Mask of Innocence

~*~

His chime-like laughter still rings in my head even hours after we part. Those eyes of his are so beautiful, positively sparkling in his good mood. Dare I hope that something I've done put him in such a humour? How I would love to be the cause. To be the one to make him smile and laugh each day, so carefree and happy.

I want him to notice me. I want him to look at me and touch me. I want him to smile only for me. I want him to watch me as much as I watch him. I want him in all ways. I want him in any way I can get him.

He is lovely, a jewel in the sea of faces. He deserves to be worshipped, for his beauty, his grace; his presence alone deserves as much...

~*~

Life was quiet at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the following week, what with Draco Malfoy avoiding the Boy Who Lived like the Ebola virus. Or the third round tryst of the Bubonic Plague, which was actually quite a funny tale, according to Professor Dumbledore, who would tell you that the real cause of the so called 'Black Death' was in fact an unexpected byproduct of one of Abernathy (the namesake of Dumbledore's brother, the illiterate Squib-ish one who had an odd fascination with goats, and their Great-Great-Great-and-then-some uncle) I's experimentations on the medicinal uses of bezoars. To his (Abernathy I's) dismay, he discovered that when bezoars were boiled and left to dry in a pot of sifted sarsaparilla for sixty-one days, they would emit a stench that smelled something awful and basically cause boils to raise on anyone who happened to encounter the smell. Quite rank... but you get the picture.

And of course, as Harry Potter's attitude towards the Malfoy heir had always been more reactive than proactive, the quiet was a peaceful one, not one of those awkward, tension-filled, "Draw, pard'ner!" from High Noon types of silences. Great movie, by the way, even if the townspeople were a bit spineless. Yep, all's quiet on the western front, and in this omnipresent and disembodied voice's humble opinion, this horse is beaten well and dead.

So, moving on.

Draco was in pain. Terrible, unimaginable pain. He had broken a nail in Herbology Ⴞ no, just kidding. Ahaha... ahem.

What was he to do about Potter? For now, Draco swung precariously between going up to him and kissing him (with fanfare galore) or murdering the bastard in his sleep (also with fanfare galore, though it'd be quieter to suit the stealth aspect of the task). In short, he had no idea what to do in regards of Harry Potter and the Incident. So he hid.

If Draco had ever deigned himself to watch a Muggle movie, in particular one of those spy-types, he would have laughed himself into an early grave at the likeness of his own behaviour to any one of the many paragons of espionage they portray. He slinked. He skulked. He darted from shadow to shadow. He tiptoed around corners. He avoided the obsidian-haired Gryffindor at all costs. It was as if a little invisible voice followed him around all day and hummed 'Pink Panther' incessantly with all the dramatic flare of a gay interior decorator.

At meal times, he often sent out feelers (read: Crabbe and/or Goyle) to see whether it was safe to enter the Great Hall. When they asked him why he had to eat either before Potter arrived or after Potter left, he told them it was all part of his nefarious plot to drive the Gryffindor insane with suspicion and paranoia. About an hour later, Vincent approached him and asked him if paranoia was the name of a disease Draco was planning to curse Potter with.

The run-and-hide routine held out for little more than five days when Draco overheard the Weasel as he dodged behind a statue of Snelgdon the Smug.

"Can you believe it, Harry, this is the best week I've had in seven years! I haven't seen Malfoy since last weekend," he said giddily.

Draco barely stopped himself from scoffing at the impertinent plebe. He should be so lucky to be graced with the presence of a Malfoy; Merlin knows that being insulted by Draco was the closest a Weasley would ever come to class.

Potter 'hmm'ed noncommittally and the pair rounded the bend in the hall and disappeared down its length, leaving behind only echoes of the Weasel's expressions of joy.

Behind Snelgdon, Draco seethed with indignation. All of his careful dodging had only merited a 'hmm'? That was hardly adequate. Couldn't Potter put a little more feeling into it -- show some modicum of concern at his absences? The Gryffindor had kissed him after all, and disregarding what he said post-snog, that had to show that he meant more to the raven-haired boy than a mere 'hmm.'

