Author's Note: Can I just say how sorry I am that I took so long to write this? LIKE SO SORRY. It took me a collective few weeks to write, and I'm not sure whether or not I actually like it, but I'm publishing because I feel horrible enough already... I promise I'll try to be quicker next time. It has been a hectic couple of months!

Chapter 10

"Damn."

Draco pulled the musty sheet from over the cabinet and stepped back, frowning and inspecting it as he did—the old, dark cedar smelled of dust and mold, and it was ominously crooked on the left side. Same as yesterday. He sighed. Ever since his father had told him about this rare connection between Hogwarts and Knockturn Alley, Draco had been trudging up to the Room of Requirement every day trying to figure it out… Well, trying might've been sort of an overstatement. So far, all he'd really done was come up here and stare at it. Draco had informed his father that he was working diligently, but—he gazed up at the cabinet again—it seemed near impossible. The thing was just there, looming, haunting him in reality and his dreams and everywhere in between. Draco didn't know if he could do it. He certainly didn't want to.

But of course, this wasn't about what he wanted.

Draco sighed and turned away from the cabinet, opting to sit down on a nearby stool instead. It wasn't as if he wasn't grateful for the amount of attention he was getting from his father (for a man so determined to have his son be the best, Lucius had never really cared much), but Draco just felt like he was being suffocated in it, and was now floating around in his own miseries, struck and left for dead. It was, well, it was exhausting. He hadn't slept for days, didn't have any of his assignments up to par, and he could tell that his friends were tiptoeing around him as if any minute he could explode. He might.

Draco groaned. His father had told him that he needed to work fast, that time was of the essence, that they were all relying on him—Draco glanced back at the cabinet irritably. Oh, how anti-heroic he would be! Of course, he was stuck between wanting to please his father and not wanting to do this in the first place… the pressure of it all seemed only to create a tedious stagnancy in himself that he loathed with a certain passion. Draco shook his head and stood, not looking at the cabinet as he picked up the sheet and threw it over again. Well, he'd try again tomorrow. And then again the next day. And again. Ugh, it was useless.

Adamantly facing away from the cabinet once more, Draco dragged his fingers across the surface of the stool and gritted his teeth. Why couldn't he do it? Why should he? He couldn't have both his father's affections and Potter's. Not at the same time. Not at all, it seemed—because no matter what he did, he always did it wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. Of course, he'd always prided himself in being perfect, immaculately cultured and intelligent and right, but now he just felt so awful, so wrong, it was as if the world was crashing down around him. Wasn't it? Draco clenched his jaw so tightly, he could almost taste the blood; he hated this feeling, this feeling of hopelessness and inferiority—he hated the way it ate at his confidence and made his head throb and his eyes strain and his heart ache. He caressed the top of the stool absently, images of his father and his mother and Potter and his friends and the cabinet all racing through his mind and trampling every and any coherent thought he might've previously possessed. He wasn't his own person; he was a slave, to all of them. He couldn't even remember what it was that he wanted anymore. And it hurt. It all hurt. So much.

Draco choked back a sobbing noise and bit his lip. He hadn't even realised he'd been sniffling a little. "Why," he murmured quietly. He let his hand curl into a fist and lay still, watching it grip tighter and tighter until his whole arm was shaking violently on the stool's surface. It was so oddly quiet in the Room of Requirement, so lonely, even though a sea of things surrounded him; he might as well be drowning in them. He could be screaming for his life and nobody would hear him. It would be kind of ironic, actually—Draco Malfoy going out like a tree falling in the forest. Draco shook his head and laughed bitterly. No fucking way. He let out a long, loud yell.

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair—he was only a kid, how was he supposed to deal with this? Was it punishment for the horrible things he'd done in all of his sixteen years? Was it simply fate? Draco laughed loudly. Well then, fuck fate. Fuck the Dark Lord's orders. Fuck his father's wishes. Fuck his unwanted engagement, fuck the expectations everyone had of him, fuck the image he was supposed to be. Hell, fuck Harry Potter! He didn't need it. He. Didn't. Need. Any of It.

"Why?" he shouted again. "Why am I so fucking useless?" His voice cracked on the last word, and he slammed his fist down repeatedly, harder and harder, and now the tears were actually streaming down his face like hot wax, burning his flesh straight through to his bones. Gods, Draco hated crying, it was weak—he was weak. And he was so sick and tired of being that.

All he really wanted was, well, too much. He wanted this, he wanted that, he wanted things he couldn't have and things he shouldn't have and things he'd already had. Draco was aware that he had always been spoiled—and shit, maybe he was getting what he deserved. But what was the price of being happy? Of being innocent? That, he couldn't remember, because he'd never really been happy or innocent, no—the only time he'd ever gotten close to that was when he had been with Potter. Fuck. Fuck!

Draco yelled and screamed until his throat started to ache, and gradually he slouched back against the covered cabinet, breathing hard between broken sobs. The side of his hand had red and purple spots blossoming and he couldn't stretch it out properly without wincing a little. Draco bit his lip and let his head fall back as he clenched his fist again. Good. He liked the pain. Maybe if he got enough, he'd toughen up a bit. He snorted silently at that. Sure.

