed. “Neville, it’s much more than that.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Neville let out a long breath and smiled. “It worked for Bill Weasley, but of course he isn’t fully–” He tilted his head. “You know.” He was almost grinning now. “I bet he wished I’d have got the tea bit figured out sooner. He had to eat the plants raw, and they weren’t exactly bred for taste. Lucky for you your kitchen’s pretty resilient.” He held Remus at arm’s length, looking him up and down. “There’s really no fur or anything?” He bit his lip. “We should probably wait a bit to be sure.” He turned to the French doors again, feeling around the tarnished brass knobs. “Do these open?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.” Remus moved in and found the latch, opening the doors out on to an old, slightly wobbly balcony, covered in rust.

“I thought you might want to–” Neville gestured outside. “Most people like looking at the full moon. Probably not something you’ve enjoyed often.”

Remus stared. “No, indeed not.”

“We don’t have to–” Neville said, quickly.

“That would be lovely, Neville,” Remus interrupted, smiling. “Thank you.”

“Look, we’ll bring these chairs.” Neville ran over to the other side of the room, gathering up a small armchair, which he placed gingerly on the balcony. When it proved itself stable, he gestured for Remus to sit, and then went back for the small, rickety desk chair also from the bedroom, which he sat on, himself. “That’s nice, isn’t it?” he asked, with a touch of anxiety in his voice.

“Yes,” Remus said, touching Neville’s hand, reassuringly. For a moment they sat silently, gazing, the moon growing rapidly brighter as the sky darkened.

Finally Neville spoke. “How did you–” he began, stopping himself abruptly. After a moment he continued. “Professor Snape’s been gone a long time. How have you managed all these years? Without a potion, I mean.”

“It wasn’t difficult until the ministry banned it,” Remus said. “Then for a while, I had connections in Knockturn Alley. After the ministry’s real collapse, of course, it became too dangerous even for them, but Nymphadora knew someone–” his voice wavered. “Well, I never knew where she got it. Obviously, that’s no longer an option.”

They were silent again, and then Neville asked softly, “Do you miss her?” He seemed to regret the question immediately, shaking his head. “I’m an idiot, of course you do. I just–” he looked at Remus. “It must be awful.”

“Yes,” Remus said quietly. “I miss her very much.”

“When they told me my mother died, I lost my mind for a while. Silly, really. I never knew her,” Neville said, “Not really, you know. She used to give me gum wrappers when I want to see her at St. Mungo’s. Gran made me throw most of them away, but I always kept one. I used to sleep with it under my pillow. So stupid.”

“Not at all,” Remus said.

“Anyway, I thought, if it was that hard for me when she died, it must be so much worse when–” Neville hesitated again. “You have all the day-to-day things to miss, and I never had those to begin with.” He was shaking his head again. “It’s not the same thing at all, really, but I just thought–”

“It’s very hard,” Remus said, his voice still quiet. “Perhaps not now as much as it was. Or perhaps I’ve just become accustomed to it.” He smiled weakly at Neville.

They were both silent for a long while, and Remus drifted off, wakening as Neville tucked a blanket around him.

“Sorry to wake you,” Neville said. “It was getting a bit chilly, I thought.”

“Neville, I’m terribly sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it at all.” It was Neville’s turn to be reassuring. “It’s a peaceful night,” he said, leaning his head back to view the few visible stars.

“Yes, it is. Something I never thought I’d have.” Remus turned his head to face Neville. “I really don’t know how to thank you.”

“Please, there isn’t any need, really,” Neville answered, softly.

“How did you–or perhaps the better question is why?” Remus asked, “Why would you work so hard on something like this? It puts you in terrible danger, you realize, and it’s not as though there’s a big demand.” He smiled sadly. “I think I’m the only werewolf left in England who has any interest in being human at all.”

“I don’t know. I guess I always–” Neville bit his lip. “Did you know you were the first teacher who ever thought I could do anything?” Remus moved to protest, but Neville continued, “No, really, I mean it. With the boggart. You didn’t yell at me, or sigh and brush me aside like the rest. You just… taught me something. Like I was just as good as anyone. Maybe that sounds funny, but it meant a lot. I don’t think I ever would have bothered to really try at anything if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Surely that’s not true,” Remus said, shocked. Finally something dawned on him. “Neville,” he spoke slowly, “are you saying that you made this for me? Because I let you fight a boggart?”

“Well,” Neville said, smiling a little, “it didn’t hurt that you embarrassed Professor Snape.”

Remus chuckled. “That was enjoyable, I’ll admit.”

“I guess,” Neville went on, not quite looking at Remus. “you’ve always been a bit special to me. So when Professor Snape… left, I started working on it. I didn’t know if it’d ever work, but I thought it was worth a try.” He stared back into the sky. “It’s taken me seven years. More, actually. I never thought the war could go on so long.”

“Neville, thank you.” Remus felt at a complete loss. “Thanks are inadequate… but heartfelt. Truly.”

“I wouldn’t have even asked for that, Professor.” Neville grinned at his own mistake. “Remus.”

“Well, that’s something, Neville, that’s unique about you,” Remus said. “I really don’t want you to underestimate the importance of this to me. This is something I never thought I’d have. I’m not sure I can even describe it.”

Neville finally looked at him again. “You can try.”

“It’s–” Remus searched for words. “It’s like you’ve given me the gift of myself. A version of me long forgotten. You’ve allowed me to feel safe with myself in a way I can’t–” He shook his head. “I have no memory of feeling this way, though I’m sure I must have, long ago.” He paused and then continued. “To exist without fear–It’s something I never could have hoped for. Even now it doesn’t feel quite real.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever felt that myself,” Neville said.

“You’re probably closer than you imagine.” Remus looked thoughtfully at Neville. “What do you fear, Neville? What do you truly fear?”

Neville blushed. “I should have kept quiet. I see that now,” he said with a sigh. “What do I fear?” He shrugged. “Death, I suppose. The war really brings that home, doesn’t it? Or maybe it’s more about dying alone. To have done all this, fought so hard only to die before knowing what it feels like not to be alone.” He looked at Remus. “I envy you that, I guess. For all you’ve lost, you still–” He blushed again. “Well, that’s probably enough said, isn’t it?”

Do you feel alone now?, Remus wanted to ask, though he stopped himself just in time. His head was oddly light, and he felt very suddenly that it was important for Neville to leave. “I should let you get some rest,” he said. “You don’t need an old man keeping you up all night.”

“I’m sorry.” Neville said, standing hastily, “I expect it’s me who’s kept you up. Shall I help you settle?”

“No, no,” Remus said, hurriedly. “I think it’s time I remembered how to do for myself. You’ve been too kind already.” He pulled his blanket closer. “I’ll just sit here a moment longer. You go ahead.”

“All right.” Neville was visibly disappointed, and Remus felt both guilty and excited, which only made the urgency of the situation more clear. “Goodnight, Professor.”

Remus waited until the flat was quiet and he could be sure Neville had settled into the sofa for the night, then he got up and put himself to bed.

*****

Remus woke the next morning with an energy he hadn’t felt in a long time. When he stepped out of his bedroom, he found a note stuck to his door that read, “Gone for supplies. Back soon. Neville,” which he smiled at for longer than he should have. He also found Harry Potter standing in his hallway, peering into the sitting room.

“Do you never knock?” he asked, still smiling.

Harry turned with a start. “Remus?” he said.

“Harry,” Remus said, “I wasn’t expecting you, though I’m glad you’re here. I do have something to speak to you about.”

Harry stood, looking confused. “I came to check in with Neville, actually. I wasn’t expecting to see you.” He gestured at Remus vaguely. “Well, not like this,” he said. “Aren’t you usually, er, recovering?”

“It seems that Neville is more talented than he thought,” Remus said.

Harry smiled. “He usually is, actually.” He looked around again. “Where is he?”

“I believe he stepped out for supplies of some kind,” Remus said. “Before he gets back, however, there’s something I’d like to speak to you about.”

“Of course,” Harry said.

“I think it would be best if Neville moved out,” Remus said. “Tomorrow, if possible.”

“I–” Harry started, flustered. “I’m sorry. I thought things were going well. Neville said–”

“It’s been fine, really,” Remus said. “I suppose I’ve just become accustomed to being alone. It’s quite cramped here, and I think I’m well enough now to be on my own.” Harry stood, apparently dumbstruck. “He’s done a wonderful job,” Remus added, hastily. “I’ll be ready to work again, of course. Whatever you need of me.”

“Yes,” Harry said, remembering himself finally. “Yes of course. It’s no problem at all. I’ll tell Neville–”

“No, that’s all right,” Remus said. “I’ll tell him. I don’t want him to feel it’s anything he’s done, I’m sure you can understand.”

“Yes.” Harry looked around, awkwardly. ” Well, then. I guess I’ll be on my way,” he said. “It’s good timing, actually. We’re starting a new mission tomorrow, and he’ll be a valuable asset. The location’s secret, so I’ll come back tomorrow to escort him.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Remus said, gratefully.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Just as Harry was preparing to apparate, the door opened and Neville walked in, arms piled high with packages, his pink face smiling brightly.

“Oh, hello,” Harry said, very rapidly. “Well, I’ve got to be going.” He was gone before Neville could respond.

Neville heaped his packages on the table in the middle of the room and looked around, quizzically.

“Hello, Neville,” Remus said.

Neville frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Remus asked, trying not to panic.

Neville looked at the spot where Harry had stood moments before, and then turned back to Remus. “Was that Harry?” he asked.

“Yes.” Remus’s voice felt very loud. “He came to speak with you, actually, but I guess he was in a bit of a rush.”

Neville smiled. “Oh, well, can’t have been so important then, eh?” He gathered up several of his packages and took them into the kitchen.

“Right,” Remus said.

Neville walked slowly back into the hallway. He seemed to have forgotten about his packages. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

“No, you’re right,” Remus said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “There is something, Neville, and I’m a fool to try to lie to you. I’m sorry. I hope you won’t misunderstand, but,” he hesitated for a moment, and then forced himself to finish, “I think it would be best if you left.”

Neville stared. “Sorry?”

“It isn’t safe for you,” Remus hurried on, “If anyone finds out about your work–” He paused, forcing himself to slow down. “Voldemort’s people have a lot of stake in keeping werewolves dangerous. They’ve made thousands of them. It’s their best threat against the ministry–really the only thing keeping them in power right now. If they ever found out, you’d be killed immediately.” He was feeling steadier now. “I can’t let you stay here, it’s much too obvious.”

“Nobody knows about it outside the Weasleys and Harry.” Neville’s voice was very tight.

“Neville, that’s not good enough,” Remus said, his voice becoming louder again. “Someone will find out. It’s only a matter of time. After what you’ve done for me, I can’t let you continue to endanger your own life.”

“Don’t you think that should be up to me?” Neville asked, unsmiling.

“No!” Remus was shouting now. He stopped and took a breath, forcing his voice to be calm again. “No, I’m sorry, it can’t be. Not this time.”

Neville’s eyes went wide. “This isn’t really about me, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Remus said. Neville was walking toward him now, and Remus’ legs would not move.

“Remus, I–” Neville bit his lip and started again, his voice quiet but strong. “I was there when she died.” Remus tried to turn away, but Neville had taken hold of his shoulders. “It was complete madness. There wasn’t anything you could have done, not even if you’d–”

“Thank you.” Remus smiled, wearily. “But you see, Neville, that isn’t really the problem.” He was tired now, and he longed to sit, but Neville was holding him firm. “It’s not that I wasn’t there to save her. I’m not foolish enough to imagine I have that kind of power. It’s that she shouldn’t have been there at all. I knew it then. I knew something wasn’t right, but I let her go, despite every instinct not to.” He felt his voice shaking. “I’ve never been strong enough to stop her, or anyone. Not enough for her, not enough for–” He stopped himself abruptly, closing his eyes to try to find his balance, and instead coming face to face with Sirius’ flashing eyes. Remus gasped, his eyes bursting open again, blurry and damp. “I’m sorry. This is extremely embarrassing.” Neville let him go, and he sank into the hallway chair. “Please if you’d–”

“No,” Neville said. “Remus, you have to listen to me. Please.” Neville kneeled in front of Remus, placing his hands gently on Remus’ legs. “Just listen–listen to yourself–you can’t possibly believe this. Do you truly believe for a moment that’s what she wanted from you? What he wanted?” Remus startled, and Neville rolled his eyes. “We might have been children, Remus, but we weren’t stupid.” He continued, “They didn’t love you for your damned strength of will.” He leaned in closer. “They loved you because you loved them enough to let them be who they were–wild and reckless and different from everyone else. Because you saw beauty in them that other people couldn’t.” He was even closer now, with his wide brown eyes so earnest and steady. “Because you could forgive them for not being right or graceful or perfect all the time.” His voice cracked. “Don’t you see?” Neville’s face was so close, and Remus felt that he might break in two.

“Neville,” Remus said, helplessly.

Suddenly Neville was kissing him, all softness and youth and big honest eyes, and Remus felt certain he should stop it, but it had been so long, and then there were strong arms lifting him, easing him from his chair, and he let his tears fall as he was enveloped in the cushion of Neville’s warm body and the faint scent of earth.

*****

The room filled with morning sunlight, rare for London that time of year, and Remus could feel it on his eyelids as he awoke. He kept his eyes closed, savoring the warmth of it, and inhaling the saltysweet smell of the soft hair on the pillow beside him. When he could bear to wait no longer, he opened his eyes to take in the beautiful sight of the young man he had shared his bed with. The joy of it was almost too much, and Remus forgot for a moment to breathe. For a long time he stayed there, just looking, his mind oddly peaceful in a way he hadn’t felt, perhaps ever before. A *crack* in the hall startled him out of his reverie, and he remembered what the morning was to bring. Damn, he thought. He got out of bed as quietly as he could and crept out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

“Remus.” Once again, Harry appeared confused. “Uh, Hello.” Remus stifled a smile. “Where’s Neville?” Harry asked.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Remus said. “He’s still sleeping. It’s my fault, I’m afraid.”

Harry glanced at the empty sofa. “Er-”

“This is terribly awkward,” Remus said, unsure of how to continue. “I think,” he said, “I made a mistake about Neville.”

“Is–” Harry’s eyes grew wide, the rest of his face seemingly frozen. “Oh,” he said.

Remus sighed. “Please, Harry, you needn’t make this more awkward.” To his relief, Harry’s face softened.

“But I’m so good at it,” Harry said, smiling ruefully.

“Indeed you are.” Remus smiled back. They stood in silence for a moment, until Remus finally went on, “It’s– all right?” He felt foolish, but he wasn’t sure what to say at this point.

Harry laughed. “I don’t think that’s up to me to say, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Remus said, still smiling. “About the mission,” Remus’ voice turned apologetic. “I’m afraid I didn’t tell him.”

Harry shook his head. “Nothing to tell. We’ll be fine without him,” he paused, “this time.” Harry’s smile held a warmth Remus hadn’t seen in him for many years. “After everything, I can at least give you that, can’t I?”

“Thank you,” Remus said, though he wished to say much more.

“I’d better go, then.” Harry said, smile gone, back to business. “We’ll be in touch.” He smiled one last time. “I expect you both back in the field by next week.”

“Of course.” Remus nodded.

Just then, Remus’ bedroom door opened and Neville appeared, hair mussed, pajamas rumpled. Remus’ heart skipped at the sight of him.

“Harry?” Neville said, his voice groggy with sleep.

“Er-” Harry’s face turned red, and he apparated with much haste.

“What was that about?” Neville asked, scratching his head.

“Nothing.” Remus said, turning to him. “Nothing at all.”

Neville nodded. “I’ll put the kettle on, then?”

“Yes, Neville,” Remus said, “that would be lovely.”

Notes: Song lyrics are from “Magic Works” by Jarvis Cocker, recorded for the 2005 film, “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.” “Hurry up, Remus” from “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban,” page 297., Title is borrowed from Peter Mulvey’s, “No One Else.”

*****
Read the cross-fandom prequel (The Past and Pending) or a very short bit that takes place after (Making Promises).

*****

Making Promises

The bundle’s brown paper was tattered in places, as though its journey had been especially rough, and from the look of the owl who’d left it, that seemed a fair assumption. Neville unwrapped it slowly, drawing out the moment, finally holding a worn, old book entitled The Dower House Mystery, and a smooth bit of parchment that fluttered to his feet.

From my mum’s old collection–hope you like it!

Dean

Neville smiled, fingers playing over the faded black print on the cover, considering how and when he might sit down to read it. Any token from a friend was a treasure these days, and Neville was not fool enough to squander it.

The faint chime of Remus’ clock inside pulled Neville from his thoughts, and he stood quickly, as a gust of sooty air picked up a scrap of the brown paper and carried it off the small balcony before Neville could catch it. He stepped inside, hair rumpled from the breeze, and hurried to the dressing table that held his wand and a few other magical items he often carried into battle. Neville placed the book carefully on the table, memorizing the feel of its rough corners with his hands.

“Are you ready, Neville?” Remus’ gentle voice called from just outside the door.

“Yes, coming,” Neville replied, shoving the last of the items into the pockets of his robes. Tonight, he thought, giving the book a final glance. Tonight, when we’ve returned.

