Archive of Our Own

"Mr. Malfoy," said Professor Flitwick rather archly. The person in question tore his eyes from the window out which he'd been staring for the better part of the class. "Do pay attention."

Harry watched with amusement as Draco seemed to take the words quite literally, throwing his entire existence into listening to and taking notes on Flitwick's theory of the fallibility of sequential charms. At first, Harry thought his actions were sarcastic, as almost everything he did was. As the class went on, however, and the punch line never delivered, Harry lost interest when it seemed Draco was actually just… paying attention.

That was boring.

Harry sighed and directed his own attention to the window. There was nothing really to be seen from it. The lake, but that wasn’t very interesting. In early January, there was only ice and a thin covering of snow. There wasn’t even enough wind to bluster the snow around. All told, it was very… boring.

Harry Potter was so bored.

When class finally let out, Harry was the first from his seat. He sneered at Parkinson, who sat behind him, as she called to Draco for him to come with her to lunch. With a pained look on his face, Draco followed her out, sparing not a glance for Harry as he passed.a

"Something's up with Malfoy," Harry said to Ron and Hermione when they converged outside the classroom. He paused a moment because the sheer familiarity of the words was enough to make him realise what he was saying was far from new.

"What now?" Hermione asked, a teasing light in her eye. "Leading the resistance? Plotting to mount your head on a pike? Leading the firsties into the Chamber of Secrets to perform creepy—"

"Oi!" Ron interrupted. "Where is your mind going? I'm not sure I can stomach those thoughts before lunch."

Hermione pushed at his arm; he barely budged. "Don't kid yourself. Nothing could keep you from lunch."

"But I might not enjoy it as much," he protested.

Harry heaved a sigh, trying to get their attention back to his problem. "I was right about him before, remember?"

"Of course you were," Hermione said, serious now. "But things are different now. You've seen him; there's nothing to fear there. The Headmistress has him on a leash so short he'd choke himself before he could hurt anyone."

"He could still be… plotting," Harry said, knowing it was weak. He just had the feeling that something was going on. Draco was so… normal. It wasn’t normal!

"Let him plot, I say." Ron held up a hand when Harry began to protest. "No, listen, mate. Let him plot. Let him try something. I'd love for him to give McGonagall a reason to boot his arse."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, but it was weak, too, and he didn’t know why. He didn’t really want to see Draco leave; he just wanted to know what was going on. The truth was, Draco was the only bloke Harry felt comfortable looking at for extended periods of time these days. If he left, Harry might actually have to accept the fact that he just liked looking at blokes—and that wasn’t something he was willing to do just yet. Everyone expected him to watch Draco—he'd made a pastime of it over the years. But if he left and Harry had to turn his watching to another boy, well… that just wouldn’t be on.

Besides, Harry liked the way Draco looked. He didn’t think anyone else could pull off that indefinable look. He was very pale. Harry liked that—he'd gotten some sun over the summer, what with everyone insisting he 'get out and enjoy life', so when he thought about his tanned skin against Draco's icy white, well, it appealed to him. Aesthetically, of course. Like one appreciates art. Not that Draco was art-like or… anything. Anyway, Harry liked the way he was pale all over, not just his skin. His eyes were very light, almost creepy. From across the Great Hall, you couldn’t see the grey of his eyes, and when the sun streamed down from the charmed ceiling, Draco's pupils would shrink and it was a very aesthetically interesting look. Even his hair was pale, approaching white-blond without embarrassment. On anyone else it would have been strange, like he'd gone prematurely grey or something, but on Draco it just made sense.

Aesthetically.

Over the next few days, Harry watched Draco a lot, not that there was anything newsworthy about that. He noticed that Draco did an awful lot of following and not a lot of leading these days. He certainly wasn’t the Prince of Slytherin as he'd been at one time. Sure, he was always surrounded by friends—or cronies, because Harry wasn’t sold on the idea that Slytherins could even have friends—but he was no longer the head of the group, the one they scrambled after. Now he was one of the crowd, and Harry found he didn’t much like it.

Something had changed. Harry was determined to figure out what.

Potions with Slughorn was Harry's least favourite class. Hermione had confiscated Snape's potions textbook and given it to some folks at the Ministry who'd made a little shrine to Snape the Hero in the Atrium. It included his wand, the book, a few potions phials, his armour-like teaching robes, and the eyes of Nagini floating in a jar as a sort of ironic comeuppance, Harry supposed. Whatever it was, it was damn creepy but Harry had still visited quite a few times. He somehow ended up arguing with the display, feeling a little lost when it didn’t snap back.

Now Slughorn was torn between constantly reasserted disappointment in Harry's sudden lack of potions skills and fawning adulation for his recent defeat of the wizarding world's greatest threat to freedom.

It was a little uncomfortable for everyone, the professor's back-and-forth.

