Beneath You

Beneath You
By Cinnamon

Chapter Two

Take your time, if I'm lying to you,
I know you'll find that you believe me, you believe me
Feel the sun on your face and tell me what you're thinking
Catch the snow on your tongue and show me how it tastes
Take my hand and if I'm lying to you, I'll always be alone,
if I'm lying to you

-- ‘Take My Hand’, Dido

Harry snuck out at lunch to check the book. He was nervous about what Malfoy was going to say about how he had lied to Hermione about it and couldn’t stomach the idea of suffering through his afternoon classes not knowing.

He hurriedly flipped open to the last page.

“Perhaps you should take lessons from me, Potter, and learn to PAY ATTENTION IN CLASS. You wouldn’t get yelled at half as much as you do. But I do enjoy that startled, pale look you get on your face whenever Snape catches you daydreaming. However, I don’t enjoy that look nearly as much as the red and patchy one you get when lying to Granger. Amusing, Potter, very amusing.”

Harry couldn’t help it; he smiled a little. “Trouble in Slytherin Paradise, I see, between Pansy and Crabbe? Heartbreaking, really. I was going to nominate them for Best Couple at the Halloween Ball. And as for paying attention in Potions, if Snape weren’t such a dull and boring professor, and Potions not such a dull and boring class, perhaps I would pay attention more. As it is, I don’t think it’s worth my time. At least you should thank me for providing you with a new excuse to toady to the greasy git.”

He slipped the book back and ran all the way back to the castle, wondering why he was sneaking around writing to Draco Malfoy, and wondering even more why… why he sort of liked it. It was something that was his that he didn’t have to share. Everything else was public, everything from the time he was one year old on had become public knowledge, and he had nothing that was not partially owned by Hermione and Ron or his Quidditch team or his aunt and uncle. But this was his. Well, his and Malfoy’s.

Which was altogether too disturbing to think about.

***

The next morning at breakfast, Hermione triumphantly pulled a notebook from her bag. It had a purple cover and was covered in huge outlines of daisies.

“What,” Ron asked in horror, staring at the nearly glowing cover, “is that?”

“Well, since Malfoy destroyed our other book,” she shot a quick glare at Harry, “I got a new one we can use. I already started writing in it.” She flipped open the cover. “It’s a list of things we’ve got to do to get ready for the Halloween Ball.”

“Things we’ve got to do?” Ron asked, scowling. “I was thinking of just… showing up. Maybe. If I felt like it. Which I probably won’t.”

Hermione glared. “It’s a costume ball, Ron, you can’t just show up, you’ve got to wear a costume.”

Harry slid the notebook across the table, reading over the list in horror. “Hermione, this is ridiculous. No one needs this much time to come up with a costume.”

She grinned. “But I figure we could do something amazing, something that makes a statement. We could all go as house elves, only wrap ourselves in chains. Or we could all go as garden gnomes, but black and blue to symbolize bruises.”

“Oh c’mon, Hermione, that’s gross.” Ron rolled his eyes. “I thought this whole idea of a costume party was bad enough without turning it into a public statement.”

“I’m not going,” Harry declared.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “You’ve got to go, Harry!”

“Why?” He shrugged. “I’ve got to… study.” He hoped fervently that she would be satisfied with that. It was only a small lie. He just didn’t want to go.

“Study,” Ron repeated. He grinned. “And I’ve got to help him. We’ve got a huge…Divination exam the next day. Yeah.”

Hermione’s eyes were narrow slits now, and her voice acidic. “Do what you wish, I couldn’t care less. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go do some studying in the library before class. One of you take the book and write in it, so I’ll have something to read in Charms. That class is frightfully boring now that I’ve memorized the textbook.”

She swept away and Harry looked down at the purple notebook in distaste. Ron nudged it closer to him. “Go on then, Harry,” he said with a smirk. “You take it.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry took the book and put it with his others.

***

Potions is boring, Harry had written in Hermione’s book. He paused, chewing the end of his quill and looking thoughtful. He couldn’t think of anything to write. Oddly enough, writing in this purple monstrosity of a book seemed rather empty. He had liked writing in the other book, found it amusing then, but now, it seemed rather pointless. After all, he’d be talking to Hermione and Ron in a minute or two anyway.