He sighed and lifted himself off the cabinet slowly, grabbing his school bag he had hung on a random coat hanger nearby. He was done. There was no reason to be in here any longer than he needed; it obviously gave him thoughts he didn't want to experience. He pulled out his wand from the front pocket of his bag and placed a quick Glamour on his hand, relishing in the way that his disguised skin glimmered slightly before fading into its normal colour. It looked all right, but it felt like hell—a small price to pay in his brief relapse of self-control. Draco scoffed. Yeah. Brief. Well, he deserved it, and it wasn't as if he was going to go get it Healed or anything.

He began to stride towards the exit now, the familiar checklist of his public appearance running through his brain. By the time he'd reached the doorframe, his hair was perfect, his robes were perfect, his mouth was slack, his nose upturned, and his gaze was cool, bored—positively impassive. As always. Right before he stepped out, though, Draco turned around and glanced back at the mass of clutter and chaos in the general direction of where he'd come from, where the cabinet was still ominously looming. Draco pursed his lips and flipped it the bird. Fuck this, honestly. He was really starting to lose it.

~x~

~x~

"I have heard that your spellwork has improved significantly as of late. Congratulations."

Harry sat still in his chair, shaking his head as the Headmaster silently offered him a bowl of something that looked like black, wriggling pebbles. It was odd, but Harry had gotten used to Dumbledore's eccentricities. The man wasn't called the most powerful wizard in the world for nothing, and if he was, well, his peculiarity wasn't the reason.

Thank you, sir, Harry wrote on his whiteboard. Dumbledore smiled.

"It takes a truly gifted wizard to perform so many exceedingly successful spells in one session," he remarked, moving around his desk to stand before Harry. "You have found your niche then, I presume?"

Harry shrugged.

Something like that.

Dumbledore nodded and turned his attentions towards his bookshelves. "That's wonderful to hear. Although, you have much still to learn—" The man whirled around suddenly with his wand, but Harry disarmed him with a quick flick of his wrist. He looked down at the wand in his hand; surprised at his own agility—when had he pulled that out? Dumbledore smiled again.

"Ah, yes," he said. "Ms. Tonks had mentioned that you had gotten particularly good at that one." Harry tried not to smile. Well then, perhaps he could disarm Voldemort to death—that seemed likely. Dumbledore sat down behind his large desk. "However, she also mentioned that you must expand your dueling skills," the man continued. "Of course, it is one thing to have the ability to perform well in a classroom setting and completely another to be placed in an actual battle situation."

Harry bit his lip. He was no good at wand-to-wand combat. He was instinctive, yes, but he was always too slow to act. He had too much... uncertainty.

How do I improve? he asked.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "Practise, as always. I do recommend that you acquire help from a friend or classmate."

A friend or classmate? Harry felt a slight twinge in his chest. Draco had offered to teach him once, but Harry had been too tired then… Gods, now he wished that he'd taken the chance. Draco was really good at dueling; he was quick and resolute and confident—everything Harry had not been. Honestly, if anyone should be teaching him, it was Draco. He balanced Harry out perfectly… But then again, they clashed much more than they balanced, so perhaps it was a lost cause. Besides, Draco wanted nothing to do with him. Harry shook his head.

I'll find someone.

Dumbledore appraised him for a moment behind his spectacles. "I am sensing a bit of hesitancy, Mr. Potter. Is there… something that you wish to tell me?"

Harry paused again before answering.

No.

Dumbledore stood from his seat and circled around, observing the plants lining his tables. "It is all right to be scared. But I can assure you that you are quite capable of becoming a very powerful wizard." He stopped and smiled kindly at Harry. "Very powerful, indeed."

Harry grimaced.

I don't understand why everyone keeps saying that I'm destined to be something I've never been. I know myself better than anyone, and I've never been a winner. He frowned and bit his lip, worried. I am scared. Really scared.

Dumbledore fiddled with his plants. "And what, may I ask, are you afraid of?" he asked.

Harry looked at his lap. He was afraid of a lot of things—losing Remus, having Ron and Hermione turn on him, excessive public attention, rejection; hell, sometimes, he was even afraid of being late to class. But most of all, Harry was afraid of failure. For such a small, shy, twiggish boy, it seemed ridiculous to be afraid of that—obviously, he'd set himself up for that horrible, gut-twisting feeling on constant occasions, but it wasn't as if he could help it. He hated it. He hated the idea that there were things out there that he couldn't do, hated that there were people out there that he couldn't save. He hated that he was so insignificant—he had all this supposed power, and yet, he was so powerless in so many ways. It was exasperating. Harry had never pinned himself as a hero, no, he'd never been a hero. But in his head, sometimes, he could be. Maybe, maybe, if he were more secure, more intelligent, commanding, resourceful… Only if he were more like—

Draco.

Harry shook his head again. He needed to stop thinking. Dumbledore was gazing at him expectantly now.

I'm scared that I'm going to let everyone down, he wrote. That I'll cause more trouble than good, that there may be lives in danger because of me. I'm scared of killing someone. I'm scared that you're all wrong… Harry felt his lip tremble. He almost didn't write his next words. …that there really isn't anything special about me.

Dumbledore turned away from his plants to face him. "On the contrary, my dear boy, you are special," he said, with a gentle look. "Whether it is because of your magical abilities or of the size of your heart, Harry, you are special. Because you care… Never forget that."

Harry felt his chest tighten and his lips automatically curved into a small smile.

You really think so?

The Headmaster chuckled a bit. "Of course. And let it be known that I am rarely ever wrong." He winked. Harry grinned. He knew that there was a reason that he liked the old Headmaster. "Anyway, I do not wish to keep you from your week-end activities any longer, so you may go," Dumbledore remarked, going back to his desk. "But please, visit anytime. I love to chat."