That does it, Draco silently resolved. To hell with hiding. It's too much effort if he isn't even going to take notice and fret like he was suppose to. Never mind the fact that hiding was all about going without notice.

Well, we can't have Weasley enjoying himself too much, can we?

~*~

So it was with confidence, poise, and Wizarding Armani that Draco Malfoy marched into the Great Hall, head held high and proud. Crabbe and Goyle trailed at two paces behind and out like the good mindless cronies that they were. Though when he bothered to show up at meal times, he usually entered the dining hall in a similar fashion, but either because he'd put special effort into looking daunting today or just because it was Hogwarts and they were who they were, a few first-year Hufflepuffs broke into tears of terror, someone at Ravenclaw shrieked, Dumbledore looked amused, and a muffled roll of thunder sounded from the enchanted ceiling above.

There were actually some very reasonable causes to the aforementioned phenomena, and in order of appearance, were:

Poor Eloise Midgen's grandmother (their whole family is magically accident prone, really rather sad) had accidentally hexed herself and broken a hip and her little sister, who was an ickle-firstie, was lamenting the injury and being comforted by sympathetic classmates;

The Ravenclaw who shrieked was provoked by a lapful of hot buttered peas that someone sitting close to him had knocked off the table quite unintentionally, or so she would have him think, but was in fact very vexed with him for cheating on her with the boy sitting on his other side;

It's Dumbledore. When did he not look like he was in on the cosmic joke that some unforgiving deity is playing on you?

And lastly, it was a rainy day (in Scotland, what day wasn't a rainy day?), and thunder was due at one point or another.

But of course, as a Malfoy, he couldn't possibly submit himself to the logic of rationality. He knew that all three events were timed exclusively for the purpose of making his entrance all the more dramatic. Not that his astonishing good looks and beautiful hair weren't dramatic enough when foiled against a hall filled with commoners and peasants.

Draco sat down at the head of the Slytherin table with a flourish of his Armani robes, carefully arranging them so as to minimize wrinkles in the silken material. He couldn't care less how much work the house-elves had to do to smooth after he'd worn it, but he was loath to walk about in rumpled clothing... which could very much explain why he indulged in practically hourly changes of attire.

Many people stared. Draco smirked and caused quite a few of those to swoon.

~*~

A couple seats down from Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who were fanning themselves as they gazed fervently at the head of the Slytherin table, Harry was choking on a combination of oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon dioxide. It was a good thing he didn't have anything tangible in his mouth when Malfoy came in, otherwise Seamus, sitting across from him, would have been covered with it. As it was, he was having a little trouble eating, and more importantly, breathing.

It wasn't that he was stunned, per se. Harry knew Draco Malfoy was a very attractive person. But he was confused by Malfoy's dubious behaviour as of late and had been mulling it over when the blonde had made his grand entrance. That was what took him by surprise. That, and the fact that every hormone in his body was standing at attention (not to mention another aspect of his anatomy as well), screaming "Shag me!" at the epitome of sex that was Draco.

Though his body seemed keen on forgiving the Slytherin for doing what he had done, Harry's pride was still a little sore, even if he already exacted revenge, one which was very satisfying and enjoyable. Then he started to drool, for in thinking of the kiss, he began imagining what would have been even more enjoyable, like Draco down on his knees begging for... ahem, his forgiveness. Yes, his forgiveness.

Some tiny part of him that was still capable of rational thought snarked that his 'forgiveness' seemed only amenable when his trousers were absent; Draco seemed more forgivable too when he was lacking in clothes.

Oh, yes, Harry is liking the apology Draco was giving him in his mind.

"Harry?" Ron's hesitant voice cut through the haze of lus--err, mercy clouding his mind. "Your elbow is in your mashed potatoes."

And indeed it was, but somehow, Harry couldn't be bothered to care. Disturbed by his unperturbed attitude, Hermione shot him a worried look. The black-haired boy took no notice of her concern and merely continued in his starry-eyed gaze, unaware of everything that was not an aristocratic Slytherin with ice-blonde hair and stormy-grey eyes.