Ron had paired himself with Hermione that year, and Harry's usual partner, a titchy blond girl from Slytherin, was absent along with Daphne Greengrass—Malfoy's partner. Harry had tried to get Dean or Seamus or even Parvati Patil to join the NEWTs level class just so he'd have a Gryffindor partner, but to no avail.

"Mr. Malfoy, please find a partner—this is not a potion you'd like to attempt on your own," Slughorn warned, and Harry's heart stuttered.

With his head dropped in his hands, Harry pretended for all of five minutes that Draco hadn’t sat himself beside Harry and was now unloading his potions kit. He might like to look at the git, but Draco's vitriolic nature precluded Harry getting any enjoyment from speaking to him.

He finally lifted his head when Hermione hissed at him. Without turning, he said to Draco, "You fetch the ingredients and I'll find the page." He expected a harsh rejection of his plan—after all, he was closer to the potions cabinet and finding the page wasn’t exactly time consuming. So his mouth hung open a little when Draco rose and gathered the ingredients without a word.

"Having trouble keeping up your end of the bargain?" Draco drawled when he returned, hands full.

Harry slammed shut his gaping mouth and flushed. He hadn’t even taken out his book, let alone found the page. He did so with haste, giving a triumphant smirk when his task was complete, which Draco met with a very sarcastic congratulatory eyebrow lift.

Draco shouldn’t be able to say so much without actually saying anything.

They worked in silence, for which Harry was grateful. Draco had, indeed, changed once the war had ended, but as far as Harry could tell, he was still an arrogant, prickly git.

While the potion was at a slow point, simmering while they stirred once every seventy-nine seconds, Pansy Parkinson flounced over, treating Harry to a glare before setting her simpering gaze on Draco.

"Hogsmeade this weekend, Draco?" she purred, placing her hands flat on the desk and bending slightly. Harry rolled his eyes and looked away from her classless cleavage.

"I don't think so," he said, surprising Harry. "I think I'll stay in and work on some schoolwork."

"Oh!" she wailed in a high-pitched tone. "You have to come!"

Harry shot a glance to Draco, whose shoulders had slumped a little at the words. He nodded. "Fine. See you then." His voice was monotone and his eyes were unfocused.

That hadn’t taken much badgering, Harry groused to himself. Had Draco always been such a pushover? He couldn’t think of why he was upset that Draco would be going to Hogsmeade, but it rankled him.

Their potion definitely should not be bubbling like that—Harry forced himself to remember the last time he'd stirred. Had it been his turn? No—it'd been Draco's!

"What did you do?" Harry demanded, grabbing the ladle and stirring, but the potion turned from liquid to sludge to a solid, freezing the ladle in place. "Fix it!" The last thing Harry needed was another low score in this class.

"I… I…" Draco's eyes were still glossy and he stared at the potion while shaking his head. "I can't—I don't—" Without another word, stammered or otherwise, Draco turned and bolted from the classroom, leaving Harry to deal with the disastrous potion.

Since Harry couldn’t exactly hand in a phial of the potion—he couldn’t even chip away a chunk for Slughorn to examine—he had to take an incomplete on the potion, even after he explained that Draco had been the one to mess it up.

During dinner, Harry recounted to Ron and Hermione what had happened, but neither had any explanations to offer. Ron seemed disinterested beyond the fact that Draco Malfoy had screwed up, and Hermione was curious but without answers.

Harry watched Draco pick at his food. It suddenly occurred to him that, while at one point Draco had received many owls and packages from home, now there was nothing. That was understandable—his parents were both in Azkaban. They weren’t exactly letting Death Eaters send out care packages. And Draco really didn’t have any other family. Except Teddy Lupin, Harry realised. That sort of made Harry and Draco related, didn’t it? Second cousins or something, maybe, since Harry was Teddy's godfather. Then there was Andromeda, of course. Harry wondered if they'd had any contact. He doubted it, knowing how Andromeda felt about blood purity and those who spouted that rubbish.

Harry didn’t even know if Draco still upheld those ideals. The truth was, Draco was alone. Alone in a crowd of people—and Harry knew exactly how he felt. Most people who won wars didn't go back to school and try to be normal. People looked at Harry like they were waiting for him to burst into an inspirational speech or something.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt a kinship, a connection to Draco Malfoy.

At that moment, Draco looked up from his untouched food and met Harry's eyes. They held across a room full of people, and then both looked away.

That had been strange… Harry decided that he needed to know more about this new Draco Malfoy.

At dinner the next day, Harry was no further along in his new goal, but it looked like Draco was about to remedy that. He approached the Gryffindor table with an air of disgust, but Harry could see it was a cover for his discomfort. He wondered when he'd become able to read Draco so well.

"Potter," Draco said, standing behind him and to the left.

Harry turned and gave him a small smile. It might have been a bit much, for Draco positively goggled, but Harry wanted to end the animosity that had begun when they'd been way too young.