Harry nodded, standing up from his chair.

Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, I will. Goodbye.

Dumbledore smiled.

Goodbye, Harry, he signed back.

Harry stared at him for a moment before shaking his head and leaving the room. He would have asked how the Headmaster had known about Harry's little skill, or even how he had known that Harry knew it, but it would have been futile—the man was a vault of mysteries. Besides, it was possible that Dumbledore had seen Harry do it at some point; it wasn't as if it were a huge secret. Harry had used it frequently around Draco.

Draco.

Harry paused halfway down the corridor, thinking of the boy again. Damn. It was near impossible not to—and Harry had been trying so hard to avoid the thought lately. Ever since his little revelation, the idea of Draco just made him feel all fluttery and flustered and uncomfortable… and yes, Harry still wanted to kiss the bastard. Badly. Harry sighed and kept walking, a hot blush blooming on his cheeks. It was just so, so unfortunate. And now, Ron and Hermione knew it too—like they needed anything else to pity him for. Honestly, Harry didn't know why he couldn't just keep his trap shut! Metaphorically, at least. His friends probably thought him mental.

"Well, I couldn't just not say anything!"

Harry stopped mid-walk and frowned. Funny, that sounded just like—

"Ronald, keep your voice down!"

Ron and Hermione. Harry peered around the corner to the next corridor and saw the two standing there in the middle of it, huddled together as if they had been previously whispering. There wasn't anybody else around, Harry noticed, but he had noticed that earlier as well—there had been no staring as he walked out of Dumbledore's office. No, he figured that there was a match of some sort going on today; it was a beautiful afternoon. Most students were outdoors. Harry frowned again. Why were Ron and Hermione inside? Before he could step around the corner and show himself, Ron spoke again.

"But he was making signs with his hands to Malfoy, Hermione, I had to ask what they were," Ron said, and Harry froze. Why were they talking about him and Draco? He pressed himself up against the wall and strained his ears.

"It was none of your business," Hermione hissed.

Ron seemed to pout a bit. "But Harry's our best friend," he insisted. "And he never mentioned it. I just think the whole thing is sort of weird."

"If Harry wanted to share that with us, he would've," Hermione reasoned. "Besides, it was nothing. Sign language is actually quite Muggle, I'm surprised that Malfoy knew it."

"It didn't look like nothing," Ron grumbled.

Hermione sighed. "Please, Ron. You're overreacting."

"You weren't there!" Ron exclaimed. "Malfoy started saying all of these things, and honestly, when Harry told us about wanting to kiss the git and all, I actually wasn't so surprised seeing as—"

"Wait," Hermione interjected sharply. "What sort of things?"

Harry wrinkled his nose. Yeah, what sort of things? He tried to think back to the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match, the one where Malfoy had tried to speak with him next to Ron's goalpost, but he couldn't think of anything extremely significant—Harry had been rather focused on not focusing on Draco... and besides, Draco had always spoken like that. Well, to him, at least. Perhaps Ron just wasn't used to hearing Draco say those things. But then again, Draco most likely had not been aware that Ron was listening in… Apparently, the Gryffindor had been.

Ron made a strange noise. "Like I said, it was weird. He said something about how he had not been pretending to care about Harry, and that he was sorry…" he hesitated for a moment, as if he were trying to remember. "Oh, and he was like, 'I meant everything that I said and did with you.' I mean? Is that not just a little—?"

"Suspicious," Hermione interrupted. Harry could just tell that she had that Look on her face.

"And gay," Ron added, sounding slightly incredulous. "Who says shit like that anyways? He's not in a bloody romance novel, for Merlin's sake. What was he talking about?"

"Harry never mentioned exactly what he and Malfoy used to do together," Hermione mused. "Perhaps they had—"

"Oh no they didn't," Ron said. "Remember? They painted. Malfoy is an artist. With an accent mark." He sounded sarcastic. "But honestly, the git was crazy for Harry. It was so obvious, even I could see it."

"Are you sure, Ron? Malfoy just doesn't seem like the type to pine."

"Hermione." Ron's tone was almost somber. "He called him... 'Harry'."

"Oh." For the first time, Hermione sounded genuinely surprised. "But Malfoy only calls people he likes by first name."

"And Harry," Ron repeated.

Hermione seemed to ponder this. "Okay, you're right, it's a little weird," she admitted. "But what are you trying to get at here? Malfoy really hurt Harry, and he can do it again—no, he will do it again. And I am almost absolutely certain that he's going to be bad news, if he isn't already. He simply isn't right for Harry."

"I know, but Hermione, don't you think that Harry deserves something? Hell, the bloke's never kissed anyone before! How sad is that?"

"And what do you want to do, set them up? Honestly, Ron, what are you getting at?"

Ron made a shrill, snorting noise. "No, no! Bloody hell, no. I'm only saying that if Harry wants to, I'm not stopping him. And I…"

Ron muttered something that Harry couldn't quite make out, and then, it was quiet for a few moments. What was going on? Harry peered around the corner to check. Oh! His best friends were embracing—Hermione had her arms wound around Ron's shoulders, and Ron was blushing and grinning down at the top of her head. Harry couldn't help but smile at the sight as well.

"I want him to be happy, too," Hermione said into Ron's ear, just loud enough for Harry to hear it.