~*~

/Of all the nerve!/ Draco thought huffily. Outwardly he was the same prince holding court as any other day, but inside he was fuming at a certain Gryffindor's insolent audacity. /First he kisses me and insults me for it, and now he dares to stare at me! The peon.../

As the meal went on, the burning sensation of Potter's heated gaze did not cease, and perversely became more and more concentrated, searing Draco's skin. Finally, when it seemed like dinner would pass peacefully, if not peaceably, Draco's patience ran out.

Slamming his fist down onto the table with typical drama, Draco shot up out of his seat. The back of his knees hit the chair with such force that it went flying back, landing on its side with a sharp 'Crack!' Without turning towards the Gryffindor table, he ground out in a quiet, chilly voice that carried despite its lack of volume, "What is your problem, Potter?"

All of a sudden, the gentle murmur of conversation stopped and dead silence blanketed the Great Hall. Tumbleweeds rolled by in a slightly ominous fashion.

Harry blinked. It had been so long since Draco initiated any verbal interaction between them without using the words 'Mudblood,' 'Weasel,' 'Scarhead,' or some other variations thereof that it took him a while to realize that yes, Draco was actually talking to him.

"Um... What?" he returned wittily. Harry, in contrast, was only audible due to the quiet, and sounded as if he didn't particularly wish to be heard at the moment.

Draco turned sharply on his heel and stalked (really the only word that could describe his gait) across the hall to stop at Harry's side and roughly pull the boy to his feet.

"I said," he hissed into Harry's ear as he hauled the boy closer, "what, is your bloody problem, Potter?"

Confused by the ferocity of the blonde's tone, Harry stammered, "I erg... I..."

"Ahem."

Like reflections of one another, they both turned to face the source of the interruption. It was Headmaster Dumbledore. The rest of the school, student and faculty alike, watched the unfolding drama avidly.

"Is there a problem, boys?"

Silence.

In the blink of an eye, Draco's visage melted into one almost resembling congeniality and clasped a friendly arm around the shorter Gryffindor's shoulders. "Not at all, Professor," he said with a smile, squeezing on Harry's neck and shoulder in a powerful but subtle contraction of his arm. "Right, Potter?"

Harry chuckled weakly, not at all nervous in the least. He shook himself out of the 'deer caught in headlights' pose he'd been stuck in and supplied, "Erm... right. You see, Professor, er, Malfoy was just..." he trailed off into a choked sound as the blonde's arm tightened. "That is, I have this nasty cough--" and here he let loose a pathetic noise not unlike that of a dying cat "--and Malfoy was just concerned like a good Head Boy should be," he finished in one breath.

Dumbledore, with a twinkle in his eyes, surveyed the scene. Harry had never been able to lie, not with his expressive face, which now had 'guilty!' stamped across it in bold gothic letters. Draco on the other hand, wore his face like a mask and his eyes like mirrors, showing nothing to an observer but his own reflection. But the Headmaster was no ordinary stander-by, and what he saw in those slate depths made him smile.

"It's so nice to see you two getting along." Somewhere behind the snowy-headed professor, Snape gave a great snort of disgust and disbelief. "You're setting a wonderful example for your fellow housemates, boys. However, I do believe that a secluded setting might be more appropriate, hmm?"

Draco nodded courteously and most agreeably replied, "Of course, Headmaster." Turning to Harry, he clapped his hand down on the shoulder he held, making Harry wince at the force. "Shall we continue our amiable rendezvous privately, Harry?"

His eyes dared the Gryffindor to refuse.

The blatant challenge raised Harry's hackles, and with a returned glare, he bit out through a plastered-on smile, "I'm up to it if you are, Draco."

"Wonderful!" Dumbledore exclaimed, and made his way back up to the staff table as the two boys walked out of the Great Hall, each sticking as close to the other as possible, trying to make the other move away first.

"Well, that's taken care of," said the professor as he approached the faculty seating.