When it seemed like Draco wasn’t going to say anything, Ron prompted, "What do you want, Malfoy?"

Draco nodded, seeming to come back to himself. To Harry, he said, "I spoke to Slughorn and he agreed to let us make up the potion. I told him—" His voice lowered enough that Harry had to lift from his seat a little to hear. "—I told him it was my fault."

"You say that like it wasn’t!" Ron said, leaning across the table. Harry told him and Hermione that it had been Draco to miss his turn stirring, but he'd said it in such a way as to suggest he, himself, would have bungled it eventually if Draco hadn’t. Still, Ron's dislike of Draco hadn’t abated in the face of how pretty he was, unlike Harry's.

Draco didn’t even look at Ron, simply kept his eyes on Harry and awaited a response.

"That's actually great," Harry said; he was relieved. He needed to do well in Slughorn's class to get the highest-level NEWT he could. "When do you want to get together?"

Harry knew he wasn’t imagining things when he saw the rusty blush on Draco's cheeks. He let a small smile tease his lips. It almost felt like flirting.

In a flash, though, or faster than a flash even because at least with a flash there was a warning, Draco's face clammed up and he was visibly shut off. "Saturday morning. Slughorn said we could use the classroom lab."

"Saturday morning—that's Quidditch practise, Harry!"

Harry gave Ron a pitying glance. "We're not even playing," he said, trying to keep his voice low so he didn’t embarrass his friend. None of the eighth years were allowed to play Quidditch so the seventh years could have their chance. Harry'd thought it unfair at first, but he had so much more free time, and it wasn’t like he fancied being a professional Quidditch player anyway. He and Ron still went to most of the practises, though—for moral support, and, in Ron's case, to practise his shouting skills. The team captain would probably be glad for their absence.

Ron slumped down in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He mumbled something, but Harry couldn’t hear him. He turned back to Draco, who was waiting impatiently, a sour look on his face.

"Well?"

"That's fine. Nine o'clock all right?"

"Make it seven. I have things to do and I don't want to waste my entire day on you."

Harry'd been about to give a playful retort when Ron, apparently still sore from the prospect of being Harryless at a Quidditch practise, snapped, "Oh, fuck off, Malfoy."

"Ron!" Hermione and Harry both said together.

Instead of drawing his wand or at least using his razor sharp tongue to utter a biting retort, Draco just turned and left the Great Hall altogether. He walked like he was in a daze, not stomping or storming as he usually would have done in reaction to Ron's words.

Harry left Ron to Hermione's remonstrations and followed Draco. He was walking at a steady pace down the hall, and when Harry ran up and in front of him, his eyes were glassy.

For the first time, Harry actually believed something was wrong with Draco.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked. If Draco had been his friend, he would have put his hands on his shoulders and forced Draco to look at him. As it was, he simply stood before Draco and waited.

When Draco didn’t answer and his eyes weren’t any closer to being focused, Harry lowered his voice and insisted, "Say something!"

Draco gave a sick-sounding laugh and whispered, "Something."

Harry gave a bemused chuckle, but it faded when Draco didn’t laugh with him. Come to think of it, that wasn’t the sort of joke he'd expected from Draco. He furrowed his brows. "What's going on?"

Shaking his head, Draco looked down at the ground, and Harry stepped a little closer. It was obvious that this wasn’t just about a mystery to solve or a clue to some larger puzzle. Something was really wrong with Draco and no one else seemed to notice. No one else cared.

"For Merlin's sake, just tell me what's wrong!" Harry cried. He buried his face in his hands. Why was he letting this get to him? When had Draco become so important? Even as Draco began to speak, Harry overrode him. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

He turned and walked away, but not before he saw relief mingled with defeat on Draco's face.

It wasn’t until he reached the Gryffindor common room that he realised Draco had been answering his question.

He'd been about to do as Harry'd asked.

Say something.

Something.

Oh, god.

Harry needed Hermione.

"You're absolutely sure?" Hermione asked again, her voice hushed so it only carried across the library table to Harry, a pile of books between them.

"Of course not!" Harry dropped his head onto the table from a moderate height. "That's why I asked you," he said into the wood.

"Well, it just doesn’t make sense. It can't be Imperius because you say he's obeying everyone's orders. It could be an obedience charm, but those are extremely literal and wouldn’t have forced him to leave when Ron said… when Ron swore at him." She tapped her fingertips against a massive tome and then seemed to realise the disrespect in her actions and smoothed the perceived wrong with a gentle caress.

"Maybe he just… likes… that. You know… like a sex thing."

The thought woke a number of very interesting and very wrong ideas, but Harry forced them back to dormancy. "It wasn’t a sex thing, trust me. He didn’t look… aroused." This, of course, brought to mind exactly how Draco might look while aroused, and those images were much too easily called forth for Harry's comfort. "He looked really uncomfortable. Pained, even."