Harry bit his lip and turned around to creep back down the corridor he came from, leaving his friends behind. He shook his head. Had he really heard that? Did Ron and Hermione really believe that Draco had a thing for him? Harry shook his head again and sighed. No. It was a naïve hope... They didn't know enough. They didn't know how it had felt to be stood up so many times, how it was to just stand there and play stranger in public; how Draco could just turn his emotions on and off and how it felt never knowing whether or not a 'promise' was just another lie—they didn't know how it had felt to receive a damned letter rescinding a friendship that may or may not have ever been real in the first place, how it felt to sit down and hurt and hurt for hours and days and weeks. Gods, it had torn him to pieces. But of course, Ron and Hermione would never know this, because Harry had at least one thing in common with Draco: he was damned good at hiding it all.

Harry shook his head to clear his mind—he hadn't been paying attention to where his feet had been taking him, and now he found himself stopped in front of the Gryffindor portrait. He signed the password with a sigh. It wasn't as if he didn't want to forgive Draco, he did, but a person could only take so many 'sorrys'—and besides, Harry didn't even know if Draco really wanted to be forgiven; he had a feeling that he didn't. Draco only wanted to feel forgiven. That's all he ever really wanted anyways.

"Oh—Harry!"

He glanced up after stepping into the portrait to find Ginny's lovely face right in front of him. She appeared to have been leaving.

"I was just grabbing my gear, there's a match outside right now," Ginny explained, as if she had known what he'd been thinking. She nodded towards the exit. "Want to come?"

Harry shook his head and took out his whiteboard.

I'm kind of tired. Sorry.

"Are you sure? It's winners take all today."

Harry nodded a bit and moved past her towards the couches. He had just sat down when she spoke again.

"Hey… Are you all right, Harry?" Harry glanced up. Ginny was still standing by the entrance, her brow furrowed as she gazed at him. He shrugged, and she walked over and sat next to him, placing her stuff on the floor. "You can tell me if you're not," she said. "I'm listening."

Harry smiled at her. He hadn't appreciated Ginny enough until now—she was a really good friend to him even though he had never explicitly asked her to be. She had just known. Of course, he had been hesitant to talk to her at first since she was an extremely pretty girl, and he had discovered early on that pretty girls made him rather nervous, but he was glad that he had worked past his anxiety. Ginny was real and she didn't play any mind games—Harry liked that about her.

I'm just a bit frustrated, he wrote. Spellwork is tough.

"Oh, I know," Ginny agreed, leaning back into the cushions. "But honestly, Harry, you'll get it. You're determined."

Harry sighed.

I'm scared.

He was using that word a lot today. It seemed fitting. Ginny gave him a sympathetic squeeze; he hadn't had to say much for her to understand what he was talking about. "You're not alone—we're all scared of things," Ginny declared. "But you know what? If we weren't scared of something, we'd never get anything done."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

You're saying that fear is a good thing?

"Not always. And it can be a right kick in the arse, but sometimes, you need it." She paused. "Ever been afraid of losing something? Failing?"

Harry chewed on his lip slightly.

I guess.

Ginny threaded her arm through his. "You lose everything you don't try for," she stated. "And if you've never failed, you've never lived… That's what Mum says, anyways."

That's an optimistic way to look at it.

"It's always pleasant to have one," Ginny said, smiling. "You're a Gryffindor for a reason, Harry. Be brave."

Harry nodded. She was right. He was a Gryffindor—and he would prove himself, and he would become a powerful wizard, eventually. It was in his destiny. He was meant to be brave and decisive and confident, and if he wanted to achieve this, he was going to have to stop being so reluctant to try. Gods, but it was so much easier said than done. Even for him.

Thank you, he wrote.

Ginny grinned again. "It's no trouble. And if you need anything…"

Harry nodded, placing a hand on her knee.

Actually, could you teach me how to duel?

She looked at him, surprised. "Me? Well, I'm sure there are better candidates…"

Like who?

"I don't know, Malfoy, maybe." She glanced at him carefully. Harry wrinkled his nose.

Ginny, you know I can't ask him.

"All I know is that you had been friends with him," Ginny stated. "And he's the best in the school."

He's out to get me.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Yeah, says who? Ron?"

Harry pursed his lips.

Voldemort, maybe?

Ginny winced, but she shook her head. "So he personally told you that."

Well, no…

"It's for your own benefit, Harry," she argued. "I'll teach you if you want, but…"

Teach me. Please.

Ginny raised an eyebrow and sighed. "Fine. But you owe me."

Harry grinned.

You're the best, Gin.

She smiled and unwound her arm from his, picking up her gear and standing up. He stood as well. "Are you sure that you don't want to join me?" she asked. Harry nodded. Honestly, he didn't think he could handle all the joy and bustle of Quidditch today. She shrugged. "All right. I'll see you at dinner."

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek briefly before giving him another encouraging smile and walking back out towards the portrait to leave. Harry gazed after her, his chest tight and cheeks warm. There was just something about Ginny: she was so sweet, so kind, and yet, so blunt. She said it like it was… maybe that was it. And Merlin—Harry touched his face where she'd kissed him and bit his lip. He'd been joking when he'd told Ron that he wouldn't mind going after his sister, but honestly, it didn't seem so crazy now. Ginny was exactly what he should be looking for. She wouldn't lie to him. She wouldn't hurt him. She would always be his friend.