Sometimes making promises was more important than keeping them.

*****

Contingency

“Good game, Malfoy.”

A blur of red and gold brushed his left shoulder, and Draco snapped around to see a head of disheveled black hair moving rapidly toward the changing rooms. Certain that some sort of clever retort was required, he called upon his ready wit to provide one in a hurry.

“You too, Potter!”

Draco cursed his so-called wit.

At dinner in the Great Hall, he stared in the direction of the Gryffindor table. When it became clear that he’d been noticed, he added a sneer for good measure. Even in his least witty moments, he knew his sneer would come through for him. Not that it was having quite the effect he desired, considering that the real object of his stare appeared to be completely unconcerned, barely even glancing over when prodded by his cronies. This was frustrating to say the least, but Draco persisted, fairly confident that stubbornness on the face of a Malfoy heavily resembled intense malice.

When said object had finished his meal and bid farewell to his housemates, Draco gathered as much of the Malfoy pride as he could muster and followed him into the corridor. Unfortunately, Potter was walking much more quickly than he had any right to, and Draco realized that he would either have to run to catch up, or yell to get his attention, neither of which was especially dignified. Pressed for time, he chose the option that would, at least, not leave him out of breath.

“Potter!”

Potter stopped and turned, his face displaying a maddening combination of annoyance and amusement.

“Malfoy?”

Draco swallowed, lifted his chin in a way that he hoped looked aristocratic, and summoned his haughtiest tone.

“Why did you say that before?”

“What?”

“You know. ‘Good game.’ That rubbish.”

“Well. It was.”

“I beat you.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Clearly this was a world gone mad.

“Oh.”

Draco felt his aristocratic chin falter slightly, at which time Potter had the nerve to stifle a smile.

“Is that all, then?”

Flustered, Draco fell back on the trusty sneer.

“Yes. Fine, then. Well. Just wait until next time!”

Potter’s smile was no longer stifled.

“Malfoy, you beat me this time.”

It occurred to Draco that he was very possibly being made fun of by Potter. This was infuriating. And impossible. And definitely against the laws of nature and wizard-kind. Feeling that the dignity of the pure-blood wizarding world had been thrust upon his shoulders, Draco took a deep breath, channeled his father and gave an imperious snort.

“Right. And I will again.”

With a final menacing glare, Draco whirled around with a flourish and stalked off in the direction of the Slytherin common room.

*********

Draco paced.

Slytherin House was used to this. Draco Malfoy paced often, always in the center of the common room. Pansy had wondered once, out of earshot of course, how long it would take before he wore through the floor and fell into the lower dungeons. Frequently he did this while ranting, but sometimes he paced silently, brow furrowed, jaw rigid, eyes cold with something that went beyond fury. The Slytherins, possessing powerful survival instincts, were never so foolish as to interrupt Draco Malfoy while he was pacing in this manner, at least not since Millicent Bulstrode had nearly been transfigured into a Yak their second week of school.

On this particular evening, however, there was a new element to the pacing. Even Crabbe and Goyle had noticed. Draco’s stride was shorter and more erratic. His eyes lacked either the dangerous coldness or the blazing fire that usually accompanied this activity. Instead, his vision seemed to be turned inward, showing no emotion, making him appear oddly vulnerable in a way that was entirely inappropriate to the Draco Malfoy they had endured for more than six years. This was, the Slytherins felt, cause for alarm.

A group of seventh years huddled whispering near the fireplace, though it seemed likely that they could have shouted to each other without Draco noticing. Finally Pansy won the unenviable task of doing what no one had dared since first year. She rose slowly from her seat and approached her pacing housemate, trying to appear casual while keeping a safe distance.

“Draco?” She began, her voice shaking slightly.

There was no answer.

She steeled herself and tried to project a more confident tone. “Wonderful show on the Quidditch pitch today, Draco!”

The pacing stopped, and Draco’s eyes came back to the room, his sharp gaze pointed at Pansy.

She felt a small shiver of panic, but she could handle it. She wasn’t a Slytherin by accident.

“We always knew you could beat Potter.”

Draco stared for a few moments as Pansy’s smile faded, and then turned and disappeared down the hall, with no sound but the slamming of a door.

*********

Draco had long ago learned that the only place in Hogwarts he could really be alone was the dark of his own bed. Anywhere else he had to be ever watchful. He had to plan his responses, please the right people and exhibit proper contempt for the rest. He had to rule his house, keep Crabbe and Goyle in line, prove his superiority to the Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers. He had to be Lucious Malfoy’s son in every word and look. And Potter. He had to watch for Potter. This didn’t worry him. It was the way things had always been. It was as they were meant to be. Still, he enjoyed the solitude of night–the relief of lowering his guard, of being left alone to ponder what pleased him.

I won, he thought. I won I won I won.

He had dreamed of those two words for six years, even ached for them. Now that they were his to say, they felt false. Empty. Each time he thought them, he waited for the joy he’d been expecting to swell up in his chest, to send a tingle all the way to his fingertips. He waited for the deep satisfaction that he knew he’d feel when he finally took what was his, when he finally beat Potter. He repeated the words again and waited. He felt nothing.

There was no doubt it was Potter’s fault. Bloody Potter. It was so like Potter, to find a way to ruin even this. There wasn’t any part of Draco’s life Potter touched that didn’t go straight to hell. Draco tossed violently, only the threat of being discovered awake keeping him from punching his pillow as well. He wasn’t sure there was any threat that would keep him from punching Potter on next sight. He wasn’t a violent person. He considered it below him, and preferred to have Crabbe and Goyle take care of such things.

Potter, however, was the one person who could make him really come close to losing control. Potter made him feel foolish and small. It was infuriating. He wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug smile off that face, or at least bloody it up a bit. His hatred of Potter went beyond the clean violence of Cruciatus or anything that could be done with magic, cold and at a distance. Potter made him want to get his hands dirty–to actually feel flesh bruising and breaking beneath his fingers, to feel the pain he could cause with his own hands. He thought somehow that maybe if he could tear him apart by hand, there might be some small chance that Potter would actually understand, even minutely, the intensity of Draco’s hatred for him. This was all he wanted. He wanted Potter to really know. The fact that he did not was obvious, and made more so by his maddening civility earlier in the day. For him to belittle Draco’s hatred like that was insulting and showed just how little Potter thought of him.

Not that he wanted Potter to think of him with favor. Rather, he thought he deserved the grudging respect given to an enemy, to be acknowledged a worthy adversary. Today proved him undeniably wrong about that, and even Draco was surprised at how upsetting it was to him, which only outraged him further.

The door creaked open and he heard Crabbe stumbling about, muttering curses as he tripped over his own shoes. This was the sign that Draco’s nightly race for sleep was about to begin, his opponent being Crabbe’s horrendous snoring. Draco usually fell into sleep easily, but tonight would be a struggle. Tomorrow he’d be exhausted and irritable, another thing to blame Potter for. As his anger rose again, he heard the opening strains of Crabbe’s infamous snores wafting through the air (accompanied by at least one angry groan from the other side of the room). So much for sleep.

He stared at the velvet curtains surrounding his bed, trying to see their cool, rich green in the dark, counting the folds with his hands. When he was younger, he had been able to imagine that he was in the middle of a forest known only to him, surrounded by tall, protecting trees as he lay on a bed of moss, soft as the curtains he brushed with his fingertips. He tried to call this image forward without success. Undaunted, he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, and after a few moments opened them again to gaze up at the curtains, willing them green and majestic. This time the scene began to form, starlit sky through leafy green, velvet moss under his fingers–beautiful, cool, peaceful. But something was not right. The tallest tree wore the face of his father, sneering down at him, eyes filled with disappointment and contempt as he spoke.

“You idiotic boy. To think you could save him.”

In the distance, Draco heard a low cry followed by a menacing voice.

“Avada Kedav-”

Suddenly Draco was awake, heart pounding, Crabbe snoring louder than ever. Draco lay still, afraid to move, as though it might bring him back to the forest, which obviously no longer offered the comfort of his childhood. He resented this, and felt certain of who was to blame–who was always to blame. His anger burned, steady and deep. When it had finally battled his fear enough for him to move, Draco turned on his stomach and settled in for what was sure to be a long night, the horrible voice from his dream still echoing in his ears, accompanied by Crabbe’s snoring.

It would be a very long night indeed.

Bloody Potter.

*********

Draco slept through breakfast, and arrived in class with puffy eyes and the kind of disposition that frightened even his closest friends. The previous night’s dreams hadn’t gotten much better, from what Draco could recall, which wasn’t much. His father’s face and that awful voice uttering the killing curse kept reappearing. He didn’t know what it was about, and he didn’t care. He just wanted it gone. Due to his mood, the Slytherins kept their distance in class. He hoped everyone else had the sense to do the same. Fortunately it was double Potions. Snape was the one professor he could count on to not bother him when he was out of sorts. Also he had a satisfying tendency to give the Gryffindors hell, which was always amusing. Not that Draco was much in the mood to be amused. He didn’t seem to be much in the mood for anything, actually, except perhaps staring into space. It was only upon interruption that it became clear that the space he’d been staring into was occupied by Potter. It was the Weasel who noticed first.

“Malfoy, what’s your problem?”

Draco wondered how it was possible that a Gryffindor possessed a look so foul.

“Well?” Weasley persisted.

Draco, being in a mood far fouler than Weasley’s look, snorted and looked back to his cauldron, which, he was interested to note, contained nothing.

Still the Weasel was not satisfied. “Malfoy, I asked you a question.”

Sneer at the ready, Draco found himself momentarily paralyzed by the quiet voice that followed.

“Leave it, Ron.”

Potter.

Weasley turned an alarming shade of red as he sputtered, “Harry?” He sounded betrayed.

For once, Draco could relate. The indignity of being defended by Potter was unparalleled. He felt the heat of last night’s anger crawl up his face. He was much too tired for this. With great difficulty, he focused on his cauldron.

“Get stuffed, Potter,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.

The Weasel’s eyes were bulging. “Harry–”

The low voice replied, “Just leave it. He wasn’t doing anything.”

Potter’s voice contained only the barest trace of strain. This was not acceptable. This was also Potions class. As much as Snape favored Draco, he probably would consider it rather below his supposed level of maturity to brawl with Potter in NEWT Potions. Never mind that Potter seemed to possess the ability to reduce Draco to his 11-year-old self with little more than a word. In any other class, he probably would have given in to this childish fury, but his respect for Professor Snape won out. Lucky for Potter. How Potter (let alone Weasley) ever got in to NEWT Potions, Draco would never understand, but there they were and here he was and this empty cauldron was just getting more and more interesting by the second.

Composing himself as much as possible, Draco lifted his head, not letting his eyes focus on Potter, and spoke in what turned out to be a rough whisper.

“We’ll discuss this later, Potter.”

“Fine.” was Potter’s calm reply.

The Weasel made a noise, but was squelched by a look from Granger.

“Harry’s right, Ron,” she whispered. “Malfoy’s not worth the energy.”

Draco was left to seethe in silence through the rest of class. Afterwards, he made sure to place himself in Potter’s way as he tried to exit the classroom.

“Malfoy?” His face was unreadable.

“Later, Potter,” Draco hissed. “We’re going to have this out later. After dinner.”

Potter nodded absently, strands of black hair falling in his eyes. “Sure. Whatever, Malfoy, ” he said, pushing his way out and down the hall.

*********

The prospect of a fight revived Draco thoroughly, and as he approached the Great Hall for dinner that evening, he noticed something that resembled a spring in his step. This good mood sobered when the Gryffindor table was found devoid of one particular seventh year student, along with his inseparable friends. By the time Draco had finished eating, that student still absent, Draco’s disposition had become positively deadly. He barely heard the entreaties of the other Slytherins, urging him into an evening of House dueling (which generally devolved into a fist fight between Crabbe and Goyle) as he stalked from the table, scowling, into the hall. He spent the next two hours wandering through the endless wings of Hogwarts, seeking The Boy Who Lived.

He finally spotted him with the other two (of course) in a corridor by the library. After a few minutes, Weasley and Granger departed with great purpose and Potter headed inside. Draco saw his opportunity and pounced upon it. He strode to the library doors, flung them open and surveyed the room, spotting Potter settling in at a table near the Restricted Section. Draco took a breath, lifted his head and walked toward his enemy. Still my enemy.

“Potter.”

Potter looked up from his pile of papers and books. He seemed distracted and surprised to see him. Clearly he’d forgotten. Draco’s rage began to burn in his chest. “Malfoy? Um, look, no offence but I’m very busy just now. Can we do this later?”

Draco lifted his chin. “No, Potter. Now.”

Potter removed his glasses, rubbed at his eyes for a moment, then placed his glasses back on his nose.

“Malfoy, really. I’m–look, we can talk tomorrow about whatever you want. I just really can’t right now.”

“I don’t care what poncy Gryffindor ridiculousness you’re up to. This is important, and I’m going to stay here until you listen to me.” Draco sat in the chair across from Potter and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Potter looked weary. “Fine, then,” he said, as he gathered up his books and papers and headed for the small staircase behind him.

“Potter, that’s the Restricted Section.”

Potter kept going. “Yes, I know. I have a pass from McGonagall.”

Draco followed.

“Malfoy. This is the Restricted Section.”

“Umbridge gave me unlimited access in fifth year. Now, will you just stop for one second-”

“Wait a minute,” Potter interrupted, stopping and turning to face him. “Umbridge gave the son of a Death Eater unlimited access to the Restricted Section.”

Draco was becoming annoyed. “Yes. She did. Now, look-”

“She was more idiotic than I thought.” Potter turned around and continued away from Draco at a brisk pace.

Draco chased after him. “I only used it to get away from Crabbe and Goyle, now will you just listen?”

Potter turned again. “Look, I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I can understand how my busy schedule of attempting to defeat the Dark Lord and save the entire wizarding and Muggle world might be a problem for you, but I really don’t have time for this right now.”

“This would take two seconds if you could just get it through your great, hideous head that-”

“Later, Malfoy.” Potter started to walk away again.

Draco could feel rage flowing through his limbs, engulfing him completely. With enormous, decisive strides, he closed the distance between them, grabbed Potter and shoved him up against the stacks, pinning him there, Potter’s books and papers tumbling in all directions.

“Listen Potter! I am Draco Malfoy and you will bloody well pay attention to me!”

The urge to destroy, to rip flesh from bones was completely overwhelming. Without even thinking about what he was doing or why, Draco flung himself against Potter and assaulted him with all the strength and fury he possessed. It was only after several moments, as he was thrown backwards with considerable force, staring at a very red-faced Potter, that he realized that what he’d actually been doing was kissing him. A lot. Plus some other things.

“What the hell was that, Malfoy?”

Draco, dumbfounded, stared.

“Malfoy?”

“Well, you weren’t listening.”

“So you thought you’d snog me into attention?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

For a moment they both stood, silent, breathing.

“You smell like strawberries.” Draco wondered what kind of dark magic had taken over his power of speech and wished it to screw itself.

Potter cocked one eyebrow. “You kiss like Neville Longbottom.”

Draco was scandalized.

“At least strawberries smell good, Potter!”

Potter shrugged. “Longbottom’s a hell of a kisser.” He grinned. “You have no idea.”

“Longbottom??”

“Oh, definitely.”

“When were you kissing Longbottom?” Draco felt sure he was hallucinating.

Potter seemed unruffled. “Most of last year, actually. I was a terrible wreck when he broke it off. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

“Longbottom broke it off with you?” He was definitely hallucinating.

“Yes, in the middle of the Spring term.” He developed a slow, wicked grin. “Face it, Malfoy. You’ve just been snogging Neville Longbottom’s castoff.”

Draco felt that sudden death might have been appropriate at this moment. Unfortunately the moment did not oblige.

“Sod off, Potter.” Draco turned to leave. He was stopped by Potter’s hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy,” he said. “Look, you wanted my attention. You’ve got it. So what did you want to say?”

Draco took a deep breath. Finally they were returning to sanity. Finally the matter at hand.

“I hate you, Potter.” There. Done.

Potter seemed to be waiting for something else. After a few moments, his eyes grew wide. Draco was startled by their clear, true green. It reminded him of something.

“That’s it, Malfoy?” Potter bit his lip to suppress a smile, insufferable as always. “That’s what you’re trying to tell me?” The suppression thing was really not working. “You snogged me in order to get it through my ‘great, hideous head’ that you hate me?”

This was not going well.

“Yes.” Draco tried to look dignified. He had doubts about his success.

Potter was still smiling. “I see. Well. If only Voldemort hated me as much as you do, I wouldn’t have to bother with all this wretched research.” He gestured toward the mass of papers and books on the floor. “I could simply shag him and be done with it.”

This was too much. “I do not want to shag you, Potter!”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Potter turned and began to walk away again.

“Potter!” Draco shouted after him. “Potter I hate you, do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand. You hate me,” Potter called over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Malfoy.” He continued around the corner, and disappeared into the stacks, his books and papers still scattered on the floor.