Hermione bit her lip. Her next words were tentative, like she was afraid of his reaction. "Harry… Why do you care? It might be nothing, just a series of seemingly related events that have no real connection."

"You think I'm imagining it?"

She sighed. "We went through our entire time here at Hogwarts with battles and mysteries and missions. Do you think that, now that Voldemort's gone, you might just be… bored?"

Hearing Hermione repeat the thoughts Harry'd had ever since they'd returned to school didn’t make him feel any better. Maybe he was—okay, he definitely was. But something was going on with Draco Malfoy.

"You're right," he said. He gave her a soft smile and touched the back of her hand. She looked relieved. "But I really don't think it's a coincidence. Could you just…?"

She turned her hand over and squeezed his. "I'll look into it."

Now that Harry was watching for it, it was more obvious than ever that Draco was, indeed, compelled to follow orders, whether direct or even implied. He was the first to act on instructions in class, he was constantly walking back and forth between Slytherins who called for him to come over, and he even snapped his mouth closed when Harry had thoughtlessly told him to shut up during a tirade against being Harry's partner in potions.

When he realised what he'd done, he thought about waiting to see how long Draco would actually remain quiet. Just to test his hypothesis. But he hadn't been able to do it, so he'd asked Draco to read the next step from the text, and that command had apparently overridden Harry's first careless one.

"So," Harry said while their potion was simmering. "I guess Parkinson likes you, huh?" Harry was bad at small talk even with friends, so the awkwardness that followed was acute. He couldn’t really help it, though; he thought he might have the tiniest of crushes on Draco Malfoy. That pissed him off a little.

Draco didn’t answer. Harry thought that was kind of rude—it wasn’t like he could pretend he hadn't heard him, they were standing right beside each other. Then Harry wondered when he'd come to expect Draco not to be rude to him.

"So… Slytherin's Quidditch team is pretty good, but your seeker's horrible."

Draco stiffened but continued to stare down at his notebook, looking between it and the potion even though he wrote nothing and nothing was happening.

"I mean, he'd be decent enough if it was only about speed, but I really think he has issues with depth perception. The way he grabs at the snitch like it was right in front of him even though it's a few metres away… It's classic, really." Harry chuckled, recalling seeing the poor third year overbalance himself by leaning too far over the end of his broom, reaching for a snitch that was at least a broom's length ahead of him.

"He's new, all right?" Draco snapped, turning to glare at Harry. "And what would you know? You think you're some sort of coach or mascot or something? Standing there, cheering like you were paid to do it. Newsflash right out of the Daily Prophet, Potter—you're not on the team anymore. Get over it."

"There's nothing wrong with supporting my team," Harry said, frowning at his need to defend himself.

"It's not your team, you idiot."

"Hey," Harry said, grabbing the sleeve of Draco's robes to get his attention. "It'll always be my team, even when I'm too old to get on a broom. Even then, though, my sight'll still be better than your seeker's."

"Fuck you, Potter," Draco said, but there was the slightest of smiles on his face.

Harry counted it as a victory and moved on.

It was almost impossible not to confront Draco, now that Harry was almost positive that he was being forced in some nefarious way to follow orders. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that Draco actually seemed nicer this way.

Well, maybe 'nicer' was an unforgivable stretch, but 'more bearable' was pretty close to the mark.

Over the week, the only time they spent together was during Potions. They didn’t so much talk as exchange insults, but they became less barbed and more… friendly, if insults could ever be called such a thing.

On Friday, the day before they were to meet to make up for the potion Draco had ruined, Harry made Draco laugh.

Looking back at it during dinner, he couldn’t even remember what he'd said, which really was unfortunate because it had to have been good. It might not have even been words; it could have been just a gesture or a roll of his eyes at an opportune time. More and more, they were exchanging little gestures like that.

Harry might even be approaching contemplating the possibility that they had the potential to one day become something akin to friends. Maybe.

When Draco laughed, there was no noise, not really. It was little a little huff of air escaping through upturned lips. The exhalation rolled over his very pink tongue (Harry had seen it during one of their arguments when Draco's mouth had fallen open at something Harry had said), through his straight, white, very sharp-looking teeth, to fall against the arm of Harry's robes. He couldn’t feel it— though if he'd been leaning closer, it might have skimmed over his neck—but there was a weight of importance around it, and Harry held on to that.

Of course, Harry had gone and embarrassed himself just before class ended. He couldn’t have left suavely on the high note from that laugh, oh no. He had turn to Draco and say…

Nothing.

Draco had looked at him, waiting. Then he'd given a sarcastic nod, as if to say, Anybody home?

"Hey, Draco…" Harry had said, as if he hadn't already had Draco's attention.

"Yes, Potter?"

"Did you… I mean, er… Do you think that…" To be honest, Harry wasn’t even sure where he was going with his disjointed words. Luckily, he didn’t have to figure it out, because class ended.