Scoffing softly in annoyance, he slammed the book shut. Hermione was just going to have to find her own entertainment in Charms class.

After Potions, he tossed the book at Hermione, mumbled some excuse, and took off running out of the castle and into the trees. He only had a few minutes before his next class, but he had to check the hollow.

There wasn’t a reply, and he was disappointed. As it was, he was late for Divination anyway, and Trelawney had already started the lesson. She watched him woefully as he ran, gasping for breath, into the class, sliding into a seat beside Ron.

“Harry,” she said, gently chiding. “I shall forgive your lateness, but only because I understand the cause. You are undergoing an important life change, child. But don’t worry; it happens to everyone.”

Rather than waste his time trying to figure out what she was talking about, Harry pulled out a quill and parchment. Trelawney went back to teaching, and Harry tried to catch his breath.

Ron slipped the notebook onto his desk. Where were you? he had written.

Harry glanced at him and then back at the notebook, swallowing down his guilt. Forgot something in the common room, he scribbled, passing the notebook back. Ron scowled at him but didn’t reply, and after class, Harry didn’t give him time to ask any more questions. He hurried out of the tower before Ron had even finished packing up his books. He didn’t want to have to answer any more questions because he didn’t like lying to his friend and he knew that he certainly couldn’t tell Ron the truth. Ron would think it meant something other than what it did mean. And what did it mean? He wasn’t quite sure. That he and Malfoy still hated each other and had decided to fight through writing rather than talking, so as not to disturb any more professors or get in any more trouble? Maybe. Hopefully.

***

I suppose you could call it trouble in Slytherin Paradise, Potter, if you call Crabbe and Pansy shagging some sort of paradise, which I certainly don’t. Apparently she is in love with someone else, or so she says. Quite tragic, especially considering who it is she claims to like. See, this is why I don’t believe in love. It’s rubbish, all of it. Especially if she can love someone like HIM. It’s quite disturbing, though you probably wouldn’t agree, should I tell you who it is she claims to like. I’ve seen the way you look at him, Potter, and do believe there is more going on between you two than you like to admit.

Harry’s eyes widened. “What the hell?” he whispered to himself, twirling the quill and trying to figure out exactly what it was Malfoy was implying. “Who is it? Though I can understand her falling for someone else, I mean, being with Crabbe must have been rather redundant and irritating, he’s not much for intelligent conversation, is he? There are only a few people I could see as not being a step up from Crabbe… and yes, Malfoy, you’re one of them.

And as for not believing in love…it’s rather sad, isn’t it, to be this young and have already lost faith in it. I believe in it, and I’ve never really been in love, so you shouldn’t give up--”

Harry paused, eyes widening. Giving Malfoy advice on love? Oh, no. Ridiculous. He scribbled it out quickly. “I don’t believe in love either. Rubbish and a waste of time besides. As long as I’ve got Quidditch to occupy my mind, I’m happy. I can’t see how life would be better with someone to give chocolates to and… you know, puppies and love sonnets and that sort of thing. I’d be embarrassed to be in love.”

Stashing the book and the quill back in the hollow, he walked slowly back to the castle, shivering from the chill.

***

Draco laughed when he read what Potter had written. “Stupid git,” he commented out loud, still amused. “Lower than Vincent, am I? Come on, now, Potter, that was rather clumsy, wasn’t it? Do try to make your insults a bit more gracefully constructed, it pains me to have to read through your clumsy attempts at cleverness. And as for the unlucky chap whom Pansy claims to be in love with, I certainly can’t betray my house’s secrets to YOU, Potter. It just wouldn’t be right.

As for the rest of it… well, I’ve always rather suspected that you and your broomstick had a SPECIAL relationship. Saw you polishing it on the Quidditch stands one day, I was quite, erm…DISTURBED to see the way you handled it. You stroked it like it was…well… Let me just say, Potter, that I think you’ve got some issues that a girlfriend might be able to help with! At least it’ll save me from ever having to watch you and your broomstick bond with oil in public. Honestly, Potter, some things are just not meant to be done in public!”