A few minutes later, Draco realized he was still standing in the same place. He shook his head, let out a long breath and wandered back through the library and out in to the hall where he sought out the comfort of a cold wall to lean upon. Nothing was as it should be. He could think of nothing but what he had done, along with the horrifying possibility that he might, in fact, want to shag Potter. The shock of this was simply too much to bear. He was completely lost, without even anger to cling to. Legs weak, Draco sank slowly to the floor and let his head fall onto his knees, finding support and certainty in the solid marble beneath him. He focused on patterns in the marble, comforted by their predictability, their unwavering acquiescence to form. When his mind was finally clear enough to think he might be found there, so obviously vulnerable, he dragged himself to his feet and turned towards the Slytherin dungeons.

*********

Draco Malfoy was not an advocate of introspective thought. He disliked hesitation and abhorred complication. He preferred simple feelings, the more straightforward the better. He liked emotions he could count on to be themselves. Hate, for instance. Hate was just about as absolute as one could get. There was nothing wishy-washy about hate. When Draco found something he hated, he strived to stamp it out, or at least hurt it. It was that simple. This was the type of existence he could appreciate.

His childhood lessons in hatred had been simple and satisfying. He would never forget the day his father had taken him aside and told him that the world was full of people who were not like him–people who were inferior to wizards in every way, who couldn’t even manage the simplest of schoolboy spells. These people were jealous. They hated wizards for their superiority and would destroy them if they could. Wizards (or at least those who respected their own kind) hated these non-magical people (if they could even be called “people”) in turn. There was no question of the correctness of this, the utter righteousness. In his heart, Draco felt a new warmth–a fire that burned with the certainty of pure hatred. It was both invigorating and comforting. His father, he thought, had given him a great gift, one that he had carefully nurtured ever after.

How was it then, at the age of eighteen, that Draco Malfoy found himself lying in bed, wrestling with the formerly simple and comfortable concept of hate? He hated Harry Potter. He always had. He was sure of it. There had been no fact so constant in all his years at Hogwarts as this. Draco Malfoy hated Harry Potter. This was a universal truth.

So why, then? What could have possessed him to act as he had? Was he fooling himself? Had he been all this time? And for how long? It didn’t seem possible. He had not had one moment of doubt regarding his hatred for Harry Potter until this evening. And when had it changed from “Potter” to “Harry Potter”? This disturbingly resembled some sort of bridge to “Harry”, which was not right at all.

Potter. Potter Potter Potter. I hate Potter.

That was better.

Draco really wanted to sleep. It offered the closest thing to comfort available at the moment. He wanted to sleep, and then tomorrow he would speak with Potter. If he talked to Potter, he was certain to come to his senses. Potter must know what was going on. Perhaps he’d put a spell on him. Yes. He just needed to talk to Potter.

As Draco began to drift off, bits of an image were forming in his mind–a tall tree, velvet moss, his father’s face. “… To think you could save him…” the other voice he dreaded becoming almost clear enough to hear.

No.

Draco gripped the sides of his bed and took a deep breath. Reaching for something to soothe him, he focused on the cool, dark green of his curtains, barely visible. There was something else there–something he could fold himself up in, warm and constant. Safe. Soon he sank into sleep, barely aware that he was falling into the endless green of Harry Potter’s eyes.

*********

The next morning found Draco quite rested and downright chipper, so much so that there were whispers among his housemates about the possibility that he might be possessed. He was the first down to breakfast, and was quite pleased to see, sitting alone at the Gryffindor table, exactly the person he wished to speak to. This surprised him, though perhaps not quite so much as the fact that he was hit with a small wave of nervousness as he approached the table. Since when was he nervous with Potter? He brushed the feeling off impatiently, strode to his destination, cleared his throat and spoke.

“Good morning, Potter. We need to talk.”

Now that he had actually spoken out loud, he felt that his words sounded rather inane. Potter possibly thought the same, since he looked up with the strangest expression Draco had ever seen on his face up to this point. He seemed, also, to have been struck speechless. Draco, feeling unusually helpful, decided it was up to him to continue.

“I was hoping we could talk sometime later, perhaps before dinner.” Potter’s look had not changed. “If that’s all right with you, that is.”

Potter blinked and opened his mouth slightly as if to respond, but no sound came out. Draco went on.

“I need to ask you about… some things.”

I need to ask you about some things? Draco was definitely finished talking for the moment. Fortunately Potter recovered at this point.

“Um. Sure. Malfoy. I mean. I guess so.”

As he said this, Draco noticed that he had dark circles under his eyes, and that his hair was even more askew than usual. He wondered if Potter had slept at all since he last saw him. He also wondered why he wondered.

“So…” Draco was unsure how to wrap this up.

Potter shook his head and seemed to finally return to this world. “Right. So, the library then? I’ll be there after Divination.”

Draco let out a relieved breath. “Yes. Good.” Students from both their houses were beginning to arrive, finding them to be quite an interesting spectacle. “Right, then,” Draco said. “I’ll see you there.”

The spring in his step as Draco headed over to his own table was familiar, though it came along with a woozy feeling, which he decided to ignore for the moment. The rest of the day floated by in a haze, until Draco was finally finished with his last class for the afternoon. He was actually quite startled to find that the day had ended.

When he arrived at the library shortly afterwards, Draco found Potter at the same table as the evening before, looking as though he’d already been poring through his books and papers for hours.

“Been here long?” Draco asked, trying to sound conversational.

Potter lifted his head and looked almost sheepish. “Oh. Hi. Um, well I skipped Divination, actually. Nothing important ever happens there, and well… I have a lot of work to do.”

Draco sat in the chair across from him, and waited for inspiration to hit. Inspiration, it seemed, was not forthcoming, and after a few moments, they were firmly ensconced in the territory of awkward silence. Eventually, Potter came to the rescue.

“So. Er, what did you want to talk about, Malfoy?”

“Oh! Right. Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened yesterday evening.” Draco paused.

“Oh?” Potter’s expression was completely neutral.

“Yes, well.” Draco gathered his thoughts and continued. “See, Potter, the thing is, I hate you.”

Potter sat up and raised his eyebrow. “Wait, Malfoy. Does this mean you’re going to kiss me again? Because I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“What? No! I mean–well, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?” He wasn’t quite laughing. “Wonderful. That’s very reassuring.” Potter opened one of the books in front of him and began to read. This was not going at all as planned.

Draco was completely flustered. “Wait! Stop! I mean–I’m sorry, I–I just want to figure out why I did it the first time, that’s all.”

Potter looked back up and regarded him for a moment.

“So you thought that if you talked to me, what? That I’d say I put a spell on you? That I’d calmly explain away your messed-up teenage lust?”

Kind of. “No! I just thought you might know something… that you could tell me. ” Things were deteriorating rapidly.

“I’m afraid you’re on your own for this, Malfoy. Or perhaps you should talk to Snape. He’s there to assist Slytherins in emotional peril, right?” Potter’s tone was even and unconcerned.

Draco took a breath and tried to start again. “Please Potter, I just thought that maybe if I-”

“Why do you even want to talk about it, Malfoy? Do you want to continue? Are you looking for true love? To sweep me off my feet and make me forget Longbottom?”

Draco reddened and stared at his hands.

“I didn’t think so.” Potter’s voice was calm as he returned to his book.

Draco thought this was probably his cue to leave, but he felt compelled to ignore it. For a few minutes they sat in silence–Potter’s face buried in a book, though his eyes had a look that suggested that he was far away. Finally Draco spoke.

“Why did he break it off? Longbottom?” Draco was vaguely appalled to hear these words coming from his own mouth.

Potter’s eyes came back into focus, brows furrowing as they did so. Draco wondered if he was about to be punched in the face, and thought it was possible he deserved it. When Potter replied, though, there was no anger.

“He said he never felt I was completely there. With him, I mean.”

Draco had no idea how to respond. He understood now the advantages of avoiding emotional sharing. Potter didn’t seem to notice.

“He was right,” he said, looking back to his book.

They sat in silence again for a while, and Draco wondered if he should be saying something comforting. He sincerely hoped not. After several minutes, Potter spoke again.

“Why are you still here, Malfoy?”

Draco was taken aback. “I–” Perhaps he’d overestimated his success at the sharing bit.

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean, why are you still at Hogwarts?”

Confused, Draco just stared.

Potter continued, “We know the Death Eaters are on the move, and intelligence tells us that you’ve received several invitations to join them.” Draco felt himself bristle, but Potter ignored him and went on. “I should think you’d be anxious to stand at your father’s side. So why are you still here?”

Draco was too surprised to be furious at the question, though he knew he should be. He glanced at Potter, expecting his face to be smug and righteous, but found it instead to be earnest and a little perplexed.

“I–” Draco frowned and looked back at his hands. The truth was, he wasn’t sure why he was still here. Potter was right, he’d gotten several owls in the past month, encouraging him to leave Hogwart’s and join his father. He was of age, and his father could no longer command him to do things, but in the past he would not have hesitated to do anything his father asked, if only to please him. He didn’t know what had changed. He’d named his excuses–that he wanted to finish his NEWTS, that he was at the peak of his Quidditch game–and these things were true, but they sounded like excuses, and he knew it. He didn’t know what the real reason was, or if there even was any larger reason. Perhaps it wasn’t so much that he had no reason to stay, but rather that he had no compelling reason to go. All he knew for certain was that joining up with the Dark Lord to fight a mighty war against anyone was something he had no interest in doing, and that deep down he was hoping that something would happen to make it unnecessary before his excuses ran out. He didn’t much care what.

“I don’t know.” He lifted his eyes back to Potter, whose expression was almost warm.

“I’m right, though, aren’t I?” Potter asked softly. “You’ve been invited.”

Draco was a bit annoyed, thinking of Dumbledore’s minions intercepting his owls. “Well yes, of course. Your ‘intelligence” has done a fine job.”

Potter’s voice was still quiet. “Right.”

They sat in silence again for a while, Potter staring absently at the table, and then he stood suddenly and started to the Restricted Section. “Come on,” he said.

Draco stared, confused. “What?”

“Just come on,” Potter repeated and disappeared into the stacks.

Draco sat for a moment and then hurried up the steps to follow Potter, who was nowhere to be seen. He weaved through the tall shelves and finally spotted him standing near the end of a row, facing the books. Draco walked until he was beside him. When Potter still did not look at him, he asked, “What are you doing?”

Finally Potter turned to face him. He was flushed and his eyes looked strange. After a long moment, he answered.

“Assisting a Slytherin in emotional peril.”

With one hand he reached up and pulled Draco’s face to his and kissed him. It was a slow, soft kiss, completely different from that of the previous evening. Draco tensed at first, and had every intention of pulling away, but his body did not agree. Against his better judgment, his arms wrapped themselves around Potter’s waist, and his lips softened and began returning the kiss. He had no idea how long they stood there, just kissing, but as far as Draco was concerned, it could have continued indefinitely. It was Potter who broke away, distancing himself slightly, but keeping a gentle hold on Draco’s hands which had somehow made their way into his.

“I have to go,” he said, his voice apologetic.

Draco started to speak, but was interrupted by a warm smile from Potter.

“We can talk more later if you want to,” Potter said, eyes searching Draco’s face almost imperceptibly. “Or we can just leave it. Whichever you want.” He then let go of Draco’s hands and left.

Draco Malfoy, once again, found himself standing alone in the Restricted Section.

*********

The idea of going down to dinner was not especially inviting. The idea of leaving the solitude of the stacks and being confronted with anyone or anything at all was not thrilling. Instead, Draco remained in the Restricted Section, sitting on the floor, through dinnertime and beyond. He sat, barely moving. His mind was oddly quiet. He might have thought he was in shock, except he suspected that by simply thinking that, he’d proven it unlikely. He didn’t bother to try to work anything out in his head. What was the point, when everything that made sense had been blown to bits? So he just sat.

He sat, and occasionally thought about kissing Potter. Well, perhaps a little more than occasionally. He was clinging to the sensation, though it kept trying to slip away from him. He definitely had never felt anything like it. It bore no resemblance to the sloppy lip mashing he’d practiced with Pansy in fourth and fifth year (before she moved on to Zabini who paid her more attention). It was also nothing like the passionate mauling he’d attempted the night before, which had been satisfying certainly in some ways but was more of a blur now than anything else. Kissing Potter this evening was something entirely new. It had been warm and comforting while also sending the most incredible sparks through his entire body. He could still feel them when he thought about it. It had left him dizzy and wanting.

By the time Draco had shaken himself out of his daze enough to notice that voices were approaching, they were almost upon him. He scrambled to his feet in a panic and flew to a dark corner behind some very dusty shelves. The choice of hiding place could probably be chalked up to his addled mind and the fact that the voices in question were very obviously Granger and Weasley. Draco was certain that if they saw him, they would be able to tell immediately what had transpired between him and Potter. Logic was, for the moment, eluding him.

The Weasel and his Mudblood were bickering about something. Draco did not know or care what. He was concerned only with slowing down his panicked heart and trying to conjure back the sensation of kissing Potter. All he wanted from his intruders was for them to find what they came for and leave him in peace. At the mention of Potter’s name, however, he suddenly became alert.

“Well, I don’t know where he is!” It was Weasley. “It’s not like he’s been over-sharing lately.”

Granger replied, “Well, you might not be either if you were under the kind of pressure he is right now.”

“But I am! We all are!” Weasley nearly shouted. “We’re all fighting this war! We’re all in danger!”

“It isn’t the same and you know it, Ron.” Granger sounded extremely irritated. It seemed like an argument they’d had more than once. “It’s different for him. He knows it’s him or Voldemort. Period. You can’t tell me knowing something like that wouldn’t affect you.”

“I don’t need some stupid prophecy to tell me that Voldemort will most likely kill me.”

“Ron!” Granger’s tone made Draco wonder if she was going to slap him.

Weasley suddenly became quiet. “I know. I’m sorry.” There was a long pause. “I don’t know why I said that.”

All talking seemed to cease, and Draco wondered if they had left. Then he heard the tell-tale smacking and cringed. It occurred to Draco that the Astronomy Tower had nothing on the Restricted Section these days.

Finally Granger spoke again. “We should probably try to find Harry.”

Weasley sighed. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Granger said, “It looks like he’s been here already. All the books we need are gone.”

“Maybe the common room?” Weasley didn’t sound hopeful.

“I suppose he might have got back there by now,” Granger replied, her voice fading as they left.

Draco waited a few minutes until he was sure it was safe, and then emerged from his corner, brushing dust from his robes. It was time to find Potter.

*********

Not that Draco knew what he was going to do when he did find Potter. The list of things that he did not understand was growing steadily and he was running on pure instinct. This was definitely untrodden territory, which frightened him a bit, but not enough to stop him. As he rounded a corner and found himself back at the library, he got an idea.

He was not surprised to find Potter back at his old familiar table.

“Potter,” he said, unsure how to continue.

“Malfoy.” Potter’s tone was pleasant, with a hint of surprise and maybe even relief, though Draco supposed he could have been wrong about that.

Draco shifted his weight, but did not sit down.

“Granger and Weasley are looking for you, did you know?”

Potter’s voice squeaked a little. “Oh? Hm. I just keep missing them I guess.”

“It couldn’t be that you’re avoiding them or anything, I suppose.” Draco narrowed his eyes a bit.

Potter’s face didn’t change, but his eyes brightened slightly, as though he were smiling.

“No, of course not. Why would I do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know,” Draco began slowly. “Why would you?” he asked, sliding into a chair.

Potter said nothing for a moment, but did not drop his gaze. Draco raised one eyebrow in what he hoped was a Potter-esque manner. Potter gave him a small smile.

“Well, I suppose you’ve already figured that out, since you know enough to ask.”

Draco laughed. “Potter, I haven’t been able to figure anything out for the past two days.”

At this, Potter’s smile grew a little larger, though his eyes lost their brightness.

“I haven’t been much help with that, have I?”

“No, not really, ” Draco answered, smiling.

“Listen, Malfoy,” Potter’s smile was gone. “I’m. I’m a wreck. You shouldn’t pay any attention to what I–to anything I say. I don’t know what I’m doing. You shouldn’t pay attention to any of it.”

Draco felt the air go out of his lungs in a very annoying manner.

“None of it?” He choked out.

Potter dropped his eyes, cheeks flushing.

“Well, I don’t…” he trailed off and then seemed to recover. “What do you want, Malfoy?” His voice was almost a whisper.

Draco thought perhaps he might be falling ill. His mind was swimming, but he felt that he had to come up with some sort of answer quickly or risk losing… he didn’t even know what, but he knew it was important.

“I want to… to kiss you again.” Draco was mortified at his own words. “Often. As much as you’ll let me. And maybe.” Kill me now, please. “I mean… I just… I want to kiss you.” Things were not getting any better. Draco wondered if anything in the Restricted Section could help him come up with a spell to delete time.

Potter was quiet, his expression unreadable. Draco felt certain he would vomit. He definitely ought to see Pomfrey later.

Finally Potter spoke. “Is that all?”

Draco wasn’t sure what to answer, but that didn’t seem to be stopping him lately. “That’s… that’s all I know for sure. Everything else is a bit muddled.” He smiled weakly and prayed for his own death.

“Okay.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“Okay. You can kiss me.”

Draco blinked again. He wasn’t exactly sure how this sort of exchange was supposed to go, but he was pretty sure that this was not it.