Harry felt a small pang in his chest as Draco's face immediately popped into his mind. Of course, Harry wanted Draco and his loud laughter and his clever remarks and his sparkly grey eyes and soft skin—Harry loved all of those things. But Draco was so complicated… and Ginny was not. Besides, Harry needed to stop wallowing over things that he couldn't control and focus on his current mission: to become that brave, powerful wizard he strived to be. He was still scared, sure, but Ginny was right—his fear fueled him and he was ready for the challenge now. And really, he hadn't been Sorted into Gryffindor for nothing.

~x~

~x~

Draco plopped down on the couch in the common room; Nott rolled his eyes and walked out, Millicent Bulstrode retreated back into the girls' dorms, and Goyle took one look at Draco's face and scurried away. Draco raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Everyone was still reluctant to approach him… As they should be. To be honest, he was still wound up from his visit to the damned cabinet, and he really did want to be alone.

"Draco?"

He looked up. Blaise, being the brazen motherfucker that he was, and Pansy, being the nosy second, were both standing above him, staring. He raised his other eyebrow at them. Trust the two nuisances to bother him at such a time.

"What?" he asked flatly.

They exchanged glances and sat down across from him. Pansy crossed her legs neatly and gazed at him with an expectant eye.

"Hi," she said.

Draco frowned at her. "Hello."

Blaise continued to stare at him.

Pansy smiled. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Sure," Draco remarked.

"How are you?" Pansy asked. It was clear that she was trying to make pleasant conversation with him to make some sort of point. For what? What did they want? Draco appraised her. He supposed that he could humour them for now.

"Well, I'm—"

"Liar," Blaise cut in suddenly.

Pansy groaned and rolled her eyes. "Blaise!" she scolded. "I told you to give me a minute before you open your mouth."

Draco glared. He should've known. "What is this, some kind of intervention?" he demanded.

"Yes," Blaise said.

Draco shook his head. "I'm leaving."

"Wait!" Pansy gazed at him earnestly. "Before you go... I just need you to know. I… I know about you and Harry Potter."

Draco stared at her in disbelief. "Excuse me?" he asked.

She bit her lip. "Well, you've been acting off lately, and I just had to know what was going on, so I asked Blaise and he told me—"

Draco sat up and gaped at Blaise. "You said you wouldn't tell!"

"I didn't!" Blaise glanced at Draco's expression nervously and flushed a bit. "Okay, maybe I did, just a little—"

"Oh my god, fuck you!"

Pansy raised her hands in mediation. "Draco, it's fine, I'm not going to say anything—"

Draco whirled around to face her. "Oh, like Blaise wasn't going to say anything?" he scoffed. "I swear, the two of you are horrid, evil little—"

"Draco!" Pansy reached forward and grabbed his shoulders. "Calm. Down. I'm not going to make fun of you, for Merlin's sake! I just want to... talk to you about it."

Draco pursed his lips angrily. He wasn't in the mood for talking and he so wasn't in the mood for his gossiping friends. Honestly, where the hell did Blaise get off, telling Pansy about Draco's secrets? And where the hell did Pansy get off, telling Draco she knew about his secrets? Well, the two of them could just get off together—Draco couldn't care less (except not in his dorm… ew). However, his curiousity was getting the better of him…. How much did Pansy know? And how was she going to use her information? Draco sat forward and folded his hands across his lap. Fine. They got him this time.

"I'm listening," he said curtly.

Pansy let out a visible sigh of relief. "Blaise told me that you and Potter had been…" She glanced over at Blaise briefly before looking at Draco. "Uh, friends?"

Draco gazed at her in challenge. "So?"

"So…" Pansy glanced over at Blaise once more. The boy sighed and stood from his place on the couch, as if on cue. Draco frowned. Curious again.

"I'm going to bed," Blaise announced.

Draco glared at him. "As if anybody cares," he snapped, still angry with the other Slytherin boy. Blaise ignored him completely and walked towards the boys' dorms, disappearing into the entrance door with a light click. Draco turned back to Pansy and raised an eyebrow, allowing her to continue.

"How did you do it?" Pansy murmured now, her voice low.

Draco knitted his eyebrows together. It wasn't the question he'd expected—he'd thought he'd receive a 'why' or 'when' or even 'how long', but not this. Besides, Pansy wasn't one for many questions anyway; Draco had always liked that about her. So what was she playing at?

"Why do you want to know?" he asked, suspicious.

Pansy sighed. "Draco. I just…" She glanced down at her lap—a nervous gesture of hers that Draco had caught on early in their friendship—and cleared her throat. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if… If…"

Draco frowned. "If what, Pansy?"

Pansy looked up at him now. "If we, you know… stuck with Harry Potter… I mean, for now. He is The Boy Who Lived, after all—"

"Pansy!" Draco stood up from the couch. "What are you saying? Are you telling me that you've decided to become..." He lowered his voice to a fierce whisper. "A traitor?"

Pansy glanced around quickly and shook her head, biting her lip. There wasn't anyone else in the common room at the moment (thanks to Draco), but she was still careful. They both had to be. "It's not like that Draco," she protested. "I just believe that it would be a good idea to poll our—"

Draco interrupted her, pulling her up from her seat by her blouse and bringing her close to his face, so close that the barely-there words he uttered would be as loud as sirens in her ears. "Listen to me, Pans," he muttered, between gritted teeth. "Harry Potter has absolutely no chance of surviving You-Know-Who. None."