He slipped the book back and walked back to the castle, laughing a little. It was amusing, really, despite all the reasons why it should have been deadly serious. It was Potter, after all, and every thing they’d ever shared had been spiteful and furious. This didn’t fall into that category, however; or at least, it didn’t anymore. At the beginning, it was about violating something sacred between Potter and his friends. Now… something else. Though certainly not something pleasant. Certainly. Except that he had the odd feeling that the last half of his note had been less spiteful and more…teasing than it should have been. Besides, he really hadn’t minded watching Potter polish his broom. He’d found it oddly… fascinating. Morbidly fascinating, of course, and only because Potter had been so absorbed in it. Certainly not because of his fingers and the way they —

Draco scowled. “Of course not.”

Pansy was sitting alone in the common room, sobbing, when Draco stepped inside. He inwardly winced, taking a deep, bracing breath, and asked, “Pansy, love, what’s wrong?” in his sweetest, most caring voice. After all, if Slytherins couldn’t be sweet to each other, who could they be sweet to?

She lifted her head, which had been buried in her hands. “Draco? Oh, Draco, it’s terrible,” she wailed.

He sat beside her and patted her shoulder. “What’s terrible? Did something happen?”

“Yes. It’s Vincent, he’s so furious. Did you tell him—”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Draco lied. “Did he do something?”

“He said that if I didn’t fall back in love with him, he’d tell — he’d tell everyone that I like—”

The situation had just turned dire. If anyone found out who exactly it was that Pansy had convinced herself she was in love with, the Slytherin reputation would be at risk. Hell, it would be ruined. After all, Slytherins did not go about expressing undying love for Gryffindors. It just wasn’t done.

“He won’t tell a soul,” Draco said, his eyes hard. “Trust me, Pansy, he won’t tell a soul.”

“I’ve tried not to like him, Draco, really I have!” she sniffled now. “But then in Potions, he leant me a quill when mine got all mangled because I had forgotten that I wasn’t to chew them unless they were sugar quills, like you told me, and he was so sweet to point out that I’d gotten ink on my lips, and even to spell it out for me when I forgot the cleansing incantation. And when I thanked him, he smiled and it was that adorable crooked smile and—”

“I thought you said you were going to stop liking him,” Draco snapped, sickened at the mental images her gushing words were evoking. “We’d decided that it wasn’t good for the house.”

At this, Pansy’s eyes went wide and shining. A heartfelt sigh welled up in her throat. “But, oh, Draco, I can’t help it!”

Feeling rather nauseous, Draco suggested, “Perhaps there is a potion we can have Pomfrey make for you?”

She scowled. “I wouldn’t give this up for the world, Draco! It’s like there are a thousand butterflies in my stomach all fluttering about nervously in hopes that he will look at me tomorrow morning and smile again! It’s the most exquisite feeling, I just can’t—”

He clapped one hand over her mouth. “If I hear one more stupidly sugary word out of your mouth about butterflies, love, Gryffindors, or Weasleys, I swear, Pansy, I’ll put such a curse on you that you won’t even know what hit you,” he snarled, patience finally running out.

Her eyes were huge and she swallowed loudly, nodding against his hand. He smiled grimly in satisfaction, taking his hand away. “But Draco,” she said in a tiny voice. “I can’t help it.”

“Honestly, Pansy, I’m beginning to think you’d be less annoying if you were with the stupid prat rather than mooning about him in our common room. At least then you’d be gushing on to him rather than to me!” An idea had slowly unfurled itself in his mind and he greeted it with streamers and confetti. It was a way to make the talk of butterflies and crooked smiles stop at least, and that had suddenly become more of a priority, even more important than what was best for the house. After all, his health depended on making Pansy stop her disgusting moping. If he had to listen to one more sappy, love-struck word from her, he’d vomit and never stop. And that had to be bad for his health. Besides, on the upside, Crabbe wouldn’t have anyone to shag until all hours of the night if Pansy was off with someone else.

“What am I going to do?” she said now, shoulders slumped.

“Well…” Draco drew the word out thoughtfully. “Have you considered talking to him about it?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Talking to him? But Draco, he’s a Gryffindor!”