“That’s it?” Draco’s ability for speech seemed to have reduced itself to one or two word sentences.

“Look, Malfoy,” Potter’s voice was even and precise but not cold. “Everything’s gone mad. There’s a war on, and I–we don’t know who might not make it through.”

“Meaning you.” Draco broke in, a bit shocked at himself. “You might not make it through.”

Potter looked at him for a moment. “Yes, that’s right. I might not make it through.” He paused again, and then continued, “So it’s foolish to make any plans or big declarations or anything like that. We should just–well, if you want something and I want something, we should just have that. And not worry about the rest. There’s no point.”

Draco felt something warm spread through his abdomen. “So you’re saying that you want it as well. It’s… it’s not just me, then.”

Potter flushed again and gave him a tiny smile. “No, it’s not just you.”

The warmth revealed itself to be intense relief, with some other unknown thing fluttering about the edges. “Okay then,” Draco said, feeling like he’d just made some very strange business deal, though he was fairly certain that business deals did not come with fluttery things in one’s stomach area.

Potter’s smile was quite dazzling. “Good,” he said. His eyes were drawn to the door and his smile faded, replaced very briefly with a distinct look of disappointment which was covered almost immediately by a much wider, but somehow less genuine smile. Draco turned his head to witness the return of Granger and Weasley.

*********

The two of them noticed Draco at the same time. It stopped them momentarily, and then Granger grabbed hold of Weasley’s arm and pulled him the rest of the way.

Granger shot Draco an annoyed look and headed straight for Potter. “Harry, where have you been? We’ve been running after you for hours!”

Weasley cut to the chase. “What’s he doing here?” He said, pointing to Draco who he had been glaring at since he saw him.

Potter, faced with the accusing stares of both his friends, displayed almost no emotion at all. “We were just talking,” he said, “and I’m sorry, Hermione. I don’t know how we missed each other.”

“Well, he has to go.” Weasley was still pointing.

“Weasley, you’re going to put someone’s eye out,” Draco drawled, feeling something familiar and comfortable coming back to him. It felt good, though somehow not as good as he remembered.

Weasley glared. “That’s the idea.”

Draco stood up, the warmth in his chest rapidly turning to anger.

“He can stay if he wants.” Potter said quietly, causing Weasley to turn crimson and Draco to be reminded of the fluttery things which were evidently still present.

Granger predictably defended her Weasel. “Ron’s right, Harry. No offence to Malfoy, ” she said in a tone that was clearly meant to offend, “but we can’t talk about the things we need to with him here. It’s not safe.”

“He’s not on our side,” Weasley said. “He’ll run and tell everything to daddy.” He resumed glaring at Draco. “You might as well just owl Voldemort and save him the trouble.”

“Of course, how silly of me,” Potter replied. “We’d best not let anyone know about our startling advances in sheep herding. It could bring the whole operation to its knees.”

Granger reddened. “They weren’t supposed to be sheep!” She gave Draco another scathing glance, as though he were to blame for all manner of evil in the universe, especially regarding livestock. “And anyway, Dumbledore has found a better method of-”

“Dumbledore is grasping at straws, Hermione!” Potter suddenly exploded. “Don’t you get it? He doesn’t know how to pull this off! Nobody does! No matter how long we stare at these books, we’re going to be in the same position we are now. Doomed. Completely and utterly doomed.” He whirled around to Draco. “So, Malfoy, if you please, don’t tell your father about our really secret plans for coming to our exceedingly painful and untimely deaths while tossing sheep droppings at the Dark Lord, okay? Thanks, I really appreciate it.” With this, he picked up his books and stormed out of the library, letting the doors slam behind him.

Draco looked at Weasley and Granger, who seemed to be very interested in their shoes. He didn’t understand why they were still there. “Aren’t you going to go after him?” He asked.

Granger looked up helplessly. “I–” she began, and then bit her lip.

Draco stared in disbelief for a moment, and then ran out the door after Potter.

*********

Potter was just barely in sight by the time Draco got to the corridor.

“Potter!” he shouted.

Potter did not stop. Draco pursued as quickly as he could, but Potter had a significant head start.

“Potter, stop!”

This only seemed to encourage Potter to increase his pace.

“Blast it, Harry, please stop!” he shouted, barely able to breathe.

Potter stopped.

Draco reached Potter and stood for a moment, catching his breath. Of course now that he had managed to stop Potter, he had no idea what to say. He was frighteningly out of his element. Slytherins did not comfort. It was simply not something that was done. He had an idea that hugging came into play, but that seemed all wrong. “So sorry you’re going to die. Have a hug?” No. Definitely not. He opted instead to stand and do nothing. All things considered, he felt it was going well. Potter was, at least, still there.

“I have no idea what to say.” Draco went for the direct approach.

Potter started to laugh.

“You chased me down for that?” Potter was grinning. Draco was becoming rather impressed with himself.

“Well,” Draco grinned back. “Yes. Pretty much.”

Potter grinned wider. “That’s brilliant Malfoy, really.”

“Yes, I thought so.” Draco felt a hint of the fluttery things returning.

Potter sobered a little. “So are they okay?” He gestured back towards the library.

“Weasley and Granger?”

Potter nodded.

“I guess so,” Draco pondered. He hadn’t really thought much about them at the time.

“It’s not their fault, really,” Potter said. “They are working like mad, trying to save me and everyone else, and I’m being an idiot. I have been for weeks.” He gave a dry laugh. “They should have bound me up and sent me to Voldemort by now. I’m lucky they’re both completely daft.” His tone was plainly affectionate.

As difficult an adjustment as it had been for Draco to think of Harry Potter as anything other than a menace to the wizarding world, that was nothing compared to trying to like something about Weasley or Granger. He honestly wasn’t certain he could work that out in his head. Ever. He nodded, hoping that would suffice. It seemed to, for now at least.

“Well,” Draco glanced in the direction of the library. “Do you want to go back there?”

Potter stood for a minute, and then answered, “No. Not really.”

“So what then?” Draco’s heart seemed to be beating rather quickly.

The next moment Potter’s mouth was on his, and Draco lost track of anything else. When it came to a stop a few minutes later, he was embarrassed to note that he actually whimpered. Potter laughed, took his hand and began to lead him somewhere.

“Why?” Draco managed.

Potter motioned in the direction of the library. “I don’t think they could take the shock.” He was grinning as he opened the door to the Arithmancy classroom and pulled Draco inside.

“Oh. Right.” Draco felt himself flush. His embarrassment was quickly forgotten as the door closed behind him and he was pressed up against it, once again blissfully occupied with the task of kissing Harry Potter.

*********

Draco wasn’t sure who first noticed that it was almost curfew, but the knowledge led to hurried last kisses and the hasty straightening of robes. The hurried last kisses had a way of drawing themselves out and leading to more of the same (as well as other things) until one or the other of them broke away mumbling something about how they should go soon. Draco was finding it unpleasant to relinquish the physical contact. Harry seemed reluctant as well, which was a comfort. Draco had grudgingly accepted the fact that “Harry” was now popping into his mind almost as often as “Potter”. He suspected that he might have even murmured it a few times during their earlier activities, but Potter was gentleman enough to not point it out.

They emerged from the Arithmancy classroom, faces flushed and robes rumpled, Draco reaching desperately for something to stall the end of the evening.

“Um–” Draco began eloquently, “I could… walk you back to your tower. You know, since it’s late.” He was aware that this was idiotic, but desperation was a funny thing.

Potter pondered for a moment. “Well, maybe I should walk you back. Nobody bothers me if I’m a bit late for curfew, what with my impending doom and all.” He smiled.

Draco replied, “Well, I’m a prefect, so it’s really fine for me as well.”

“Slytherin’s further.”

“Right, then.”

Draco had complained from time to time about the distance to the Slytherin dungeons from much of the rest of the school, but tonight it seemed much too short. He was enjoying walking next to Potter, savoring the electricity of their hands brushing together, which perhaps was happening more often than was strictly necessary. He was feeling lightheaded and maybe even a little giddy. It was nice. His head was a jumble of assorted confusing entities, but one thing he knew for certain is that he really wanted to keep this. He had no idea what that meant, and for the moment did not care. As they neared the door to the dungeons, he wondered if he should say something.

“Potter-” he began.

He was interrupted by the frantic arrival of Pansy Parkinson, who flew at him from the door.

“Draco! Where have you been all night?” She looked awful. “You have to come in. Now. It’s important.”

Draco was surprised how quickly his good feeling could desert him. “What is it, Pansy?”

“Not in front of him.” She gave Potter a scathing look.

Draco remembered Potter’s confrontation with his friends in the library and was ready to do the same, but Potter stopped him.

“It’s okay, Malfoy, I was leaving anyway.” He gave Draco the slightest of smiles. “Curfew.” He turned to leave.

“Curfew, right.” Draco felt his stomach falling into his shoes. “Um, Pansy can you give us a minute?”

Pansy stood, eyes wide, unmoving.

“Pansy, please.” Draco’s throat felt oddly tight. His panic was growing. He needed her to be gone. Now.

Pansy glared once more at the retreating Potter and said, “Fine.” It was clearly not fine, but Draco was too anxious to care.

As soon as she was out of sight, Draco turned, walked quickly to Potter, pulled him around by his arm and kissed him urgently, all his panic melting into nothing as the warmth washed over him, turning the kiss slow and soft as his fingers wove through Potter’s hair. After a minute or two, he broke away, breathless.

“Goodnight, Harry,” he said, and headed into the Slytherin dungeons.

*********

Draco’s thoughts were still lingering on Harry when he arrived inside the common room to face Pansy. He only vaguely noted her annoyance at his having taken as long as he did to get there.

“So what’s the matter, Pansy?” He tried to sound like he cared. “I’m completely knackered. I should really be off to bed.”

Pansy stared. “Draco, what’s wrong with you? You’ve been acting crazy for the past two days, you’ve been missing all evening, and now you’re grinning like a complete idiot and–” Her face turned deadly white. “Draco.”

“What?” Now he was worried.

Pansy looked like she was going to be sick. “Look at yourself, Draco,” she said slowly.

“What are you talking about?” He walked to the mirror over the fireplace and stared at the reflection. It was Draco Malfoy. It was Draco Malfoy with very disheveled hair, crumpled robes, flushed cheeks and red, swollen lips. It was, quite simply, Draco Malfoy looking very obviously and thoroughly snogged. If not quite a bit more. He felt the imprints of Harry’s hands all over him as he looked, and it sent a shiver of pleasure through his body. Oh.

“So what?” Draco tried to be casual. “Am I not allowed? I don’t whine about you and Zabini getting it on in the Charms classroom every afternoon.”

Pansy’s voice was thick with contempt. “You were with Potter.”

Draco didn’t reply.

She sneered. “That’s what I thought.”

Draco did not know what to say. He thought he would have felt more panic, but he was actually quite calm.

“What of it?”

“I always figured you were a poof,” Pansy began, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t know you were a traitor as well.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh please, Pansy. He might be a bleeding-heart Gryffindor, but I hardly see-”

“He’s not our kind, and you know it!” she interrupted. “He’d have us all out of Hogwarts if he could.”

Draco was beginning to feel very tired. “Look, did you drag me in here to lecture on my sex life, or did you actually have something important to say?”

“Well,” Pansy bristled. “Yes, actually. While you were off fraternizing with the enemy, Crabbe and Goyle have disappeared. Blaise too.” with that, her voice shook a bit.

Draco’s heart fell. He knew what was happening. Without speaking, he turned and walked to his dormitory. There, waiting for him at his bed, was his father’s owl. It looked quite impatient. He stood. It stared. He stood some more. He heard footsteps behind him.

“Draco, what’s this about?” It was Pansy, her voice still quavering.

Draco tried to speak, and nothing would come out. The owl still stared at him. He tried to move away from it, but his legs seemed to be frozen. The owl looked triumphant. Draco felt sick. Everything he had seen and heard in the last two days suddenly came together. He knew exactly what the parchment in that owl’s beak would tell him. A part of him hoped that if maybe he did not take it, he could make it disappear. The owl did not move. Draco slowly inched forward, still unable to reach for the letter. He closed his eyes for a moment, his father’s sneer appearing in front of them as he did so. … To think you could save him…

Pansy touched his arm. “Draco?”

Draco jumped. He turned to her, struggling to calm his breath. Her face was fragile and pale, blue veins peeking through transparent skin. She looked like a child, vulnerable, questioning. He stifled an urge to touch her cheek.

“It’s the Death Eaters. They’re calling in their own.” His own voice sounded dead. “Tonight is very important. They want everyone to be there.”

“Why?” She was on the verge of tears.

Draco’s throat was completely dry. “Because it’s time to kill Harry Potter.”

*********

The floor of the corridor was very cold, which Draco appreciated. The coldness of the floor somehow kept him tied to the present–to the reality of the choice he had to make right now. He’d known this day would most likely arrive. What he didn’t know is that it would be so soon, or that circumstances would have changed so much as to make the decision so difficult.

He opened the parchment in his hand and read it again. He was directed to proceed to a portkey in Hogsmeade by midnight and join his father and the other Death Eaters for a great ceremony. He and the other young recruits would receive their dark marks and follow the Dark Lord to his final victory over Potter. For Draco, this was his last chance to declare his loyalty to Voldemort. Should he fail to arrive as planned, he would be considered a traitor and dealt with as such upon their next meeting. He doubted he’d be given much choice as to when that meeting might be.

Draco Malfoy was not brave. He knew this. The Gryffindors had frequently called him coward, and he’d retaliated for it, but deep down he knew it was true. He was a coward. He followed whoever was most powerful. He looked out for himself and no one else. This is who he was–who he was taught to be. He understood fear, manipulation, intimidation. He was a Slytherin. He got what he wanted and didn’t much care how. He was not cut out for heroics.

I’m just like my father.

That was a thought that used to make him feel proud, successful. Only in recent years had he realized what that meant. That his father was just like him. Petty, cowardly, drawn to Voldemort for his power. Draco wondered idly if that is what drew him to Potter. He desperately hoped not.

Potter. It all comes down to Potter.

Harry.

He looked at the parchment again. He didn’t understand why Potter was the target and not Dumbledore. He figured it had something to do with this prophecy he’d been hearing about, but it didn’t make sense to him. Truth be told, he was feeling rather resentful towards Dumbledore for placing Potter in this kind of danger. What kind of great wizard sends a student to his doom while sitting back in his office twiddling his thumbs? Sure, Potter had gotten lucky in the past, and maybe even had some unique talent for foiling Voldemort–throwing him off his game and whatnot, but shouldn’t Hogwarts be concerned with its students’ safety above all? Draco felt a complaint was in order. He’d be sure to get around to it as soon as he was finished dying a horrible death at the hands of his own father.

Twenty minutes. He had twenty minutes before it would be too late and his decision would be made for him. Could indecision make you a hero? Failure to act? If he sat here just long enough, it would be too late, and he’d have no choice but to go to Dumbledore, if only to beg for his protection. Not that he had high hopes for Dumbledore’s chances there. He knew they’d get him sooner or later. He was no Harry Potter, after all.

Harry. Harry Harry Harry.

And what would it be worth? Would it even save Harry? Would his sacrifice (if it could be called that) even make a difference in the fight? Chances were they already knew anything he could tell them. They were intercepting his owls after all, weren’t they? What did he really have to offer? And how great were their odds to begin with? He didn’t doubt that Dumbledore was powerful and that he had a number of other decent wizards on his side, but the whole sheep thing hadn’t sounded promising. Perhaps they were doomed no matter what he did. Perhaps Harry was doomed. What made Draco think that he had the power to save Harry? And what made saving Harry so important to him?

“You idiotic boy. To think you could save him.”

Draco pressed his palms to the floor, trying to soak up as much of the cold as he could. His time was running out. When it did, would he feel terror or relief? Both, perhaps? He closed his eyes, trying to imagine. He still had fifteen minutes, he still could-

“Mister Malfoy?”

He opened his eyes to find long robes towering over him, along with the face that belonged to that voice.

“Professor Dumbledore.” His voice was shaking. “H-how did you find me?”

Dumbledore smiled. “Well, you are sitting outside my office, Mister Malfoy. At a very late hour, I might add.”

Draco flushed. Right.

“Mister Malfoy, do you, perhaps… have someplace to be?” Dumbledore’s tone was kind, his intentions unreadable.

Does he know?

Draco stood up. “I–” he glanced down the hall towards the exit. He could still make it, easily. He was standing. He could just go. Dumbledore wasn’t going to stop him. It was now or never.

“Yes. Yes I do.” He felt more confident now.

Dumbledore’s voice was softer now. “I see. Well then, you should be off, I would imagine.” He turned to return to his office.

“Actually, sir,” Draco said, heart pounding. “I came to see you.”

Dumbledore turned back slowly. His eyes were shining, and he wore a small smile.

“Is that correct, Mister Malfoy?”

Draco nodded. Dumbledore’s smile grew. Draco didn’t think he’d ever seen him smile so broadly, certainly not at him.

“Follow me, then.”

Dumbledore mumbled something towards his door, and led Draco up the stairs.