Pansy stared back at him, unabashed. "How can you be so sure?" she whispered. "The ways my mother and father talk sometimes, I just get sort of… I don't know. Afraid. I haven't written them in a while." Pansy paused now, biting her lip again. "I don't think I can do this. Do you know what I mean?"

Draco gazed at her. Of course he knew, he'd always known. Draco had spent almost his entire adolescent life wondering if he could, if he should, if he was doing right, if he even cared if he wasn't. And to see it all now in front of him, etched into Pansy's young, familiar countenance, so tangible and so real… It struck a particular chord in his chest. Draco knew that he had to remain strong for her, for all of his friends who looked up to him, for all of his Housemates who believed in him… Even if it wasn't right… Because Draco had realised long ago that he had a responsibility to, whether he cared or not. He brought her closer.

"No," he murmured. "I need you to understand something. You need to stay where you are. Potter-speculation isn't worth it."

Pansy shook her head. "It doesn't have to be speculation," she argued. "If he had us, he'd have an inside. With your father's position—"

"Us?" Draco repeated sharply. He pulled away from her a bit. "I don't know what kind of barmy ideas you've got stashed in your brain, but I'm perfectly sane and I'd fancy staying that way, thanks."

Pansy pursed her lips. "Honestly, Draco," she said. "You were friends with Potter… from what I've heard, good friends." She ignored as he scowled. "And I know you. You wouldn't just drop a good friend. Especially someone like Potter."

"I would if I had to," Draco retorted. "And I had to. You just don't understand."

"Potter can help us," Pansy urged. "I know it."

"You don't know," Draco said, too loudly. He lowered his voice again. "Potter is weak and insecure; he has his resources, but when it comes to it, it'll be all him. And take it from me..." Draco almost winced from what he was about to say—Potter had been his friend, after all. "He… can't do it alone."

Pansy seemed to inspect his face. Draco tried to avert her gaze, but it was no use. "You're lying," she said simply, after a while. "You think he can."

"No, he can't," Draco insisted.

Pansy raised her brows. "You know he can."

"Just… you can't go with him, Pansy, all right?" Draco snapped at her. "It's not safe. Besides, you'll lose me, and Nott, and everyone else if you do. Now we will leave it at that!"

"No we won't!" she whispered ferociously. "How do you know that there aren't more of us who want out, huh? Why are you so intent on this?"

"Because!" Draco roared. He pulled away from her and clenched his fists to remain controlled. "I… said so."

Pansy took his arm. "Look, I know that you think that it's your job to keep us all in line, but it isn't. It's my life. And even though Potter is a bit off, he's still—"

"He's not off!" Draco argued automatically. "He's… different. It's not his fault."

Pansy gave him a look. "Okay… But listen, Draco. I think he might be a good chance for us."

"The Dark Lord is growing stronger each day," Draco pointed out.

"So is Potter," Pansy said.

Draco frowned. He hadn't told Blaise that Potter had been taking extra Defence classes, so Pansy wouldn't have known that Potter was improving. So how did she? "How do you reckon that?" he asked warily.

Pansy looked guilty again for a moment. "I might've… spoken with Granger—" She glanced at his face. "Briefly! And it wasn't—"

Draco jerked away from her and shook his head. He couldn't help but feel betrayed by one of his best friends, the girl he'd grown up with, the girl he thought he'd known inside and out. And now? She was going to Granger and the Gryffindors, without even telling him first? After all they'd been through together?

"Whatever," he spat. "Do whatever you want. I don't care anymore."

"Please, come with me."

"No, fuck you!"

"Draco, Potter can protect you—"

"He can't even protect himself!" Draco shouted, not even caring if anyone should hear them now; he was too distraught to notice. "He's so vulnerable and trusting, he doesn't understand people, he's too weak, he's too—" He put his face in his hands and shook his head. "You don't get it! Harry—Ah, Potter—He's—"

He let out a dry sob, not unlike the ones from earlier with the cabinet, feeling betrayed by his own stupid, shaking, crumbling body as well. Potter, Potter, Potter—his smiling face and ruffled hair and small hands flashed into Draco's brain; so sweet, so real, so unconventionally beautiful in his own way. Draco just wanted to protect him, he wanted it so badly, and it absolutely killed him that he was actually in fact one of the people that Potter needed to be protected from. It was so cruelly ironic. And it had been weeks since Draco had seen the Gryffindor smile at him, but there was never a moment that Draco didn't wish he could see it again. Pansy didn't understand how that felt and she never would. It was stupid, and it annoyed him, but Draco was upset that she was able to go to Potter while Draco himself could not.

Pansy frowned. "Draco." He didn't look at her. She reached for him again, but he wrenched away. "Hey, come on now," she pressed. "You obviously care about him. At least think about it."

"No."

"Why not?"

Draco whipped his head up and glared at her. "Because, unlike you, Parkinson, I'm loyal to my friends and family," he snarled. "And I have duties that I must fulfill."

"Draco, please don't act like this," Pansy begged.

"We are not friends anymore. Do not call me 'Draco'."

Pansy's lip quivered a bit, a hurt expression forming on her face. "I know that you're angry with me," she said quietly. "But I want you to know that I'll be there when you come around. And so will… Harry."