Snape shook his head and muttered something about "crazy old coots" and their "crackpot plans."

Dumbledore sat back down at his chair, and with an innocently knowing smile, asked the Potions Master, "What was that, Severus?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing, Headmaster."

~*~

"What in Merlin's name do you want, Malfoy?" Harry asked exasperatedly as he was grabbed by the front of his robes, once again in as many days.

They were standing in an old abandoned classroom in the western corridor on the fifth floor, having ended up there quite accidentally. Draco was holding the Gryffindor by his lion-crested robes and red-gold tie, glaring right into his face and holding him quite close. Harry decided that this was happening much too often for his comfort. It was awful: he was already short, but standing toe-to-tiptoe with Draco, who was an easy five feet eleven, was making him feel tiny.

Looking menacingly down into Harry's face, the tow-headed boy growled. "I want to know what. Your. Prob. Lem. Is." He accentuated each syllable with a shake.

With each shake, Harry grew angrier. "I don't know what you're talking about, Malfoy, but you should let go of me now."

"Or what?" It was as if there was a scale between the two of them that can only tip in one direction; if Harry felt like second-degree murder, then Draco felt up to a light-hearted stroll through the gardens. He smirked, "Or you'll kiss me again?"

Harry paled and then reddened at the taunt. "I would have been fine leaving you alone! But no, you had to start it all over again!"

"I started it? I don't see how me getting drunk started anything. I wasn't wearing a sign inviting you to attack me!"

"You attacked me first!" Harry didn't care how childish that sounded. All the rage and embarrassment he'd felt for six long years while Draco tormented him and then so recently derided him for being homosexual. So what if he was Harry Potter? So what if he liked boys? So what if he liked Draco Malfoy? He'd done many a stupider thing! And that's exactly what he told the Slytherin. Out came all the pain that first fateful encounter left him with, his insecurities and fears, his feelings and yearnings. He poured out his entire soul from the moment they'd met up til now. He railed, he screamed, letting out all of it in a cathartic stream. Every little thing that transpired between them had built up over the years into a mountain of antagonism and loathing.

Draco stumbled away from the furious emerald eyes that looked at him with glittering pain and accusation, collapsing into a dusty chair.

"To top it all, you called me a queer first and now you want to say that I attacked you." Harry finished quietly, "I was only giving back what you gave me, Malfoy."

The young Malfoy heir's mind reeled at the pure passion flung at him and his answering emotions. And the oh-so-many implications that arose... Draco picked at the most pertinent ones, mentally turning them over and inside out.

Well, it's obvious that Harry felt something for him akin to what he felt for Harry. The boy had said in as many words that he was conflicted between newfound attraction and lingering animosity. But the other, more pressing, was impossible.

"I didn't call you a poof."

Calm now, after he'd burned himself out, Harry shook his head gently. "My memory points to the contrary, Malfoy."

Curious. "And when did this alleged event take place?"

"The Sunday before last, sometimes between brunch and dinner," Harry casually answered.

A frown marred the smooth surface between Draco's eyebrows. "That's not possible, I was in my dormitory until dinner. Ask anyone in Slytherin, they know I was terrorizing the lower years all day!"

Harry was confused. "But I know what I saw!" /And felt,/ his treacherous mind supplied. "I remember everything. I was walking about the castle's ground floors because Ron and Hermione were out snogging and you stepped out of the shadows into my path. I asked you to move. You didn't and instead grabbed me and kissed me! Then you called me a poof, laughed in my face and left."

"Are you sure? Even if I was drunk last week, I'm quite convinced that the first time we'd ever kissed was when you kissed me that night..."

They both sat back in thought and meditation, Draco in his chair and Harry against the wall where he'd slumped down. It took them a while to get the conversation going again.

"So..." Harry hesitantly started, "you don't think I'm queer?"

The Gryffindor's expression was so endearingly shy that Draco couldn't help but tease him a little.

"Of course I think you're queer," Draco smirked. At the smallest flicker of ire in those pools of jade, he added with a softer smile, "But I'm not complaining."

~*~