*********

Sitting in a big chair across from the headmaster of Hogwarts, Draco began to feel what might have been pangs of regret, though he allowed that they might just as easily have been fear. As he watched his last few minutes pass by, he realized that this was it. He had made his decision, and his life, however much was going to be left of it, would never be the same. It was terrifying, and possibly a tiny bit exciting, but he wished Harry was there. He wasn’t sure why. He thought it might make it more real, maybe give him an idea of how to proceed from here. Instead, he had Albus Dumbledore, arguably the most powerful wizard in the world, smiling at him and clearly waiting for him to say something.

“Um–” Not a great start, he realized. He placed the parchment from his father on the desk, hoping that might speak for him.

Dumbledore took his eyes from him in order to look at it, giving Draco more confidence to speak.

“You probably already know this. I mean, I know it’s probably no help, but–” His confidence was waning. “Well, I didn’t know. Anyway, there it is.”

Dumbledore looked back up at him. “Why did you bring this to me?”

I want to save Harry. “I–I don’t know.” Draco’s head was beginning to hurt.

Dumbledore studied him for a moment.

“You’re right that this information is not new. Your housemates, Crabbe and Goyle, among others, were spotted leaving earlier, and we do have some inside contact.” He paused. “You, however, are an entirely new and very interesting development, Mister Malfoy.”

“So you did know.” This was not helping Draco’s head. “You could have stopped me before. Why didn’t you? I might have gone.” I should have gone. “You would have just let me go.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, I would have.” He leaned forward. “It would not have helped our cause had I forced you to stay. It had to be your choice. We make our own destiny, no matter what your father may have told you.”

“Except for Potter.” Draco was shocked at his own boldness. “Isn’t that right?”

Dumbledore did not respond.

Draco continued, “It’s true, isn’t it? We all have a choice, but Potter. You and I can fight in the war or- or travel the world or sit home and play exploding snap all day if we want to, but Harry…” He felt his throat catch, swallowed and took a deep breath. “Potter has to march off to his doom because some bloody prophecy says so, isn’t that right, Professor?” His head was throbbing now, and his hands shaking. Draco wondered if perhaps this was what it felt like to go mad.

Dumbledore looked as though he’d been struck. Draco fell back into the depths of his chair, wishing he could just go to bed and wake up to find this all a dream.

“It was for Harry.” Dumbledore spoke softly, as though only to himself. Then he looked up at Draco. “You did this to help Harry.”

Draco stared for a moment and then nodded. “I did this to help Harry.” His tension seemed to completely drain away, leaving him limp. “It was for nothing, though, wasn’t it? There was nothing new. I haven’t helped at all.”

Dumbledore seemed distracted. “What? Oh no, I believe you have helped, Mister Malfoy. You have helped a great deal.”

Draco didn’t understand at all how that could be, but he was too exhausted to argue the point.

“Now, time for you to be off to bed.” When Draco opened his mouth to protest, Dumbledore continued, “You will be completely safe tonight, as will Mister Potter. Tomorrow we begin anew.”

Draco was quite grateful, he had to admit. “Yes sir.” He rose from his chair and started toward the door. He was stopped suddenly by a voice behind him.

“Draco.”

Draco turned.

“Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.”

“Pardon, Professor?”

Dumbledore smiled. “The prophecy. You wished to know, did you not?”

Draco blinked. “Yes. Yes, thank you, Professor.” He headed down the stairs and began to make his way back, anxious for the comfort of his bed.

Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.

*********

The grass was cold under Draco’s hands, and he couldn’t remember how he got there. His head hurt, and as he sat up to look around, he got the feeling he’d been knocked out. He wondered where anyone else was, and how he’d ended up in Muggle clothes. There was something glowing in the distance–a fire of some kind, perhaps. He stood up, wavering a bit, and walked toward it. He hadn’t gone far when he stopped in his tracks. It was a circle of Death Eaters, at least twenty of them, gathered around a fire. Above the fire, suspended in the air, was a man, paralyzed, screaming in pain. The voice was familiar. He walked a little closer, hiding behind a tree. He was sure he knew the man in the air. Just a little closer, he thought, creeping slowly to another tree.

“Avada Kedav-”

Suddenly Draco found himself in his own bed, sweating, sheets tangled around his limbs, heart racing. He panicked for a moment at the silence in the room, and then remembered that he was the only one left in the seventh year boys’ dormitory. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to that, not that he minded just at the moment. As his rapid breathing and heartbeat finally started to calm, he sat up and opened the curtains, grateful for the gust of cold air that hit his face. The dungeon rooms were black at night, two softly glowing orbs at either side of the room the only source of light. Draco waited for his eyes to adjust to the light, and then scooted to the end of his bed, lowering his feet to the soothing cool of the stone floor. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he was startled by the face of Harry Potter. Draco jumped back with a small yelp.

“Potter,” He choked out. “What–how did you–what are you doing here?”

Potter’s face was like stone. “I could ask the same of you.”

This wasn’t getting any less confusing. “I’m-” Draco closed his eyes again for a moment and opened them again. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Potter said, voice tight. “What the hell are you doing here, Malfoy?”

Draco was a bit hurt at his tone, which only led to annoyance. He stood. “This is my bloody bed in my bloody room, Potter. Where else would I be?”

“You know exactly what I mean, Malfoy.” Potter was getting louder and talking through clenched teeth.

“No, I really don’t, Potter, and I wish you’d get to the point.” Draco lifted his chin.

Potter took a few deep breaths and continued. “Most of your housemates have gone. I know you got an owl asking you to join them. So I repeat, Malfoy, why are you here?”

Draco felt some of his old, familiar rage returning, laced with a hurt that was very new to him. They were an exceedingly unpleasant combination. He glared at Potter, lips tight and scowling.

“Why should I tell you anything, Potter? None of it is your business. Why don’t you just run and ask your sodding ‘intelligence’ since they seem to know everything?”

Potter said nothing.

“Well?” Draco was really getting angry.

“I–” Potter had gotten oddly quiet and was looking at his feet. “I made that up. Not the intelligence thing, we do have that, it’s just… nobody has been looking at your owls. That part. I made that up.”

Draco was stunned. “Why?”

Potter looked up at him. “I had to know. Where you stood. If you… I just had to know.”

“Well you should bloody well know by now!” Draco was angry again.

Potter’s voice was still quiet. “I want to hear it from you.”

Draco raised his eyebrow and sneered. “I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, Potter.”

Potter was losing patience. “Malfoy. WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

Draco studied him for a moment. “If you must know, I got the letter from my father and took it to Dumbledore.”

“What?” Potter’s face had turned white.

Draco folded his arms in front of him. “You heard me.”

Potter looked very strange. “Why?”

“I think you know why.”

“Quit being an idiot, Malfoy, and just tell me!” He was almost shouting now.

“I DID IT TO SAVE YOU, YOU STUPID GIT!”

Potter stood, paralyzed.

“Now, leave me in peace, please, Potter.” Draco, drained, turned back to his bed. Potter grabbed his arm violently.

“You- can’t-” Potter sputtered, almost growling. “You just- you can’t just do that. Draco, you-”

“Well it’s not like it worked!” Draco shouted. “Dumbledore knew everything already.”

“YOU CAN’T SAVE ME!”

Draco felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “So I’ve been told.”

His eyes were stinging as he tried to turn again. The grip on his arm tightened.

“Harry, you’re hurting me.”

Potter dropped his arm and stepped back. Draco stepped forward, mind swimming, and pulled Potter’s face into a kiss. Potter responded eagerly, pulling Draco closer, deepening the kiss, drawing it out, hands searching urgently, taking him back to the Arithmancy classroom, where their two bodies had been all that had existed in the world, absorbed in the strange intimacy of frustration and release. Then suddenly he pushed Draco back, leaving him gasping.

“No.” Potter said. He stared at Draco, looking for a moment like he might reach for him again, then turned, walked toward the door, pulling something over him as he did so, and disappeared.

*********

Draco sat on his bed in a daze. He was angry, confused, hurt–there was too much emotion all at once for him to sort it out. Nothing made sense. He didn’t know how to react to things. He felt like he was making everything up as he went. For the first time in his life, he had absolutely no idea what might happen to him in the next minute or the next day. On one hand it was slightly intoxicating. On the other–he thought back to the last hour– Harry cold and angry, shouting at him one minute, kissing him the next and then gone. It sent a shudder through his body, of pleasure or pain, he honestly could not tell. Nothing was as it seemed anymore. Nothing.

He was obviously not going to get any more sleep, and remembering his dream earlier thought perhaps that was not the worst thing. It was just barely time for the Great Hall to be available for breakfast, so he dressed and headed up, craving light and normalcy.

The latter, it seemed, he was not going to get. When he arrived, it was clear that there was something wrong. The Hall was filled with students, far too many to be at breakfast this early on a Saturday morning. All the staff was gathering as well. Everyone seemed agitated, and the students were oddly quiet, just whispering to each other mostly, and a few might have been crying.

Draco walked quickly to his table. He and Pansy were almost the only seventh year students left, and quite a number of the fifth and sixth years were gone too. She seemed grateful to see him, her eyes red and worn from crying, Blaise Zabini’s usual spot next to her looking conspicuously empty. Draco wondered if she wished her parents were Death Eaters so she might have been with Blaise. The thought chilled him. He sat down on the other side of her, careful to avoid Blaise’s seat.

“Draco, I thought you weren’t coming!” She sounded exhausted and a little shaky.

Draco frowned. “Why? What is this anyway?”

“I don’t know. They called us all out of bed, didn’t you hear?”

Draco shook his head absently and looked around the room. The Ravenclaw table did not seem completely full, either, he noticed, though Slytherin was by far the most sparse. The Gryffindors were still milling about, most of them not yet sitting. Draco’s eyes automatically searched for Harry in the crowd, which annoyed him a little, but he didn’t try to stop. There was something especially wrong with the Gryffindors. They all seemed to be clinging to each other and the female Weasley was sobbing openly, folded in the arms of her brother, Granger stroking her hair and whispering to her now and then. Draco thought Potter could not be far.

When he finally found him, he almost wished he hadn’t. He was one of the few Gryffindors seated, surrounded by his housemates, but somehow completely alone. His face held no expression at all. He was not responding to anyone who spoke to him, and did not seem aware that they were even there. Draco felt an odd urge to put his arm around him, and felt a rather sharp twinge of jealousy when Neville Longbottom sat down beside him and did exactly that. Harry didn’t even seem to notice.

At this point, Draco’s gaze was pulled to the front of the room by the voice of Professor Dumbledore. He looked awful. Something terrible had happened that Dumbledore did not expect. Things were, indeed, horribly, horribly wrong.

Draco barely comprehended the information that followed. Dumbledore said something about the war, and how hard they had all worked to keep it outside of Hogwarts. It was important that Hogwarts remain a safe haven for young witches and wizards, no matter what raged outside its walls. But something had gone wrong. They had anticipated an attack, but their information had been false. Instead, with the help of a student, Death Eaters had gained access to the Gryffindor seventh year boys’ dormitory early this morning, in an attempt to assassinate Harry Potter. Draco’s mind was so muddled, he was having difficulty understanding all the details. He had worked out, however, that Seamus Finnegan had been the traitor in question (having foolishly fallen for a promise of immunity for himself and his family), and had been killed in the struggle, along with several unnamed Death Eaters. Draco thought of the empty spaces around him and wondered if it had been any of them. Dean Thomas had also been killed. He glanced over again at Ginny Weasley, understanding. The Death Eaters, they were told, had not achieved their goal, which was obvious to anyone sitting there. Only Draco knew the real reason why.

Harry had not been there.

Draco turned to look again for Harry, all his anger and confusion replaced by a new pain. He was beginning to understand what it was to be Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Lived To Watch Other People Die. He stared at his emotionless face, watched as Longbottom continued his fruitless attempts at comfort, arm around Harry’s stiff shoulders, whispered words unheard, strong hand enclosing Harry’s limp one. Draco watched and felt his heart ache. He wished he could say or do something to show him that he understood. He wished he could say anything, and for a moment he thought maybe he had, because just then Harry turned to look at him, his eyes flickering with pain for one moment as they met Draco’s, only to be covered once again by the empty glaze that had been there all morning as he turned away. This was followed by a resentful glance from Longbottom, but Draco was too distraught to care.

A few gasps were heard in the room, drawing Draco’s attention once more to Professor Dumbledore. He struggled to figure out what he’d missed.

Oh.

They were closing Hogwarts.

“… Your parents have all been notified and most of you will be leaving immediately.” Dumbledore paused. Draco thought he looked as though his heart was broken. “This is the saddest day I have known in all my years at this institution. I can only promise you that those of us who remain will put all our effort into making Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry safe once more.”

As he sat down, the room broke out with the noise of hundreds of shocked and panicking schoolchildren, only to be silenced again as Professor McGonagall rose from her chair.

“Seventh year students only,” she looked pointedly at a few younger Gryffindors and continued, “who wish to join the war effort, please reconvene here in one hour. The rest of you, please pack your essential belongings as quickly as possible. Transportation will be arriving shortly to take you to your parents.” She looked for a moment as though she wanted to say more, but then simply nodded and returned to her chair.

The room erupted again, this time children scattering every which way. Draco didn’t move, his eyes on Harry. He felt a tugging at his shoulder. It was Pansy.

“Come on Draco.” She started to walk away, realized he wasn’t with her and turned back. “Draco, we have to pack up, come on!”

Draco blinked and looked at her. “Oh. No,” he said. “I’m not going.”

“Why?” Her tone was of utter disbelief.

Draco paused, glanced at Harry and then turned back to her. “I have reasons.”

Pansy stared. “Draco.”

He shook his head and turned back to look at Harry. She waited for a moment, shifting her weight, then turned and ran off toward the dungeons.

The Gryffindor table was dispersing more slowly than the rest. Draco waited, as the younger students extracted themselves from the hugs of older students, finally heading to their tower to pack. Most of the seventh years stayed behind, reluctant to leave each other, even for the allotted hour. Finally he saw Harry move away from the group, against the obvious wishes of Longbottom in particular, and start toward the corridor. Draco followed and wordlessly fell into step with him. They walked, both of them silent, until they had reached the corridor outside the library. Harry stopped, leaned against the wall, and slid down to the floor. Draco followed suit. He didn’t know how long they had been sitting there before Harry finally spoke.

“So I guess you saved me after all.” He was staring at his knees, voice barely a whisper.

Draco laughed dryly. “I suppose.” He wondered if saving someone by making them angry enough to stalk you counted for much. He sincerely doubted it.

“You’re–so you’re staying, then?”

“Yes,” Draco answered. He paused, and then added, “I… well, I don’t have anywhere to go.” He felt idiotic. “It’s not like–like I’m brave or anything. I’m not.” To think you could save him… a coward like you. Everything was hopeless. He thought of the group gathered back in the Great Hall. He would never be one of them. They would never trust him, and he wasn’t sure they were wrong. “I’m not brave,” he repeated.

There was a long pause before Harry answered, so quietly it might have been Draco’s imagination.

“Yes you are.”

Draco felt a slow, glowing warmth deep in his stomach. Nervously, he moved his arm around Harry’s shoulders. He felt Harry tense momentarily, and then relax and lean into him ever so slightly. After a few minutes, Harry began to shake gently and Draco realized he was crying. Draco pulled him a little tighter. The shaking grew more violent, as Harry’s sobs became audible and he collapsed into Draco, crying freely.

Draco was stunned. He looked at the boy in his arms. This was Harry Potter, broken, lost in grief, drowning in regret. This was Harry Potter, seeking solace and safety. He thought again of the group in the Great Hall. Those were Harry’s friends, the people he trusted and counted on. How could it be that in a room full of stouthearted Gryffindor heroes, Harry Potter sought comfort in the arms of Draco Malfoy? With Harry clinging to him he found he didn’t care. Draco wrapped both his arms around Harry as tightly as he could, gently stroking his hair with one hand, and kissed his forehead.

Together they sat for the next hour, Harry crying, Draco holding him, until finally Harry’s eyes were dry and swollen and they both stood, without a word, and started back to the Great Hall. As they neared their destination, Draco’s stomach began to sicken. This was where it ended. As soon as they entered that room, he would be alone–unexpected, unwanted, despised by most. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere. Even Harry couldn’t change that. The air felt thick and difficult to breathe. He thought of his empty dormitory. Perhaps Dumbledore would agree to just hide him there. Perhaps he could go back to his room and disappear into the velvet bed-curtains until the war was over, his fate sealed one way or another.

Draco’s pace slowed a little, and he fell behind. Harry, noticing, took his hand, leading him the rest of the way. Just before they reached the doors, Harry stopped, squeezed Draco’s hand, looking him in the eyes for the first time since the earlier assembly and said,

“Thank you.”

It was at this moment, with trust and gratitude radiating from Harry’s eyes, that Draco felt for the first time in his life that perhaps he really could be brave. He squeezed Harry’s hand in return, hoping that would speak for him, basking for a moment in the comforting pools of green before him. Harry’s face was warm, determined, full of hope, just as a hero’s should be. Draco tried to mirror it with his own. Harry gave him a flicker of a smile and walked into the Great Hall, ready to be Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.

Draco Malfoy took a deep breath and followed.