Draco turned away, pressing his lips together in a thin line to keep from saying anything else he might regret. Pansy was still quiet, and she moved slightly to the left as if she was going to touch him again, but after a moment, she had apparently decided not to. Instead, she turned around and started for the girls' dorms, disappearing down the hallway without another word. Draco didn't move. He was adamantly still for a few minutes; perhaps if he didn't move or breathe or speak, he wouldn't exist anymore. And he could escape his problems… If only it were that easy.

Draco sighed. He didn't want to be angry at Pansy. In fact, part of him wasn't, part of him wanted to drop everything and join her, forget about the cabinet and his father and his duties to his family and just run, run to Potter… and that was what was making him so angry in the first place. Draco bit his lip, his muscles aching from keeping them so tense. He couldn't believe that Pansy, of all people, had turned out to be the one to leave him. Honestly, if Draco had to guess, he would've thought that Blaise would, seeing as the boy was perpetually teetering on loyalties as it was. And Blaise was much stronger and wiser than Pansy was... Draco sighed again. But of course, he wasn't allowed to choose who-does-what anymore. And apparently, this was how it was going to be.

Draco finally moved his arms, swinging them a bit, and turned around towards the portrait to leave. It was well after curfew by now, and he really had nowhere to go, but he didn't particularly care. All he really wanted was to get out and forget everyone—Pansy, Blaise, his father, Potter… Harry. Draco shook his head. Everything was spinning; blurry and wrong, whirling around in his brain like leaves on the Quidditch pitch or rain on a windy day, and Draco was so, so confused. He couldn't deal with it anymore.

~x~

~x~

Gods, he was exhausted.

Harry trudged down the dark, empty corridor, dragging his satchel alongside him on the floor. He had just finished his Defence lesson for the week-end—with Arthur Weasley, no doubt. Of course, they'd not done much spellwork or dueling, as Harry would have hoped... however, Harry had learned more than he ever needed to know about the importance of Muggle power plugs and extensions. He stretched a bit, running a hand through his tangled hair and yawning. Well, now he knew where Ron had gotten his rambling ways from; not that he minded it much. Harry found it rather endearing.

Speaking of Ron... Harry had not seen either him or Hermione since dinnertime; they had both claimed to have a project to complete in the library… Harry figured that they just wanted to talk more, about him. He sighed, scraping his trainers against the stone ground a little. It wasn't as if he didn't appreciate that they were so concerned about him, he just, well, he just wished that they would include him in their secret conversations. Didn't they want his opinion on the matter? Or on anything in general? He shook his head. Well, he supposed that they would converse with him when they were ready…

Harry turned the corner into the next corridor and stopped—there was a dim light coming from under one of the classroom doors, just a sliver, and he tilted his head a bit and frowned. Why did this particular classroom seem familiar? Was it a professor's? Harry wasn't aware of any classes on this floor… He had previously believed that all of the rooms were unused. Perhaps he had explored here? Harry shook his head again and started towards the door, curious. If it was a professor, which he doubted, he could easily get Mr. Weasley's confirmation that he had been out after curfew for his lessons. If not, well… Harry crept up to the door and turned the knob, cringing at the creaking sound it made as it moved. He pushed on the wooden door and peered inside. There was a loud crash.

"OH!"

Harry bounced backwards in surprise at the voice, hitting his head against the hard side of the doorframe. What was that?

"Oops—ha, ha. Who's there? I demand to know!"

Harry frowned and looked inside again, his eyes widening with panic and disbelief at the sight in the front of him: it was Draco Malfoy, his robes spread open and his clothing tattered and unbuttoned, his blond hair a mess, his face bright pink; a confused grin plastered across his face as he teetered towards Harry, a bottle in each hand. Merlin's beard, Draco was piss drunk! Harry had never seen Draco anything more than tipsy—at least, while he had been sober himself.

Harry inched into the doorway now, still frowning, and Draco looked as if a ghost had appeared. "It's… I…." he stammered. "It's you?"

Harry shut the door behind him, afraid that the noise would attract a prefect or teacher, and shook his head.

What the hell are you doing? It's after curfew.

Draco stared at Harry's hands for a few moments, as if having trouble deciphering the words, but he seemed to do it well enough. Obviously, his drunken state hadn't affected his ability to read. "I… don't know," Draco said now, looking even more confused and remarkably less happy. "I'm just trying to… I don't know."

Harry glanced around the area. Now he remembered where he was—this was the classroom that Draco had first discovered Harry in on his first day at Hogwarts, and Draco had yelled at him—Harry remembered then, the desks had been lined up perfectly. Currently, they were all pushed to the side to reveal crates of bottles; Harry figured that it was the Slytherin stash Draco had once referred to him. He shook his head and reached for the bottles in Draco's hands.

Give those to me. You need to go to bed.

Draco watched him and shook his head as well. "No," he said stubbornly, stumbling away from Harry. "You can't tell me what to do. I'm Draco Malfoy."

Harry rolled his eyes.

Seriously. Give them here, Malfoy.

Draco paused, as if recalling something. "It's Draco, you know," he said quietly.

Harry bit his lip and held his hand out.

Draco, give me the bottles.

Draco ignored him and sat down on a desk, eyeing Harry speculatively. "Sit with me first."

Harry bristled. As much as he wanted to talk to Draco again, this was clearly a horrible idea. Draco was drunk and highly inebriated, and to add to that, Harry was supposed to be angry with him. However, Harry couldn't just leave him here—Draco could get hurt on his own. It wouldn't be right. And besides, Harry had to admit that he was curious as to the reason why Draco had gotten so pissed in the first place. Perhaps it couldn't hurt to stay awhile... He sat down on a nearby desk and crossed his ankles.