Draco stood, his lip giving a sardonic twitch. "If you figure out what you want to say by tomorrow, you can tell me then."

Harry had still been nodding after Draco had walked away.

Now, he stared down into his treacle tart, stabbing it while imagining it was asking him what he had ever done to it.

"Harry," Hermione said breathlessly, sliding into the space beside him. "I think I found something."

They'd both filled Ron in on Harry's theory about Draco. He hadn't seemed interested at the time, but now he was leaning forward to hear them from his seat across the table.

"What?" Harry asked. He shot a quick glance to Draco out of reflex. He appeared to be torn between two conversations, turning his head back and forth to face Parkinson on one side and Theodore Nott on the other. To Harry's surprise, he looked up, and their eyes met once more across the crowded room. It was rather like the romance novels his aunt had liked that he had most certainly not ever read.

Harry looked away first, but only because Hermione was talking.

"There wasn’t a lot of information on it—people who suffer from it don't generally like it known, for obvious reasons. But it's called Imperio Irresistance. Harry, it's a result of being on the receiving end of too many Imperius Curses."

"What does that even mean?" Harry asked, frowning. "And why would he have been cursed that many times?"

"No one really knows why it affects some people and not others, but it would have had to have started when he was very young and gone on for a long time."

"But Voldemort wasn't in power when he was young…" Harry's eyes widened and then narrowed. "His father."

Hermione gave a grave nod. "That's what I think as well. It's very likely that Lucius Malfoy was training him to resist the effects of the curse. Pure-blood families teach that just like they sometimes teach Occlumency."

"But it's an Unforgivable!" Ron hissed, looking appalled.

"When has that ever stopped Lucius before?" Harry said darkly. "So what does it mean, Hermione? He's going to be like that forever?"

"There's a potion he can take to eliminate the need to obey. It basically just heals the misfiring synapses, but it's kind of complicated and it has to be consumed while fresh. Any older than a few days and it won't work, which means it's very expensive. And if Draco doesn’t want anyone to know, there's no way he could commission it for himself."

"But we can…" Harry looked at Hermione, hoping she would confirm his thought.

"Better yet," she said with a smile, "we can brew it ourselves." She leaned back a little, looking pleased with herself. "The main ingredient is extremely rare—Hogwarts doesn’t store it. But remember that amazing potions kit I asked for, for Christmas? I have the ingredient."

"What are you waiting for, then? Let's get started!"

Again, Hermione looked smug. "Already have."

Mornings, Harry decided, should not exist.

He couldn’t even remember taking a shower, but his hair was wet so he must have. His steps were slow and sluggish as he made his way to the Potions classroom. Ron had had to wake him up three times—he'd been dressed and ready to go to Quidditch practice alone, a fact of which he reminded Harry more than once.

Harry knew he was supposed to be thinking about how to approach Draco's situation without getting his glasses shattered by a right hook or a hex. Draco didn’t seem the type to react well to someone saying, I know you have to obey orders. Harry knew he wouldn’t want anyone lording that information over him, so he could only imagine how Draco would take the news. He couldn’t quite make his brain work toward that end, though—it was too busy thinking of commands like, touch me and take off your shirt.

The results of such thoughts had Harry waking fully, so at least there was that.

It was a quarter to seven when Harry reached the Potions classroom. Draco wasn’t there, so Harry opened up his book and gathered the ingredients. He set up the cauldron and began preparing, cutting and slicing.

"You sure you can handle that?" Draco asked from the doorway.

Harry turned to see Draco leaning against the doorframe, an amused expression on his face.

"If you think you can do better, feel free to help."

Draco approached and took the knife from Harry's hand. "Somehow I'm not surprised to learn you're not a morning person."

Harry's hand went to his face and then his hair—was he really so dishevelled? He'd thought he'd pulled himself together admirably, given the circumstances.

Seeing Harry's consternation, Draco laughed that little huff of a laugh and said, "Your eyes were just about closed. Fingertip isn’t an ingredient that will improve the potion."

"A joke?" Harry pretended to be struck dumb. "Amazing. And at this hour."

Draco took the seat beside him. "Not all of us face the morning like it's a Dark Lord instead of a little sun."

"And another!" Harry laughed and leaned in, nudging Draco's shoulder with his own. Unfortunately, Draco didn’t pick up the banter and an awkward silence followed. When it came time to start stirring, they both watched the clock avidly, determined not to make the same mistake as last time. Every seventy-nine seconds, one or the other stirred. Harry tried a couple times to pick the conversation back up, but Draco seemed reserved.

When the potion was finished, Harry scooped some into the phial Draco held and then capped it. They began to clean up, and Harry knew he had to say something. He wanted to get back the levity from when Draco had first arrived, but he also needed to tell Draco he knew about his condition and had a cure for it.