*********

Sequel: Weakness

*****

Weakness

Draco continued, “It’s true, isn’t it? We all have a choice, but Potter. You and I can fight in the war or–or travel the world or sit home and play exploding snap all day if we want to, but Harry–” He felt his throat catch, swallowed and took a deep breath. “Potter has to march off to his doom because some bloody prophecy says so, isn’t that right, Professor?” His head was throbbing now, and his hands shaking. Draco wondered if perhaps this was what it felt like to go mad.

Draco stared for a moment and then nodded. “I did this to help Harry.”

*****

“ATTENTION! INCOMING WOUNDED! ALL AVAILABLE HEALING STAFF TO THE GREAT HALL!”

Draco’s head flew up from its pillow, his heart pounding. After all these months, he still had not become accustomed to the untimeliness of war. He fell too easily into the comfort of sleep and was never prepared for its inevitable interruption. As he climbed from bed and pulled on his too-recently discarded robes, he thought about how little he was prepared for any of it; the lack of sleep, the stench of the wounded, the constant fear that the next mangled body would belong to, well, to someone he might care about.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he spoke out loud to the empty dungeon.

Harry, his dream replied to him, still in Dumbledore’s voice. You did this to help Harry.

“Harry.”

He tried to push back thoughts of their last conversation, but they flooded him as always. It was the day he’d found out that he was to stay at Hogwarts while Harry went to war. Harry had come to say goodbye.

*****

“You’re to stay and brew healing potions with Snape,” Harry had informed him, as though it was nothing at all.

Draco had reacted badly. “WHAT?”

“There’s going to be a great need for it.” Harry was not looking at him. “You’re the best choice, Draco. Nobody else is at all qualified.”

Draco crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What about Granger?”

“She’s needed elsewhere.”

Draco snorted. “For what, to transfigure sheep?”

“Very funny.”

“They don’t trust me,” Draco said, his voice quiet.

Finally Harry met his gaze. “I trust you.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Dropping his eyes again, Harry began to pace the room. “Draco, this is war. We all have to to be where we’re needed.”

“And I’m needed where I can’t do any harm. Secure under Professor Snape’s watchful eye, right?” Draco could feel himself losing control, letting his anger carry him into comfortable territory.

“Draco–”

“Or maybe we’re to watch each other. Nobody trusts him either. If you’re lucky, maybe we’ll kill each other.”

Harry was angry now. “THAT’S NOT WHAT I SAID.”

“No of course not!” Draco whirled on him. “None of it is you anyway, right? You had no choice, You’re just doing as you’re told.”

Harry got quiet. “No,” he said. “This was me.”

Draco was stunned. “What?”

“This,” he said. “I chose this.” Harry nervously ran his fingers through his hair, and then forced himself to look at Draco. “It was my idea. I told them they should keep you here with Snape.”

“You said you trust me!” The words felt like dust in Draco’s mouth.

“I DO! I don’t trust–” Harry broke off suddenly. “Never mind. Listen, I have to go.” He tried to take Draco’s hand.

Draco moved his hand away, turning his cold eyes on Harry. “Is Longbottom needed?”

“What?” Harry’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Longbottom,” Draco repeated. “Is he needed to fight?”

Harry blinked. “You’re a bloody idiot.”

“Well, I guess that’s perfectly clear,” Draco answered, turning away.

“Draco–”

Draco’s voice was tight. “Get out.”

“Draco.” Draco felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Get. Out.” The hand moved, but he knew Harry was still there. He let his all his hurt and bitterness fill his next word. “Harry.”

Harry’s retreating footsteps were his only reply.

*****

“Excuse me?”

Draco stared blankly into the face of a confused mediwitch. “Sorry, what?”

She sighed, annoyed. “Did you say something?”

Draco took in the buzzing Great Hall around him. He hadn’t realized he’d got that far. “No,” he said. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

The mediwitch melded into the chaos of the Hall. Draco surveyed the now-familiar layout of Hogwarts’ makeshift hospital, far more crude than St. Mungo’s certainly, but populated with some of the best healers in the wizarding world. Draco was little more than a lackey, he knew; chopping, stirring, fetching ingredients from Professor Snape’s personal storage when needed. It had been six months since Harry and his team of heroes had gone off to war, and Draco was still performing tasks unworthy of a third year. The war was going badly, that much was clear from the nightly onslaught of injured witches and wizards. Perhaps even more telling was the complete lack of news from the front. Dumbledore had been absent for a month now, and Harry… Draco closed his eyes and took a breath to steady himself. He both feared and hoped for the day he might find Harry amongst the rows of broken wizards around him. Visions of the many hopeless cases he’d seen, men and women who would remain as shells for the rest of their lives, were terrifying. On the other hand, if Harry made it here at least he was not dead. It was the silence that tortured him most. With Dumbledore gone, all briefings had been suspended, and he didn’t even know who to go to for news. He barely knew anyone left at Hogwarts, and the few familiar faces avoided him vigilantly.

The one exception was Professor Snape, whom he assisted daily, and if Snape knew anything, he’d been keeping it to himself. Draco headed towards their small potions laboratory at the far corner of the Hall, where Professor Snape’s dark figure was already in place.

“You’re late, Mister Malfoy,” Snape said as Draco approached, no sharpness in his tone.

“Yes.” Draco picked up an empty vial and began bottling the already completed potion from their first cauldron. “I’d been asleep.”

Snape nodded.

When Draco had filled a dozen vials, he set an alert charm over the tray of them. Its glowing light lasted only moments before a mediwizard’s assistant picked them up. As he began filling another dozen, he summoned the nerve to ask what he most feared the answer to.

“Any news from the front, Professor?”

Snape looked at him with mild surprise. “A sudden interest, Mister Malfoy?” He lifted his left eyebrow, which reminded Draco of Harry.

Draco frowned. “The quiet is… unnerving.”

“Agreed,” Snape responded, still studying Draco. “Unfortunately I have no more knowledge than you do. With Dumbledore gone, my connections are… limited.”

“Really?” Draco struggled to find words that would not offend. “I thought you were, well, with the Order.”

Snape sneered. “The Order has little use for a spy with no cover.”

“Oh.” Draco decided to press his luck. “So, is that why you’re not in the fight? Why–” He choked a little. “Why we’re not?”

Professor Snape stopped working and turned to face him, his eyes serious and probing. “That’s some of it. Not all.”

Draco’s lifted his eyes to meet Snape’s. “What else?” Snape looked back to his work.

“They consider us too much of a target.”

“Isn’t H– Potter a bigger target than anyone?” Draco’s volume was rising. “They sent him out there as bloody head of a team!”

“Quiet!” Snape snapped, and then continued, “Potter is feared, ludicrous though that may be. His team is stupidly loyal and would sacrifice their own lives without question to keep him from being captured. The Death Eaters would not dare keep him alive if he were. You and I are… reviled. We are traitors. The Dark Lord would–” He chuckled darkly. “Well, let’s just say it would be slower and more painful than anything these do-gooders can imagine.”

Draco smirked. “So we’re being kept here for our own good, then.”

“That’s the official story.” Snape’s tone was bitter.

Draco’s head turned sharply. He studied Professor Snape’s face as his own heart sank. “You think they don’t trust us.”

Snape returned his gaze. “They don’t trust me. Some of them don’t.” He hesitated a moment before continuing, “You, on the other hand, have a guardian angel.” He did not attempt to hide the disgust in his words.

Draco nodded. “Potter.” Seeing the question in Snape’s look, he explained, “He told me.”

“Did he?” Snape laughed, dryly. “He’s even more of an idiot than I had imagined. ” He gestured toward Draco’s right hand. “Chop that calamus root.”

Draco waited for elaboration, but it was not forthcoming. For a while they worked in silence, broken only by brief instructions and the sound of pestle against mortar. Just as they set the last cauldron to boil, Professor Snape spoke again.

“Something I haven’t asked–” He paused, as though unsure how to proceed. Draco wondered if the end of the world was near. Snape continued, “There are many reasons for my presence here on… this side of things. Some of which I’m sure you’re aware, and others perhaps not. Having served the Dark Lord in earnest for any period of time is reason enough for my defection. You, on the other hand–” Snape paused again, and then turned to face him. “Draco, why are you here?”

Harry. I did it… His thoughts trailed off. Draco glanced over the Great Hall. “I don’t know,” he said, and realized it was true.

*****

The early morning hours passed quickly into the afternoon. Draco no longer had any sense of time. The bright lights in the Great Hall made the outside seem perpetually dark. When he finally was given a break from potion-making, he was surprised to step outside into soft daylight. The sky was slightly overcast, which gave an ethereal glow to the new snow on the ground. Draco let out a deep breath, watching the mist fade into nothing. He walked to the edge of the lake, which was not yet frozen over. He wondered what would happen if he jumped in. Death by squid or hypothermia seemed, at the moment, preferable to returning to the endless grim of the hospital.

The other thoughts in his head were less pleasant–things he’d been avoiding for months.

Why am I here?

He’d betrayed his father, lost his friends. He had no real passion for the cause, either way, only for– Draco let out another breath, letting the mist carry away the thought he wanted to lose.

He was alone. Really, truly alone. It was something he’d longed for at occasional moments in his life, and now that he had it, he realized just how gravely he’d been mistaken. He supposed it should be liberating–the knowledge that he could disappear from the world on a whim, but instead he was consumed by a cold, empty ache. The lump in his stomach that had grown every day for six months had now taken over his whole body. He’d always been good at running away, but where did you run to when you needed to get away from yourself? He supposed he’d figure it out. Malfoys always saved themselves.

“So much for bravery.” His words followed his breath into the ether.

Suddenly there was warmth against his neck and a hand in his. “Why would you say that?”

Draco’s heart rose to this throat. “Harry.” He closed his eyes. “You’re not real.” Harry answered by drawing him into a very real kiss, his hands weaving over Draco’s shoulders and into his hair. For a few heart-stopping moments Draco forgot everything and let himself be carried away by want and relief. When his reason returned, it hurt to pull away. He did anyway, arms held stiff at his sides, lest they attempt to betray him. He tried to speak.

“I don’t–”

“I know.”

“No. Wait.” Draco took a deep breath. The cold air caught in his throat. “I have to talk.”

Harry stood still. “Okay.”

“This isn’t…” He made a vague gesture towards Hogwarts. “It’s not okay. I’m not okay.”

“Ok–” Harry flushed. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop. I have to–” Draco took another breath and let it out, slowly. “I don’t think that I can stay. Here. Doing this and not–” He could feel foolish emotions rising that he had no intention of indulging. He closed his eyes, took another breath and then opened them again. “I’m going crazy here. I have… no purpose. And then with you gone–” He felt his face burning. “I can’t stand this. I sound like a fifth year girl.”

“Draco–”

“I need to finish.”

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

“I know that we aren’t… that we aren’t anything. That it’s stupid to pretend… with the war and all this madness. I keep asking myself why I’m here, and the only reason…” Draco swallowed. “I don’t have a reason.”

Harry was quite pale. “Oh.”

“As for this insufferable method of protecting me–”

Harry broke in. “I’m not.”

“What?”

“I’m not protecting you.”

Draco’s breath left him. “Well. I’m still a bloody idiot, aren’t I?” He began to walk away. “No matter–”

Harry grabbed his arm. “No, will you just stop it?” He pulled Draco back. “I’m not protecting you, I’m protecting ME, don’t you get it, you git?”

Draco glared. Harry softened.

“I have to win this war, Draco. I have to. The prophecy says it has to be me. I can’t have a weakness. If I have one, he’ll use it.” Harry’s voice dropped along with his eyes. “He always does.” He looked up at Draco. “I can’t have a weakness.”

“I don’t understand.”

Harry stared.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Harry shuffled his feet.

“Well, I’m–” Draco smiled. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Thanks.” Harry laughed nervously.

Draco flushed. “What about all that rubbish in the beginning, ‘No big declarations… there’s no point’ and so on?”

“Well, I’ve always been an idiot.” Harry smiled. “Has Snape taught you nothing?”

Draco laughed. “He has mentioned it once or twice.”

They stood in silence, shy and awkward. Then Harry spoke.

“Listen, can we start this over? I–” He reached into the pocket of his robes. “Look, I brought you something.” He held out a small package, wrapped in muggle newspaper and a crinkled ribbon.

Draco smiled, taking the package. “What for?”

Harry lifted his eyebrow. “Draco, it’s Christmas.”

Draco stared at the package in his hand. “I’d forgotten.”

“Well open it, would you?” Harry asked anxiously.

Draco pulled open the ribbon and gently unwrapped the paper. Inside was a tiny wooden box. He glanced at Harry who nodded, and then lifted the lid to reveal a very small key.

“Don’t touch that part,” Harry said.

Draco looked at him, questioning.

“It’s a bit like a portkey, only backwards. It’s keyed to me. If you touch it, instead of bringing you to a place, it will bring me to you.” He smiled. “It will only work once, so you should save it for… something important. I just. I thought you should have it.”

Draco was unable to speak, but he felt his eyes shining.

Harry bit his lip. “You do want it, don’t you?”

Draco nodded, smiling. Then his eyes widened. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

“Yes you do,” Harry said.

“I do?” Draco asked.

Harry nodded, pulling him close. He brushed his lips against Draco’s ear and whispered, “Weakness.”

*****

Sequel: Possession

*****

Possession

Strange how love changed things, even unspoken. A shy glance, an awkward hand…what was light and easy now felt fragile, in need of great care. The lonely dungeon dormitory shared so many times, now unrecognizable to the drunken eyes of new love.

They’d touched each other slowly, as if time might slow with them, desperate to notice the passing of each moment. Draco tasted every crevice, every salty bit of skin, craving something so deeply, he hardly knew what it was. When Harry entered him, he found it… possession, being possessed… a sense of ownership so strong it bordered on darkness. Harry, Draco cried. Mine, he thought.

As morning grew close, he pushed away thoughts of death and loss. He curled tightly into Harry’s precious, warm body, and pretended not to know what it meant to send that body back to war, that it wasn’t just one night, that he wouldn’t be alone again in a few short hours time.

Later, when he could no longer pretend, his stomach heaving with each reawakening fear, he took out Harry’s gift, gripping the tiny box in his hand, corners digging, leaving small, red hollows in his palm.

Harry, he thought.

Mine.

*****

All I Want Is Everything

The first thing James noticed was that he was awake, which, considering the intense pain engulfing his head, he most certainly did not want to be. The second thing he noticed was the fact that his tongue seemed to be plastered to the roof of his mouth.

“Padfoot,” he grumbled, wincing at both the effort it took and the unbelievable volume of his own voice. He pushed himself up slowly until he was sitting mostly upright, and reached up to scratch his head. That’s when he noticed the third thing. “Padfoot!” he cried again, panic rising. There was no answer. He brought his hand up to his head again.

Suddenly James was wide awake. He shot up, wobbling a bit, and made directly for the seventh-year lavatory, tripping over beds, trunks, discarded shoes and his own feet on the way. When he reached his destination, the lavatory mirror shrieked.

“Oi, Peter, did you get hexed in the girls’ dormitory again?” Sirius’ voice came from around the corner, followed by Sirius himself. “Bloody hell, Prongs.” He stopped cold.

“What’s happened to me?” James asked, staring at his image in the mirror. The mirror shrieked again.

“You’re bald as a baby’s bum!” Sirius said, his voice shaking with laughter. “You look like the Fat Friar!” He was laughing so hard he fell into the wall. “I knew I shouldn’t have left so early!” He seemed to be having trouble breathing. “What,” he wheezed, “happened?”

“I don’t remember,” James said, shaking his head. “I don’t remember,” he repeated, his voice becoming more frantic. “I don’t re-” Then he remembered.

He ran back into the dormitory, and began shuffling through his trunk. “I need parchment,” James shouted to Sirius, who was still in the lavatory.

“What?” Sirius shouted back.

“Parchment!” James shouted, louder.

Sirius’ head peered around the corner, his face half-shaven. “There’s a bit on my nightstand–you can have that,” he said. “Damn, you’re unpleasant when you’re bald.” He disappeared into the lavatory again.

James ran to Sirus’ nightstand and grabbed the bit of parchment and quill he found there. Evans, we have to talk, he scrawled, and folded it up, running then back to the lavatory. He held it out to Sirius. “Give this to Evans,” he said. “She’ll be at breakfast, I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not even dressed,” Sirius said.

“Well hurry then, will you?” James said, too loudly for the room.

Sirius lifted an eyebrow. “Take it yourself if you’re in such a rush,” he said, examining his teeth in the mirror.

“Time for a cleaning,” the mirror said.

James fought the urge to stomp his foot like a child, and took a deep breath. “Sirius, please,” he said. “You know I can’t go down there like this.”

“All right,” Sirius said. “But it’ll cost you. I’m thinking–”

“Fine, anything, it doesn’t matter,” James said. “Just hurry, will you?” He knew he was ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. “And take your mirror to tell me when she’s got it.”

James paced while Sirius dressed.

“You know, it’s not a bad look for you, actually.” Sirius looked thoughtful. “Gives you a bit of the Slughorn charm,” he said, dodging the shoe that flew at his head. “That’s wonderful gratitude you’re showing there,” he yelled as he rushed out the door.

