A friendly note: All canon following Goblet of Fire is herein disacknowledged; that is to say all things vis-à-vis war and impending war.

Intolerable

by Jacob Oliver

Chapter I.

Draco Malfoy, having too much regard for his unflinching character and incontestable superiority, could not allow for any mere tempest to frighten him indoors. Whereas all the others had cowered beneath sheets and eiderdowns, Draco Malfoy―fearless, powerful, blonde―stepped into the bitter downpour with only partial concern for his cashmere. It was, after all, 'dry-clean only'; and rain, as far as he knew, was not very dry at all. Still, as a testament to said fearlessness, he displaced his anxieties and took to the Quidditch pitch, where, in having recently perused a copy of The Most Dangerous and Deadly Quidditch Maneuvres, he was determined to practice every one that did not result in either serious injury, minor bruising, chaffing of the thighs, or the potential tearing of any seam in his greatcoat.

Upon arriving, however, he quickly apprehended that he was not alone on the pitch and, to his great provocation, that the attending party was a troupe of Gryffindors. Draco counted three of them hard by, all zipping about the air without any consideration afforded to grace or finesse. He recognised all of them, though of the first two he wasn't particularly acquainted: he knew only that they, both of them, were of half-blood families; that the one nearest the goalpost was called Thompson (or was it Thomas?); and that the one carrying the flask was decidedly Irish and, Draco wagered, played the fiddle. And, as for the remaining Gryffindor, whom of the three he found the most detestable, and most shabbily dressed, Draco knew all this of him: that he was a stinking, red-haired peon of a person whose large and unwashed family, though pure in blood, was nevertheless baseborn and ignoble on every account.

Draco scowled when he heard their voices, chirruping in the air like diseased fowls, happy despite their inferior stations in life and bloodline; and although he thought it most insupportable to have to wait his turn behind them, Draco knew that he certainly could never be seen flying about beside them. Thus resigned, Draco took to the grandstand, where, climbing up the steps amid the steady patter of rain, he heard the sound of a familiar voice echo somewhere in the near distance.

"We've been friends for a long time now…"

Indeed, at the far corner of the stand sat a boy—alone, Draco observed, and talking to himself. Curiosity betook his better judgment, and, creeping ever closer to this doubtless mentally unstable individual, Draco perceived him to be none other than Harry Potter. But why should he be here, and so very far away from his friends?

"I know I shouldn't have kept it from you, Ron... Ron, I know I shouldn't have kept it from you, but I wasn't sure you'd understand..." He released a strangled breath and drove a hand through his dark, ill-kempt hair. "No, that smacks of accusation."

It had now become apparent to Draco that Harry was indeed not talking to himself, but was instead rehearsing some decidedly painful confession; and, as pleased as Draco was to be present for such delightful anguish, he was equally disappointed that Harry was not bound for St. Mungo's after all.

He listened on persistently, excited by this little adventure of espionage, but also grew rather wearied by Harry, who continually stopped and started, went around in circles, and ultimately refused to come to the point. Nevertheless, Draco speculated, if it were indeed so difficult for Harry to speak aloud, and if he had been so fearful of it that he deprived even his closest friend of its details, then even money could not price this most shocking of secrets. Now, if only Harry would stop his fidgeting and come straight to it!

But, unfortunately for Draco, Harry did not, for he, not without first stomping about in his frustration, mounted his broom and flew off into the harsh and cold. Draco was not to be discouraged, however; he would uncover Harry's private ignominy should it take pursuing him all the day or surveilling him all the night. Thus inspired by this keenest determination, Draco mounted his own broom and, smoothing away his fringe, shot off after the ever-afflicted Gryffindor.

He found Harry by the lakeside, seated under the drips and drops of an overhanging willow. The rainfall here was boisterously loud and barraged the surface of the lake relentlessly.

Draco alighted on muddy soil, which, had his detective work not been so engaging a task, would have caused him much distaste and ill-humour; but, as circumstances were such that his concentration was occupied entirely by Harry and his undoubtedly mortifying secret, Draco was too busy creeping toward the willow tree to be the wiser of it.