"Draco, listen—"

"Who told you that you could use my first name, anyway?" Draco sounded angry, but his features were drawn in confusion. "You keep doing that."

Harry shook his head a little to clear it from the non sequitur. "I just… like it better, okay?" Harry shrugged. "And isn’t it about time for us to grow up?"

"I've grown up enough, thank you."

The words were sad but said so damn haughtily that Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes. "You and me both, Draco. Are you going to get over it or not? I actually have something to say."

"I have something to say, too: go fuck yourself!"

Frustrated and finally pushed too far, Harry dropped his voice and said, "Why don't you go fuck yourself. "

The effect was immediate. Draco's eyes went wide and his cheeks reddened.

Half of Harry—admittedly the lower half—wanted to see exactly what would come of his instruction.

But he'd proven his point. There was no need to humiliate Draco any further. " Just listen." He knew that directive would countermand the first. "I know about your condition, your sickness or whatever."

Draco's flush disappeared and a dewy pallor replaced it. "What?"

"I noticed you taking direction a lot, taking things really literarily. We looked it up—"

"You told someone?" Draco's voice was wavering between hysterical and lethal.

"Well… yeah, but it's okay, we—"

"I can’t believe you!" Draco stepped back, a hand on his stomach as if it was the only thing holding him together. "Actually, I can. You're always so desperate to be the one to figure everything out. Well, you got me. So, what are you going to do to me, huh? Go on, don't leave me in suspense."

"It's really not like that. We just wanted to help." Harry tried to remain calm, but Draco was getting more and more worked up and Harry didn’t know how to get the situation back under control. And Draco's words hit something inside him—it was true that he'd been eager to solve the newest Hogwarts mystery. He'd even admitted that it was mostly out of boredom. What did that say about him?

"You know, I actually thought you…" Draco gave a sick sounding laugh. "Fuck you, Potter. I don't even care what you do." He turned and left the classroom, the door slamming after him with irritating finality.

Numb, Harry finished cleaning up. He labelled the potion and left it on Slughorn's desk. At least the grade was made up.

He wondered why he hadn't just told Draco to stop.

The last thing Harry wanted was to return to Gryffindor tower and talk about the absolute mess that he'd made of his burgeoning possible friendship with Draco, not to mention the fact that he hadn't mentioned the fact that he had a cure!

Since it was still early enough that most students would be in bed or just making their way to the Great Hall for breakfast, Harry wandered outside. He didn’t really get the opportunity to be by himself a lot. Hermione and Ron, while well meaning, tended to crowd him just a little. He usually didn’t mind, but this was a time that he would much rather just be by himself.

Or so he thought, until he caught sight of Draco, sitting in the shade of a tree by the lake. He had his knees drawn up to his chest and his blond head was lowered. He seemed to be trying to make himself as small as possible, which Harry thought was rather out of character for him; he was usually trying to seem bigger, more important.

Harry approached, not bothering to mask his footsteps. He didn’t want to make Draco feel any more cornered than he already was by his condition.

"Does anyone else know?" he asked, standing close enough to be heard but far enough to not cast his shadow over Draco.

Draco's head lifted and he tilted it in Harry's direction. "No. And believe me, I'm as astonished as you must be that you're the one to figure it out."

"Might have something to do with how much I've been watching you," Harry said. He dug the toe of his shoe into the ground, not looking at Draco. He hadn't planned to make that confession, but he knew something intimate and important about Draco and felt it was only fair to level the Quidditch pitch a little.

"I must have disappointed you with my lack of evil scheming, then."

Harry took a step forward. "That's not… exactly why I was watching."

"Why, then?"

Had it not occurred to Draco at all why Harry might be interested in his comings and goings? Harry'd only heard rumours as to Draco's sexuality, but they were enough to give him hope—had he been misinformed? And even if Draco was gay, he'd probably want some proper boyfriend like Zabini, someone who was smooth and sexy and knew how to talk in that low register that made people lean forward and hold their breath… Harry didn’t really have any of that.

"Because I like you," Harry said. He made an honest Gryffindor of himself and sat on the ground next to Draco. Their robes touched, but nothing else. Harry looked out over the lake, waiting for a ripple to signify the presence of the Giant Squid, but there was nothing.

"You do not," Draco said, scoffing. Then, with less certainty, "Like me in what way?"

Harry nudged Draco with his shoulder like he had in the Potions classroom. "Like you, like you."

"Why?" Draco demanded. But just as Harry was about to explain—not that he fully understand why himself—Draco stood abruptly and brushed off his robes. "If this is some plan to… to humiliate me in some way—"

"Why would me liking you humiliate you?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. He stood as well and did not give Draco his space, stepping closer until the tree was at Draco's back.

"You just want to make me do things—"

Despite the vehement agreement his lower anatomy gave to that idea, Harry shook his head. It really wasn’t about that; his feelings, slow as he'd been to interpret them, had started before he'd discovered Draco's secret. "I wouldn't," he said.