James rescued his two-way mirror from the mess he’d left of his trunk, and flopped down on his bed. He was immediately reminded that his head still ached and he hadn’t had nearly enough sleep to make up for the last night’s drinks. “Remember to ask around for a hangover potion,” he mumbled to himself as he drifted into hazy sleep.

“James!”

James heard his name, but was confused about the source.

“James!” it came again. “Hang on, Moony, I’ll be there in a moment!”

James finally remembered the mirror, which was sitting on his chest. He grabbed it up and brought it to his face.

“Finally, prat,” Sirius said.

“Did you give it to her?” James asked.

“Yes, she’s got it,” Sirius said.

“What did she say?” James asked, hopefully.

“Nothing, mate,” Sirius said. “Didn’t even crack a smile. If you ask me, the girl’s a bit angry with you.”

“Bugger!”

“Language, Prongs,” Sirius said, clucking lightly. He turned his head toward something behind him and then back again. “Gotta run,” he said. “Good luck with your nut.”

The morning passed in agony. James paced and slept and paced again, the sounds of his classmates enjoying a beautiful spring day wafting through the window. It was afternoon before an owl finally appeared on the window seat, looking irritated. James took the message it carried and gave it a treat (receiving a bite in return), and opened it hastily.

I don’t have to do anything of the sort. You can talk to yourself all you like.

L.E.

The owl bit him again.

“Bugger!” James said, handing over another treat. He grabbed a quill from Peter’s trunk nearby and wrote on the bottom of the same parchment, Evans, don’t be stubborn. Meet me in the common room at dinnertime. He handed the parchment over to the owl, pulling his hand away quickly to avoid the inevitable bite. The owl ruffled slightly and then flew out the window.

The rest of the afternoon was interminable. James tried to sleep more, but he couldn’t get comfortable. Reading was impossible, and the cheerful shouts from outside made him want to break things. Even wanking was out of the question, with the pain still pounding in his head. When he heard the voices of other seventh-year boys in the hall, he drew the bed curtains, buried himself under the covers and pretended to sleep. When they finally left for dinner, he waited five minutes, got dressed, threw a big, furry hat on his head, and snuck down to the common room, which was empty as he’d hoped. Then he waited.

*****

At six o’clock, he trudged back up to his bed, hungry and dejected. At six-thirty, the door creaked open. James didn’t bother to hide under the covers.

“Still in bed, James?” It was Remus, who headed straight for his own trunk, not glancing at James as he passed. “You missed dinner, you know. I think Sirius saved you something, but I wouldn’t eat it if I were you,” he said. “Just a warning.”

“Remus, I’ve been an idiot and I need you to fix it,” James said, still on his bed.

“You’ve always been an idiot,” Remus said. “There’s nothing to be done about that.”

James sat up. “No, I mean, really an idiot.”

“You’ve always been really an idiot and there’s–” Remus finally looked over at him. “What on earth happened to your head?”

“Never mind that, Remus, listen,” James said. “I got pissed at the Three Broomsticks and asked Lily Evans for a kiss.”

Remus sighed. “You do that every time you get pissed,” he said.

“She refused, of course,” James said.

Remus nodded. “Of course.”

“And then I kissed her anyway.”

Remus’ eyes got big. “Excuse me, what?”

“I told you I was an idiot,” James said.

“What did she do?” Remus asked.

James just stared.

Remus bit back a smile. “Oh, right.”

James hopped off his bed and walked over to Remus. “Please, Moony, you have to help me fix it,” he said. “You can help me. She likes you.”

Remus snorted. “There’s a reason she likes me, and believe me, helping you would do nothing to reinforce that in her mind,” he said. “I expect you’ll have to crawl to Pomfrey if you want a fix for that, or else grow it back the natural way.”

“Not the hair, Remus,” James said, frustrated. “Evans. I need you to help me fix things with her.”

Remus smiled a little, but shook his head. “I don’t think there’s a fix for that either,” he said.

“Moony, please,” James begged.

“No,” Remus said.

“Why not?” James asked.

“I told you,” Remus said.

“No, really why not?” James said, and then he had an awful thought. “Christ, Remus.” It was an effort to make his mouth form the words. “You like her.”

Remus wrinkled his forehead. “Of course I–” he began, and then turned pale. “Not like that,” he said. “Don’t be stupid.”

James felt his stomach drop into his feet. “You do,” he said.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Remus said, looking actually angry. “More of an idiot. As if that were possible.” He turned back to his trunk.

James was confused, but too desperate to ponder over it. “Then help me,” he said, pulling Remus around to face him. “Just get her to talk to me, that’s all.”

“All right, fine,” Remus said, shaking off James’ hands and moving away from him. “I’ll try.” He headed to the door. “I’ve got to meet Sirius,” he said, and left, closing the door behind him.

*****

“Sirius, hurry,” James said, more loudly than he’d intended. “We’ll be late.”

“It’s almost done, you idiot,” Sirius spat. “There.” He finally put down his wand. “That should do it.”

“I have to get there before she does!” James shouted, rushing for his books and then out the dormitory door with Sirius following leisurely behind him. James hurried through the staircases and hallways of Hogwarts, arriving just in time to appear to be lounging carelessly in the doorway of the Transfiguration classroom when Lily Evans arrived with her friends. Sirius stood watching from the hall.

“Good morning, Evans,” James said, smiling brightly, as though he hadn’t been up since four casting spells at his head.

Lily stared, unsmiling. “How did you–” she started.

“You’re not the only one who pays attention in Charms,” James said. “Quite good don’t you think?” He turned around, showing off the morning’s handiwork. “Can’t even tell unless you try to touch it,” he said. “And look,” he ran his hand across the top of it, making the illusion turn messier. He grinned. “Sirius helped with that part.”

Sirius rolled his eyes.

Lily’s jaw was tight. “You made it too long in front,” she said, walking past him, into the classroom.

James followed after her. “That’s it?” he said. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

Lily whirled around, her face crimson. “I should have known you couldn’t bear to go a day without your precious hair,” she said. “You really are an utter coxcomb, James Potter.” She continued to a desk at the front of the room.

“Please,” James said, following her still. “I want to talk to you.”

“Go show off for your fan club, Potter,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll be impressed.” She sat down.

McGonagall’s voice came from behind, “Mr. Potter!” James turned to face her. “Please find your seat,” she said, eyeing his head warily.

James trudged over to where Sirius waved to him from the back of the room and sat in the empty seat in front of him. He turned to Remus who was sitting at the next desk. “I need your help.”

“Tomorrow,” Remus said. “We have Potions together. I’ll talk to her then.”

“Tomorrow then,” James said, turning his attention to the front of the class.

*****

The rest of the day passed in a blur, and the next morning more like molasses. James paced in the common room, waiting for Remus to return from Potions. Just as he was about to begin transfiguring the furniture, Sirius burst through the door.

“Where’s Remus?” James asked, attempting to sound casual.

“Library. Sent me to be the bearer of bad news,” Sirius said as he hopped on to the back of the nearby sofa, resting his feet on the seat. He raised his eyebrow. “Seems to think you might be prone to a bit of temper.”

James’ heart sank. “That bad, is it?”

“Fairly,” Sirius said.

“On with it, then,” James said, bracing himself.

Sirius smiled wickedly. “Do you really want to know?”

“Sod it, Padfoot, you’re killing me,” James said, running his hand through imaginary hair.

“All right then, ” Sirius said. “She says she’ll talk to you after you’ve spent a week without your hair.”

James laughed. “That’s easy enough. I’ve spent two days without it already,” he said. “Moony seriously needs to grow a pair.”

Sirius shook his head. “No, really without it,” he said. “No magic. Nothing. Not even a hat.”

James sat dumb for a moment. Then he gritted his teeth. “Fine,” he said. “Fine, I will.” He stood up, running his hand over his head again. “If that’s what it takes.”

Sirius scratched his head. “You’re really going to do it?” he asked. “I didn’t think you would.”

“What, you’re on her side now?” James said. “Think I’m vain as a peacock?”

“Just about,” Sirius said, with a wink. Then his face turned thoughtful. “You’re really serious,” he said. “About Evans.”

James nodded. “I’m really serious.”

Sirius looked at him for a long time, and then nodded. “Well, duty calls,” he said, hopping down off the sofa. “Coming?”

James blinked. “Where to?”

“The library, of course,” Sirius said, eyes sparkling. “Without me to stop him, Moony might actually get some work done. Can’t have that.”

“‘Course not,” James said, grinning. “Let’s go then.”

“Forgetting something?” Sirius asked, and gestured to James’ head.

“Right,” James said, reaching for his wand. “Finite Incantatem.”

****

After that, James strode proudly through school, bald head held high. The first day was the worst. Even the teachers had difficulty holding in their laughter, and Sirius insisted on drawing impressions of Flitwick on the back of his head during Charms. After a couple of days, people had mostly lost interest, though Severus Snape never stopped looking pleased.

The third day found James, Sirius, Remus and Peter relaxing on the lawn before dinner. Sirius was teasing Peter with a nose-biting teacup he’d enchanted to sniff out and chase rats, which had Peter running all over the lawn with his hand over his nose. Remus and James sat under their favorite beech tree, Remus with a book as always. James watched Lily (as always), who was sitting by the lake with a group of other girls.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to say to her?” Remus asked, out of the blue.

“Not really,” James said. “But I’m pretty good on my feet, aren’t I?”

“I don’t think–” Remus looked uncomfortable, but he continued on, “That might not be good enough this time, James.”

“What do you mean?” James said. “I like her.” He grinned. “Just have to convince her that she likes me.”

“Why do you?” Remus asked, biting his lip. “She’s smart and beautiful, we all know that, but what makes her special?” he asked. “Why her, and not the other smart, beautiful girls in school?”

“I can’t–” James frowned. “You can’t expect me to explain that.”

“She will,” Remus said.

“Look, I did what she asked–” James started, feeling defensive.

Remus interrupted. “She doesn’t want to know what you think is great about you, James,” he said. “She wants to know what you think is great about her. Why you want her, more than anyone else.”

“How do you know what she wants?” James asked.

Remus smiled quizzically. “It’s what everyone wants,” he said.

“Moony!” Sirius shouted, panting as he ran back to the tree. “Let’s get going in to dinner. Wormtail’s going to be at it a while.” He grinned. “Prongs can play nanny while he watches his girl.”

“In a moment, Sirius,” Remus said, and then more quietly, “Just think about it, James.”

Sirius nudged Remus with his foot. “Come, Moony, you know I can’t face Yorkshire Pudding without you,” he said, walking backward toward the castle, while beckoning Remus toward him.

Remus smiled to himself in a way James hadn’t ever noticed before. “Yes, I’m coming!” he said, closing his book and getting to his feet.

“Remus,” James pleaded. “Will you help me?”

“It’s all up to you James,” Remus said. “Think about what I asked you.” His eyes wandered after Sirius, who was halfway to the castle. “When you come up with the answer, that’s what you tell her.” He turned back to James. “It’s as simple as that.” He shrugged and ran after Sirius.

After that, James’ mood slid rapidly downhill. He tried not to spend the rest of the week staring at Lily, though he mostly failed. She seemed never to be looking at him, and as the week wore on, he began to despair of anything good coming out of their promised talk. He tried to tell himself that Remus knew nothing, but every instinct told him that was not true at all.

By the last day, James was simply dreading the conversation as the probable end to all his hopes, so when Sirius, Remus and Peter headed down to dinner that evening, he elected to stay behind. He curled himself up on a sofa in the corner of the common room that was partly obscured by thick, red curtains. He stared into the fire, lost in thought, as his classmates cleared out in small groups, all heading down to the Great Hall.

When someone actually spoke his name, he nearly jumped from the sofa in surprise. Even more surprising, and not just a bit dismaying, was the sight of Lily Evans standing several feet away from him.

“I didn’t think you’d do it,” she said, arms crossed over her chest.

James snorted. “You and Sirius both,” he said. “I must be the greatest arse in Britain.”

She relaxed her arms and walked over to him. “Well, there’s always Bertha Jorkins,” she said.

“Ah well, that’s a relief,” James said, trying to smile.

Lily sat in the chair across from him. “You wanted to talk to me?” she said. “I’m here.”

James rubbed his head nervously. “Please, I want–” he started, and then started over. “First I need to apologize,” he said, “for kissing you at the Three Broomsticks. I’m the worst kind of git, I know it, and it’s only–” His heart was pounding, and he felt the blood rushing to his face. “It’s just I think about you all the time,” he said. “That’s no excuse, I know, and I’m not trying to get off the hook. But. You’re the most–” He stopped for breath, and thought about Remus’ question. “You’re everything I’ve ever wished for. Everything I wish I could be myself,” he said, his voice cracking. He shook his head. “Bloody hell, I sound like a fourth year, but since this may well be the last time you ever agree to talk to me–”

“I’m listening,” she said. Her eyes were serious.

“I know you don’t owe me anything, and I’m mad to even ask, but please–” he said. “If you could–” He wasn’t sure how to find the words, and he couldn’t look at her anymore, so he looked at his shoes instead. He took a deep breath. “Just–teach me how to deserve you. I want to be the kind of man you could love,” he said. “Even if you never do.” He brought his eyes back to her. “Please.”

She didn’t say anything, but just sat there, looking at him with those serious green eyes.

“Lily?” he said.

And then she stood up from her chair and sat down beside him. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, and somehow then her hands were on his face, and she was kissing him softly, tentatively, and he was afraid to move in case it was all a dream. His arms moved on their own, it seemed, pulling her closer, and then his lips were deepening the kiss, and soon he forgot to care if it was a dream, or if he, himself, was real.

After what seemed like an hour, or maybe a lifetime, Lily finally pulled her face away from James’, and sank back into the sofa, leaning her head against his shoulder. For a while, they were silent.

“I’m sorry about your hair,” she said, finally.

“I doesn’t matter,” James said. “Anyway, the only person I want to impress is you.” He smiled. “If you’re daft enough to prefer me bald, so be it.”

She laughed softly.

Suddenly James was aware of the time. “Should we go to dinner?” he asked, not quite enthusiastically. “I’m sure we’ve nearly missed it by now.”

“Let’s just sit here a while,” she said, slipping her hand over his.

And they did.

*****

Trust the Morning

It was Remus who brought him in, small and quiet with that hair. He was different than the others, not worn and haunted like Remus or snarling and twitchy like the ones who worked for You Know Who. He crouched on the outskirts, vibrant and still, and Neville caught himself staring more times than was comfortable. He pushed down the disappointment when he lost sight of him after dinner, consoling himself with a fresh cup of tea. The hand on his shoulder was too gentle to be startling.

“I’m Oz,” he said, smiling.

Neville smiled back, his own name forgotten.

****

If anyone had told Oz he’d be sitting in a room full of witches ever again, he’d have considered it an odd suggestion, but after all it was difficult to surprise him. He watched and listened, because that’s what he did, and though there might have been many reasons he sought out the quiet, chubby one with the soulful eyes, what it really came down to was that he smelled good. From across the room Oz could smell him, all fresh greens and warm earth, with a strong hint of black tea. Oz closed his eyes, breathed deep and followed.

****

Oz liked Muggle music and American sandwiches, and Neville liked Oz, which worked quite well as far as Neville was concerned. Whether Oz liked Neville was a question of constant interest to him, and he often found himself in the greenhouse posing increasingly embarrassing versions of it to the less gossip-driven plants. When Remus paired them up for training, Neville was too nervous to be grateful.

“Isn’t he a Muggle?” Harry asked, his voice not quite low.

“Yes, silly,” Luna whispered, eyes wide. “But they’re in love.”

Neville’s face burned as Oz’s cool fingers wrapped around his wrist.

****

The first battle was nothing like Neville expected. If the Department of Mysteries had lasted for eternity, this raced by in a mad blur. Neville lost himself in the work of it, firing hexes and blocking curses, unable to think about anything outside a ten-foot radius. Oz slid in and out of sight, keeping to the shadows when he could, struggling between using and fighting the wolf under the surface. Afterwards he sat still as the others laughed, cautiously celebrating their first victory. I’m not afraid of it, Neville shouted, his voice lost in the din. Oz looked away.

****

Each night was drawn out and savored, as though it might be their last. In the mornings, Oz curled himself up into Neville, letting the past fall deep into the parts of his mind he couldn’t reach. Neville’s arms were solid around him–fierce and protective in a way that reminded him of how he used to hold her. Thinking about that didn’t bring out the wolf anymore, and he burrowed closer, trying not to consider what that meant.

In training, when Harry Potter touched Neville’s arm, Oz took deep breaths and pushed hard against the darkness in his chest.

****

“I don’t care.” Neville stood, arms crossed.

“I know.” Oz zipped up his duffle bag. “But I have to.” He picked the bag up off the bed.

Neville hesitated for a split second, and then he was just there, pulling Oz roughly to him and kissing him hard. His fingers tightened, making red marks on Oz’s shoulders. The kiss turned softer but no less relentless, and Oz muffled a growl as his bag slid onto the floor. Neville finally broke away, still holding Oz’s shoulders tight.

“Maybe someone else let you walk away like this,” Neville said. “But I won’t.”