"Hey," Draco said, scooting his desk closer to Harry's. "Potter…" Harry tried to turn away from him, but Draco grabbed his arm, therefore dropping the bottles onto the floor with a muffled crash. Harry looked down at them—well, that solved that problem. Draco let go of Harry's arm gently. "Don't move," Draco murmured. "I want to look at you."

Harry frowned.

Why are you talking to me all of the sudden? Aren't you supposed to be ignoring me?

Draco tilted his head. "Trust me, I've been trying," he remarked. "It's rather difficult not talking to you, I hope you know. And I've been… preoccupied lately." He made a face at that. "But I think I've made a mistake."

What?

"I know," Draco said distantly. "There was some stuff going on, and then Pansy said something to me earlier that made me think… I'm not very strong, you know?"

Harry gazed at him. Draco was looking off a bit to the side, fiddling with the sleeve of his button-up and biting his lip absently. His legs were crossed as he sat on the desk, one shoe on and one sock off, a few strands of hair falling over his temples, and Harry could hardly remember a time when Draco had appeared more disoriented than he did at the moment. It was sort of… refreshing. And honest.

I know what you mean, he signed.

Draco smiled a little. "I know you do," he remarked. "And I hate that."

Harry inspected him.

Why?

"You don't deserve all of this shit." Draco laughed, somewhat bitterly. "I mean, some of us do, but you… you don't. Not at all."

You don't either.

Draco laughed again. "Yes I do," he said. "You really don't have to say things like that. I know you don't like me much anymore."

Harry shook his head.

I mean it. You don't deserve to feel this way.

Draco chewed on his lip. "I'm not a good person, you know," he murmured. "I'm not going to do good things. I apologise to you in advance."

You can do good things if you want to.

"So I've been told." Draco sighed. "But it's not really about what I want, you see."

What do you want?

Draco seemed to be staring at the wall across from him. He shook his head. "I don't really know," he admitted, less slurred than the rest of his speech. But then he looked up at Harry earnestly. "You, mostly."

Harry blushed and looked at his lap. Draco's grey eyes only seemed to burn right through his skin, like flames to ice. Of course, the Slytherin had always seemed to know what to say and when to say it, but right now… Draco was just talking—no boundaries, no double-meanings, no distractions… and Harry didn't know what to say. It was so real that it was almost... unbelievable. He glanced back at the other boy, who was still gazing at him intently.

Draco, he signed.

Draco smiled a little. "Harry," he said softly. "I miss you."

Harry's heart fluttered even though he didn't mean for it to. He decided that it wouldn't hurt to be honest back, at least for now.

I miss you too.

Draco's smile grew, but his eyes were still sad. "I'm sorry."

Harry shook his head.

Why do you always apologise? Why can't you just not do these things in the first place?

"I don't know." Draco scoffed. "For a bloke who doesn't apologise much, I do it a lot, don't I?"

Yeah.

Draco scooted his desk closer still, combining it with Harry's now, and lay down on them like a bed. He looked up at Harry. "I don't want to be like this, you know," he whispered. "I wish I could stop and paint with you forever."

Harry let Draco reach up and touch his face to draw the lines of his features; Draco traced the bridge of Harry's nose, his cheekbones, the scar on his forehead—all in slow, precise order. It was as if Draco was painting a picture. Harry's skin tingled beneath Draco's touch. The blond smiled sleepily.

"Hey, Harry?"

Yes?

"You make me feel... not useless," Draco confessed.

Harry sighed. He knew the feeling so well, it didn't seem right to tell this honest, raw Draco. Of course, he didn't want to forgive Draco for all he'd done—again, it just didn't seem as if it would do any good; Draco didn't want forgiveness. But it didn't stop Harry from hoping that he would. Draco seemed rattled, almost frightened, so different than the usual calm and composed that Harry was used to seeing. Perhaps the Slytherin had had a subconscious change of heart?

Harry looked down at Draco, ready to pose another question, but the blond was already rapidly falling asleep, his hands now folded up under his head and his eyes fluttered shut. Harry frowned and reached forward to shake Draco awake again, but after another glace at the peaceful expression on the boy's face, he stopped. It couldn't hurt to have one more night with Draco, could it? Besides, Harry knew that Draco would wake up the next morning and not remember a thing, or perhaps remember every single detail—and either way, he'd be gone before Harry could move a muscle. Harry wriggled down and rolled over on his side to fit onto the space next to Draco, letting the other boy move in and wrap an arm around his waist. He watched Draco's face for a few moments, letting himself smile a bit before cuddling in closer—if he was only going to have this now, he might as well make the best of it.

Author's Note: There, a long chapter. I apologize again for the lateness! I really hope that this chapter makes sense and is going along with what I've already written, because honestly, I did not reread the last chapter before this and I don't know if it fits (I probably shouldn't admit that but I'll be honest with you guys). Anyways, I was going to make that last Harry-Draco encounter more angsty, but I decided, hey, I think I'll give it fluff instead. Fluffy kitten Draco. I mean, we can only have so much argument and trouble, right? (no? I CAN WRITE MORE IF YOU WANT). And what do you guys think of Ginny? Pansy?

AGAIN, I'm SO SORRY, and I hope you enjoy this. I PROMISE that I'll get my next chapter out sooner than this one. ACK.