"You could tell me to hurt myself, debase myself. You could have me commit myself to St. Mungo's. You could have me kill—"

Harry grabbed Draco's arms, determined to halt that morbid line of thought. "I wouldn't, " he repeated. "I can help you. We found a potion, something that will reverse the effects—"

"Effects of what?" Draco asked. Harry was just glad he wasn’t leaving, wasn’t even shrugging out of Harry's hold.

"Of the Imperius," Harry explained. The blank look on Draco's face made him frown. "That's what's making you like this… You've been cursed too many times, the residual effects…"

"Oh, my gods," Draco whispered. His wide eyes met Harry's, and Harry was again struck by how eerie they were, so pale and strange. Like Draco himself. "I thought… I thought…" He was shaking his head, but his eyes never left Harry's.

"What did you think?" Harry asked. "Tell me." Draco's mouth opened and Harry immediately added, "If you want to."

Draco just nodded. He looked around for a few moments, seeming to gather himself. "I thought it was me. That that's just how I am. I thought that… I wanted to be led so badly… Or that I was just that weak."

Not really knowing what to say, Harry said nothing. He was astonished at how open Draco was being, and he didn’t want to ruin it by saying something awkward or stupid. After a few minutes, however, it was obvious that someone had to say something—Draco was chewing on his lower lip, and Harry's hands on Draco's arms were heavy and starting to seem inappropriate.

"I don't think you're weak," he said. "It took a lot of guts to come back here, to finish school. And now that you know it's, you know, not your fault… maybe it'll be okay."

Draco nodded, but it didn’t seem like he was agreeing with Harry, just thinking. "It wasn’t just my father," he said after a long time had passed.

"What? That cursed you?"

"Yes. You probably thought that… I mean, if you were wondering who made me this way."

Harry nodded encouragingly, not trusting himself to speak.

"It was my aunt and Snape and the Dark Lord, too… some trying to help, some trying to harm… I didn’t know the damage it could do."

"We can fix it."

The hope on Draco's face was a reflection of Harry's own countenance. "That would… be good."

Against his will, Harry's hands tightened on Draco's arms. It seemed like Draco was about to leave, and he didn’t want that to happen.

"So, what do you want in return for the potion, then?"

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

Draco shrugged, and the movement caused his arms to move a little in Harry's grip, his robes sliding against the palms of Harry's hands. "You have to want something in return. You can't just be doing it out of the goodness of your heart."

"Why not?" Harry asked, affronted.

"Just tell me what you want, all right? I don't have time for games." Draco did seem tired, and from more than just waking up early.

Harry bit his lip, thinking. If he tried to convince Draco, the consummate Slytherin, that he really was doing it with no thought of return, Draco wouldn’t believe him and might not take the help. Bartering was something Draco would understand. And Harry would do whatever it took to get Draco to take the potion and get better so no one could take advantage of him.

"Okay," Harry said, taking a deep breath. "I want you to kiss me. Er, I mean, if you want to. It's not an order. So… just kiss me if you want to and if you don't I'll give you the potion anyway."

To Harry's surprise, Draco smiled. "That's really the best you can do?" He closed the already scant space between them and put his hands on Harry's waist. "Tell me what you want."

"Kiss me," Harry breathed.

Harry had seen Draco try to fight against the orders people unwittingly give him. He would hesitate, his mouth would move to argue, his eyes would go glossy, and he would stiffen.

There was nothing like that now.

Draco leaned forward so fast Harry's eyes were still opened when their mouths met. He closed them hastily, wanting the kiss to be perfect like he'd been imagining for ages. For the longest time, it was like they were both on pause. Harry's hands on Draco's arms, Draco's hands on his waist, their mouths pressed together a little awkwardly. Neither moved.

Harry figured that Draco had satisfied the demand and went to pull away, but Draco's hand cupped the back of his head and pulled him forward. This time, there was no close-mouthed uncertainty. Draco's tongue didn’t even bother waiting at the gate of Harry's lips—it plunged through, and somehow that just seemed to fit Draco.

When Harry's own tongue ventured out to meet Draco's, Draco's retreated. Now he teased—Draco pulled back, smiling when Harry tried to follow, and lunged back to nip and nibble at Harry's lips. Their lips make smacking sounds, just as Harry'd imagined they would. It wasn’t long before the kiss intensified, and Draco no longer tortured Harry but fought alongside him.

Without really knowing what he was doing, Harry backed Draco against the tree. The impact brought their fronts into hard contact, wrenching groans from both their throats.

"You want this, right?" Harry asked, his voice low as his eyes searched Draco's flushed face. "It's not just because—"

"I want it." Draco tried to reignite the kiss, but Harry hesitated. Draco tugged Harry's waist forward, his groin slamming against Draco's, making him aware of Draco's arousal. "I want it, Potter. Get it?"