****

Neville spent weekends between the greenhouse at Gran’s and the gardens at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, where he’d built a sanctuary for Oz near the back. It was for meditation and “de-wolfing” as Neville called it, and Neville had filled it with rich greenery and stepping stones, and the light scent of some flower Oz couldn’t remember the name of. The war became background for them as they became background for everyone else, intruding only as they sat up nights, waiting for each other to return safely home. Trust the morning, Neville would say. Morning always brought them home.

****

Read ’s “missing scene,” Colours come and go.

*****

In Their Eyes Shall Shine

Hogwarts, A History (Revised, 2004), Volume II
Chapter 5: The Second Rise of Voldemort

On Christmas Eve, 1997, simultaneous attacks were made on the neighborhoods of Muggleborn wizards in several locations across England. In each case, the wizard was bound–his family and neighbors slaughtered before his eyes–then left to pick up the pieces. Some of the survivors fled the scene, finally surfacing in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, exhausted and raving. Others were apprehended by Muggle authorities and never heard of again. When Muggleborn students returned to Hogwarts that winter, many asked to remain there indefinitely.

On January third, the Ministry of Magic issued an statement declaring its intention not to act, as long as wizards were not being killed. “Muggles are not our business,” the statement read. It went on further to explain that any witch or wizard foolish enough to get involved was not the Ministry’s problem. On January fourth, the re-formed Order of the Phoenix began sending teams of their own. By the time the Ministry was forced to get involved, hundreds of wizards had already died in battle.

It was during Harry Potter’s seventh year at Hogwarts that the war with Voldemort truly began in earnest. Harry had never been one for heavy reading, but what struck him most strongly about the war was how accurate the poets were. The war was a shadow that seeped slowly over the land, bringing sickening death to everything it touched. It was the helplessness in Arthur Weasley’s eyes as he stood at the center of a fallen Muggle village, all smoke and blackened grass. It was Luna Lovegood staring blankly at the letter reporting her father’s death. It was Hermione scanning the Muggle obituaries at breakfast, her finger racing down the page, pausing almost imperceptibly at various points before she folded it up and stowed it away. Harry’s old nightmares had abandoned him now, replaced by these new, more frightening images.

Soon, these visions began to follow him even in daylight, at breakfast or during lessons, carrying him off at will.

“What’s this?”

Harry blinked, eyes protesting against the white glare of sun on snow. Draco Malfoy was leaning against the castle’s stone wall, flanked by one of his usual cronies.

“Harry Potter alone on Valentine’s Day? Can it be true?”

Harry felt for his wand. “Come to profess your love, Malfoy?”

Malfoy scowled. “Don’t be disgusting.” He turned as though to leave, and then stopped abruptly. “Crabbe, give me a moment alone with our hero,” he said, his gaze fixed on Harry.

Crabbe stared.

“Crabbe, a moment.” Malfoy repeated. Crabbe disappeared.

“So it’s love after all, then?” Harry raised his eyebrow.

Malfoy’s lip curled. “I just thought you’d prefer a smaller audience when I tell you how you’re going to die.”

Harry smiled. “I hope you’ll be creative. Professor Trelawney’s covered all the usual, you know.”

“You think this is funny, don’t you, Potter?” Malfoy’s composure vanished as he moved closer with quick, uneven strides. “Believe me, you won’t. Not when I’m done with you.”

Malfoy continued, Harry barely registering his words. Instead, he was imprinted with the image of Malfoy’s eyes, fever-bright, shining with hatred, his pointed face flushed pink in the cold wind. Malfoy’s breath escaped in angry puffs, mixing with Harry’s before evaporating into nothing.

February 14th, 1998 saw the largest mass exodus Hogwarts has seen in its long history, even to this day. In that one night, the upper years of Slytherin House were all but emptied (along with fractions of other Houses) as students fled the school in order to pledge their lives to Lord Voldemort. Their numbers included Slytherin Prefects, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. Muggleborn student Dennis Creevy disappeared the same night. His body was discovered on his parents’ doorstep several days later, and their home and surrounding neighborhood destroyed the same evening. (Photographs courtesy of The Daily Prophet.)

The meeting with Dumbledore had not gone at all as he’d expected. When Harry had stormed in, demanding to be allowed to fight, he’d expected refusal in fatherly tones. Grave consideration took him entirely by surprise, as did Dumbledore’s eventual acceptance. Harry returned to his common room that night filled with vigor and a sense of purpose he hadn’t had in months. Others followed suit, and soon the bulk of Gryffindor Tower’s older students were headed off to war. As February wore on, new students joined the war effort every day.

Harry’s new nightmares pursued him into battle. He existed in a dream, firing hexes and blocking spells as though he were leading practice with the DA. Dumbledore praised him for his level head, while Snape coughed loudly a few feet away. Harry heard none of it, his ears filled with Padma Patil’s anguished scream just before she fell.

In March, the Order of the Phoenix began receiving information from the inside. The Order set up small task forces to attempt to thwart the Muggle massacres before they began. At Potter’s insistence, he was assigned a group of his own, consisting of several members of the student organization, Dumbledore’s Army. Their fourth mission out, they arrived at the targeted village to find that the Death Eaters had already hit. Most of the homes were destroyed. Any bodies that remained were burned beyond recognition.

Hermione touched his hand. “Harry.”

Harry’s throat was dry. “Who lived here?” Nobody answered. “Hermione?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone we knew.”

“No, it was.” Everyone turned to Seamus. “I mean, we did.” He swallowed. “Justin Finch-Fletchley. He lived here. His mother invited me to tea once.”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a shout from the far side of the street.

“Harry!” Neville was waving them over. They hurried to him, finally gathering around a heap of black robes.

Seamus stepped toward it. “What is it?”

“They’ve never left any behind before, have they?” Neville asked. “Of their own, I mean.”

Ron squinted at it. “I think it’s still alive.”

Harry waved the others back and squatted next to it, pulling at the robes, trying to find the body underneath. Finally locating the hood, Harry pulled it back. Pale gray eyes stared back at him. They widened as the person choked out something unintelligible, and then fell shut.

“Be careful, Harry,” Hermione warned. “Harry?”

He looked up at her, stomach churning. “It’s Malfoy.”

“What?” Ron lurched forward.

“He saw me.” Harry frowned. “He tried to say something, I think. Then, well, he passed out or something.”

Ron huffed. “Oh, right. Setting a trap, more likely.”

Harry shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. There was something wrong.” He frowned again. “His eyes were just… gray.”

“They were always gray,” Hermione answered. “And of course something is wrong. He’s unconscious, Harry.”

He felt himself getting impatient. “No. I mean, I know. Just.” He took a breath. “They were different today. Something was–” He paused. “He really hated me. More than anything, maybe. But not today.”

“Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.” Hermione’s voice was unusually soft.

“Hermione?” Ron nudged her.

“Something I read once. I don’t even know why I remember it.” Hermione blinked. “Silly poetry.” She stepped away from the group. “Anyway, it looks like our information was useless. We’re far too late to help anyone here. We should return quickly.”

Harry hesitated. “What about Malfoy? Shouldn’t we do… something?”

Hermione frowned. “Like what, Harry?”

“Take him with us or something. Prisoner of War, that sort of thing.” His stomach churned again.

“Prisoner of War?” Ron chortled. “We’re not Her Majesty’s Royal whatever-you-call-it.”

Hermione elbowed him, turning to Harry. “It isn’t safe, Harry. We can’t apparate with a body in tow. We’d have to walk or fly the whole way. There could be Death Eaters anywhere. We should leave him here. Someone will come for him, and if he wakes up–”

Harry crossed his arms. “Who will come for him?”

“Harry–” Hermione reached for his arm.

“No. Hermione.” He shook her off. “Who will come? His mother is dead. His father–” He stopped. “Well, he left him here, didn’t he? Voldemort’s people have been gone for hours. Why would they come back now?”

Hermione protested, “Harry, we can’t just–”

“If we leave him here, he’ll die.”

“Maybe he should die.” Everyone stared at Seamus. “Nobody wants to say it, but it’s the truth, isn’t it? If he could, he’d have killed all of us by now. Who knows how many of these people he killed? Why should we put ourselves in danger to save him?”

“Seamus has a point, Harry.” Hermione nodded.

Harry gaped. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you, Hermione.”

“Why?” Ron challenged. “Everyone’s thinking it.”

Hermione continued, “Harry, he’s right. This could have easily been my street, my family.” She caught his arm again. “And what if it was? Would you be talking about saving him then?”

“It’s not–” Harry twisted away. “Look, it’s not about saving Malfoy!” He tried to lower his voice. “I mean, well, it is, but not because he’s Malfoy.” Hermione rolled her eyes as Harry walked to her, taking her hand. “Hermione.” His voice was quiet now. “I’m just tired of watching people die. It’s all I’ve been doing my whole life.” He looked back at Malfoy. “We don’t know why they left him here. He’s obviously injured. If we take him back, then he’s in Dumbledore’s hands, and someone else can decide what to do with him. I just–” He turned back to her. “I can’t decide that he should die. Not when he’s helpless like this. I can’t.” He let Hermione’s hand fall, facing the others. “Listen, I can take him back on my own. The rest of you can go on ahead, tell Dumbledore what’s going on. I’ll meet you.”

Hermione frowned. “Harry, are you sure that would be–”

“Are you out of your mind?” Neville was almost laughing. “If you think that we’d let you risk your life for Malfoy, you’ve got another think coming.”

Harry stepped forward. “Now, look here–”

“No, I will not.” Neville was serious now. “You’re the one hope we’ve got of winning this thing in the end. You know this. We all do. You’re not going to risk losing the whole bloody war just to be Draco Malfoy’s personal hero!”

“I’m not–” Harry started.

“Malfoy isn’t our mission, Harry,” Neville went on. “He made his choice, and this is where it brought him. These people,” He swept his arm over the charred road, “were our mission, and we failed them.” His eyes blazed. “We need to remember why we’re here.”

Harry’s face was bright red. “I remember just fine-”

“Stop it, both of you!” Hermione shouted. “This isn’t solving anything!” She stepped into the middle. “Look. Harry doesn’t want to be the one to decide Malfoy’s fate. So, he doesn’t have to be. Why don’t we just find Dumbledore, and bring him back here? Then he can decide what to do with Malfoy, and we can end this nonsense.”

“Hermione,” Harry began.

Hermione raised her finger at him. “It may even be Malfoy’s best chance at survival. Dumbledore could make a portkey, maybe send him to a medical facility.” Her eyes were pleading. “It would only take a moment.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Fine.”

“I’ll stay with Harry,” Neville said.

“You don’t have to–”

Neville turned to him. “It’s not negotiable.” Harry glowered.

“We’ll be back soon.” Hermione straightened her robes and checked her wand. “Harry, you know it’s the best thing. Neville?”

“Right,” Neville answered, his voice tight.

“Let’s go then, Ron, Seamus,” Hermione said just as she vanished.

Harry and Neville stood, glaring at each other across Malfoy’s body.

“Harry, look. The war is messing with all of us. I know that.” Neville’s voice was even. “But we’re your team. You brought us out here. We need your leadership.”

Harry laughed. “Yes, I can see just how prepared you are to follow my lead.”

“You weren’t being a leader.” Neville smiled. “You were being an idiot.”

“Thanks a lot.” Harry turned, walking away.

“I shouldn’t be the one reminding you about the mission, Harry.” Harry stopped. Neville caught up with him. “Hermione shouldn’t. You have to make the hard decisions.” His eyes were kind. “You have to be the one who keeps the rest of us focused–who doesn’t let the fight get personal.”

Harry snorted. “Believe me, there’s nothing personal about my feelings for Malfoy.”

Neville chuckled. “Try that on someone who hasn’t been watching you both for seven years.” He ignored Harry’s wide eyes and turned toward the ruined homes. “Look, I’m going to do a quick sweep, make sure Jus–to make sure there’s no one still hanging around. It isn’t likely, I know, but-” Neville shrugged and headed into the village.

Harry walked back to the crumpled Malfoy. He looked fragile and childlike, in a way Harry hadn’t seen him since first year, and he was shaking as he breathed. Cruciatus, Harry thought most likely. He wondered what Malfoy had done to anger someone, or if he’d simply been in the way. “I think I despise you more than ever for this, Malfoy, do you know that?”

Malfoy was silent.

“Don’t you see what you’ve done? This fight, Malfoy. You are what makes this possible. You are what makes sense. You hating me.” His voice was getting louder, and Harry didn’t care.

“I have to fight this war. I have to win it. I can’t be soft.” He was pacing now. “I can’t be… moping around, worrying about the health of the enemy! Do you not see that?”

He fell to the ground, shaking Malfoy’s limp shoulders. “How dare you? How dare you make me care whether you live or die? Why can’t you just hate me?” He shook him harder. “Hate me, you bastard!”

He sank, drained. “Wake up and hate me.”

Something moved under his hands. Harry stopped, brushing his hand across Malfoy’s forehead. “Malfoy?”

Eyelids fluttered, and suddenly Harry was faced with the same gray he’d seen earlier. This time, Malfoy spoke. “Potter,” He gasped, as the shaking intensified. “P–” His right hand clutched Harry’s robes. He raised his head with great effort, nearly touching their foreheads together. Harry could feel Malfoy’s breath, warm on his chin.

“Potter,” he gasped again, his voice just above a whisper. “Help me.” His hand lost its grip, and he fell back to the ground.

“Malfoy.” Harry grabbed at his hand, trying to pull him back. “I will.” Malfoy’s eyes were empty, his face growing rapidly pale. Harry tapped at his cheek. “I’ll help you. I promise.” Harry’s heart was racing. Malfoy stopped moving. “Malfoy!”

Neville’s footsteps approached from the distance. He sped up as he neared Harry, stopping just next to him. His shoes were dusty. Harry looked up at him, squinting into the overcast glare of March.

Neville tilted his head. “I’m sure they’ll be back soon. You know how loopy Dumbledore can be sometimes.” Harry looked back at Malfoy. “Harry?”

Harry stood up, slowly. “It doesn’t matter.” Neville stared for a moment and then shifted his gaze to Malfoy’s body.

“Oh.” His voice was quiet. “There’s nothing you could have done. If you’d taken him, he’d have died on the way. You realize that.” His hand was on Harry’s arm. “Harry.”

“Help me.” Harry turned his head to face him. “That’s what he said, Neville. He said, ‘Help me.’” His voice grew more agitated. “I should have…”

“Should have what?” Neville squeezed his arm.

Harry moved away. “I don’t mean today. I mean… before.” Harry sat on the ground again. “He came to me the day he left, did you know that?” Neville shook his head. “It was nothing new, just the same as always. ‘I’ll get you,’ that sort of thing. I didn’t even listen, really. But now I wonder. What if he wanted me to do something?” He pushed his hair back roughly. “Change something. I don’t know.”

Neville sat down beside him. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Harry faced him. “How many Hogwarts students left school to join Voldemort?”

“Twenty-five, maybe? Thirty?”

“Mostly Slytherin, right? And a few others?”

Neville nodded.

“Did we ever give a thought to any of them?”

Neville leaned back on his hands. “What do you think we should have done?”

“I don’t know,” Harry chewed at his lip. “Had a conversation?”

Neville chuckled. “They weren’t exactly the friendly sort.”

“I know. It’s not–” Harry frowned, looking at his shoes. “I should have… tried.” He fidgeted with a corner of his sleeve. “Today, he looked–he just looked scared. He was just a scared kid. Maybe if I had ever–” His eyes moved to Malfoy. “Maybe he wouldn’t have been here. Maybe he wouldn’t have–” He stopped.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Neville asked, softly.

“I think…” Harry took a breath. “We should go back to Hogwarts. The Order can summon us if they need us, but we should stay there for the rest of the term if we can. I think maybe there is more we can do there right now than anyplace else.”

Neville smiled. “Is that an order?”

“Don’t be–” Harry raised his eyebrow. “Is this where you tell me I’m an idiot again?”

“No.” Neville paused. “You know, Harry, maybe you saved him after all. I don’t mean saved. But… maybe it helped in the end. For him to think you had. Maybe it wasn’t so bad then.”

“Maybe.”

“I think that’s what keeps us all here, sometimes.” Neville furrowed his brow. “You haven’t saved us, not yet. But we believe you will.

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” Neville pushed himself to his feet. “Come, there’s Dumbledore.”

Harry stayed still. He reached over and pushed Malfoy’s hair from his eyes. “Not in the hands of boys…” He stood quickly. “Coming.”

On March 12th, 1998, in an unexpected move by the Order of the Phoenix, members of Harry Potter’s task force returned to Hogwarts, purportedly to finish their final term of school. As was later revealed in the now-famous Weasley Letters (see Chapter 7: Wartime Correspondence), the true purpose of this move was as an attempt to influence the allegiances of the children of known Death Eaters still remaining at the school. In the end, it is estimated that as many as forty children eventually joined forces with Harry Potter and Dumbledore’s Army, against the wishes of their parents. Recent scholars agree that this seemingly small shift in numbers and alliances played a significant role in the eventual defeat of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

*The poem quoted by Hermione is “Anthem for a Doomed Youth” by Wilfred Owen.