Moving quietly along the trunk of the willow and finally hiding himself behind low-hanging branches, Draco strained an anxious ear toward the other boy. "I do hope it's awfully disturbing," he whispered to himself in a childish sort of glee, "something so vulgar, so abominable of which he'd never live down." Draco's well-wishes were interrupted, however, as Harry began, once again, to speak aloud his confession.

"Ron, there's been something I've been meaning to tell you... Ron, we've been friends for a long, long time, and what I have to say will likely come as shock, but I—I think I—"

It took every modicum of temperance and restraint for Draco not bound out and simply shake the secret from him. Why did Harry dawdle so? Was his secret so reprehensible that, even in his solitude, he dared not utter it? But even as Draco's patience wore thin, his curiosity advanced doubly so. However long it took, Draco resolved to wait and listen on.

"Ron, please don't be angry at me. Depend upon it, I am still the same person you've known all these years. So it shouldn't matter that I'm... Ron, why should it matter that I'm... Oh, for fuck's sake, I'm a queer bent bum-boy!"

Harry and Draco clasped their hands over their mouths at the very same instant; and although the action itself was corresponding, the basis was in fact wholly dissimilar, for while the former clutched his lips in a profound shame, the latter, with all due propriety, held it closed in utter delight.

But could it be so? Could it be that the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, he whom the wizarding world relies upon to vanquish the Dark Lord,—could this very same person be, of all things, a nancy-boy? And yet it was all true; Draco had heard him with his own ears and so had no reason to believe otherwise.

Above all his contemplation, however, Draco was all gaiety, and could only just repress the urge to break into endless laughing and amusement. Indeed, such delight taken at the expense of one's bitter nemesis soon surmounts all temperance; and as this was such a circumstance and as Harry was such a nemesis, Draco freely displaced all forbearance and was ready to convey to Harry all his shock and jollity. Before he was able, however, there was a great whooshing heard overhead, and the three Gryffindors of Draco's earlier disdain arrived and greeted their dark-haired friend.

They descended to a low hover beside Harry and expressed their surprise to have found him here rather than at the grandstand, where he had formerly told them he should be. Harry was immediately all apology, contriving some rather paltry explanation of his having wanted some time to himself, but adding that he should happily attend them now. They accepted without much reflection and, eventually dismounting their broomsticks, remained for some time on with him talking idly about various masculine subjects such as Quidditch trading cards and bodily malodours. It was no great surprise therefore that the subject of girls arose, and each boy detailed, with uncommon specificity, the figure and appearance of their ideal girl. Soon it came upon Harry to relate his own description, and with much difficulty, to be sure, he endeavoured to produce one.

"My ideal girl," he began slowly, hoping to draw inspiration from what the others had said, "is, no doubt, beautiful." He looked to them, hoping that this would suffice but, as they all appeared to be in anticipation, added, "She would have to be a rather agreeable sort of girl and polite and it wouldn't hurt if she were fond of Quidditch."

They were all, Harry noticed, looking at him rather strangely, and at this he reddened a little, uncertain of what further to contribute until Ron finally inquired as to her physical description.

"Oh yes!" Harry returned with new determination, "her body, of course. Well, surely I'd like her, for example, to have long, flowing hair..."

The boys nodded their agreement.

"Yes, and certainly, she ought to, I imagine, have bright, sparkling eyes..."

They concurred that eyes were indeed a most valuable asset.

His friends' approval inspired in Harry a greater confidence, and he continued on in a manner more animated. "And she must have pretty hands and healthy fingers and—strong elbows!"

It had not been long after their discussion that Harry and his friends departed the lake and flew back to the castle; and Draco, who had hitherto remained concealed, emerged from behind the branches, shaking off the foliage and feeling all the amusement of having spied on their conversation. No longer did there prevail in Draco any doubt concerning Harry's confession; and, after collecting his broom, he flew back to the castle satisfied that Harry's perfect ineptitude at the subject of girls was only further testament to his true preference.