"Got it," Harry laughed, reassured. His hands were everywhere—one tangled in Draco's hair, tugging on it to give him better access to Draco's lips, the other grabbed at Draco's hip, pulling and pushing him however he wanted.

Draco wasn’t passive. He moved between gripping various parts of Harry's robes and directing Harry's movements even though Harry was certain he was moving enough. He'd never wanted to be so much a part of another person before. Other kisses he'd had were gentle and sweet, but if those were kisses, than this was just… consuming.

His tongue was deep inside Draco's mouth when Harry's brain caught up to his hips. They were grinding against Draco, and every few strokes their cocks would rub together through their heavy robes and it was like electricity.

"You're so…" Harry started, but neither of them got to find out what Draco was, because instead of finishing the thought, Harry attacked Draco's neck and jaw, biting harder than was strictly necessary for a kiss, but Draco wasn’t making sounds of complaint. Actually, the noises he was making were kind of like his laugh: short, sharp exhalations of breath that tickled against Harry's skin and made him bite and suck harder at Draco's neck in response.

Only a split second was devoted to thinking about what they must have looked like at that moment—two supposed enemies pressed against each other, frotting wildly and kissing with a violence usually reserved for a battlefield. Harry didn’t care.

He grabbed at Draco's thigh and lifted it so he could fit more snugly between Draco's legs. Draco groaned and craned his neck to meet Harry's mouth for more kissing. They moved together, finally finding a rhythm that suited them both without affecting the slow slide of their mouths.

"Fuck… don't stop, Potter," Draco said, panting. His eyes were clenched shut and his face was pink, and he wouldn’t stop grabbing at Harry, as if by sheer force of will he could bring them closer together.

"Call me Harry," Harry said without thinking. His own end was imminent, and he sped up, finding delicious and near-painful friction on the inside of his pants.

"Harry, " Draco groaned. He stiffened, and the knowledge that he was coming—coming from what Harry was doing to him, from what they were doing together—brought Harry over the edge as well.

He refused to stop kissing, though. His lips were pressed, unmoving, against Draco's as they fought through the tremors or their shared climax. They shared breath as they gasped together. As they came down, Harry still didn’t pull away, and he was surprised that Draco didn’t make him. He'd spent considerable time thinking about what Draco might be like as a lover. He'd always thought his prickly and snooty attitude would carry over to his lovemaking, but Draco seemed content to just let Harry keep him pinned to a tree and force kisses on him.

"I didn’t really see that coming," Harry said. He gave a rueful smile; it wasn’t how he might have planned it, but it was brilliant nonetheless.

"Really?" Draco huffed a soft laugh. "I've seen that coming, one way or another, for about five years."

"I always knew you were smart," Harry said, laughing. "Oh, and… you don't have to call me Harry if you don't want to."

Draco nodded. He looked a little less sure of himself, and Harry felt the same. In the aftermath, sticky pants and all, what had transpired seemed a little strange. But he didn’t want it to stop. Could he just… tell Draco not to regret it?

Could he just tell Draco to want to do it again?

"About that potion," Draco said. He was looking at the ground that had appeared between them when Harry took a step back.

"Yeah, of course." Harry cleared his throat. "Hermione said it would be done soon. I'll… I guess I'll come find you when it's ready?"

"Please do." Draco's fingers touched his swollen lips, but he seemed to realise what he was doing and put his hand at his side. "And thank you."

Harry nodded dumbly. That was it? Apparently it was, because Draco brushed past him to walk toward the castle. Thinking quickly—or perhaps not thinking at all—Harry grabbed Draco's hand. His fingers were cool and slender, making Harry's hand seem hot and meaty in comparison.

They both looked at their joined hands, Draco quirking an eyebrow as he waited for an explanation.

"You know…" Harry squeezed Draco's hand. "In case anyone else finds out, I should probably be around, just in case. To, you know, override any demands people make on you. Or whatever."

"You don't have to save me," Draco said to their hands. He was frowning.

"I'm not trying to. I just want to be there. If you need me. If you want me."

Draco was silent for so long that Harry's hand started to sweat, and that was so not the way to convince Draco that they should be boyfriends.

"All right. You can be there… Harry."

"Hey, I said you didn’t have to call me that—"

Draco sighed. "I know. I was poignantly implying that I could possibly come around to the idea of us being together. You totally ruined the moment."

"Oh," Harry said, chastened. "Sorry. Can we try it again?"

"No, the moment's gone."

Harry shook his head and started to walk them both back toward the castle. Despite Draco's claim that Harry had ruined it, their hands were still clasped and Draco even walked close enough that their shoulders brushed together.

Harry had the feeling that there would be plenty more moments between them for him to ruin—he'd just have to prove himself useful again after Draco was cured.

At least he wouldn’t be bored.

The end.