Draco grimaced and then said, “Yes, but we certainly cannot populate the word with pure blooded wizards relying solely on the gene pool of our own house, after all. I mean, honestly, inbreeding would soon become a problem, and the whole idea of people only dating within their own house is, when you think about it, ridiculous. Besides, the Weasleys are a…a pure-blooded…respectable…” Each word burned his throat, “old family.”

“You’ll let me?” she asked, leaping up from her seat. “You’ll let me see him?”

“Since when have I been the one to grant permission?” Draco asked dryly.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Draco, you’ve always been the head of our house, you know you have. No one would dare do anything without your permission. You know what’s best for us.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, feeling thoroughly greasy from her gushing words. “So just go talk to him. What do I care? Just don’t let him in our common room, of course, and any shagging—” he was nearly sick again “– must be done in his room, not in yours. I refuse to let a Gryffindor into our dungeons, under any circumstances.”

“Of course,” she said, eyes clouded with other worries. “But Draco, what if he doesn’t even like me?” She would have gone into a tearful, depressed monologue of self-doubt, but Draco held up one hand in surrender.

“I’ll… I’ll work on it for you,” he offered, scowling. “As long as you don’t say another word about it, I’ll work on it.”

“Work on it? How?”

He grimaced. “I seem to have gained bit of sway over the Gryffindors recently,” he admitted, rolling his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

***

Harry didn’t have time after class to check the hollow for a reply, because he had scheduled Quidditch practice right after class in preparation for the rematch between Gryffindor and Slytherin that had been scheduled for Friday, two days away. Slytherin had scheduled the pitch for practice on Thursday, so it was their last chance to practice before the match. They practiced until it grew too dark to see and, exhausted, changed, showered, and went back to Gryffindor Tower to quickly finish their homework. By the time he’d finished scribbling a bunch of Divination rubbish, Harry was so exhausted that he could only barely manage to stumble up the stairs to his dorm room and collapse into bed.

He woke up sometime in the early morning hours, chased from sleep by vaguely unsettling dreams he could not remember. Sitting up and groggily reaching for his glasses, he glanced around the dorm room, but everyone else was sleeping.

Knowing he probably wouldn’t get back to sleep for a while, Harry crawled out of bed with the intention of going to the owlery to send off his latest letter to Sirius, stop by the kitchens for a snack, and maybe head out to the hollow to write a reply to Malfoy.

It was to be an exercise of self-will, to see if he could finish his other tasks before dashing out to the hollow. He had to prove to himself that he was not addicted to this… That he didn’t need—

“Oh, bloody hell,” Harry growled. “Who cares?”

He went straight to the hollow.

It was a cold night and he shivered in his pajamas, casting a soft warming spell. He was in a rather thoughtful, solemn mood, and twirled the quill absently as he read what Malfoy had written.

“It’s a bloody cold night,” he wrote in reply, “but I couldn’t sleep. Strange dreams. Don’t know why I’m even out here, and I don’t even know why I’m writing in here. Maybe so that I can think of more ‘clumsy’ and ‘graceless’ insults to attack you with only so that in the morning you can come here and tell me how I am worthless because I don’t have your Slytherinish sense of sarcasm and wit. But then I suppose I’d have to reply with something to the effect of ‘so?’, because, as I’ve mentioned, Gryffindors such as myself lack the particular skill of sarcasm. So what’s the point, Malfoy? What, really, is the point of this? Is there even one? A point to anything? Maybe the whole point is to perform whatever ‘destiny’ has set out for us. In that case, I shall fall in love with Ginny Weasley, be best friends with Hermione and Ron (who will one day fall in love with each other), stumble my way through my studies, become Quidditch Player Extraordinaire, and die at the hands of Voldemort as my father did. Oh. And you and I would hate each other bitterly until the end of time. Honestly, I don’t think I like having my entire life left up to fate. But then those of us with destinies cannot fight the inevitable, can we?

“On a more amusing note (yes, the images you created for me of me and my broomstick did make me laugh, by the way, you stupid prat. I didn’t know you watched me, if I did, I promise, I would have put on more of a show), SHOULD I end up married to Ginny Weasley, I’ll probably still have to rely on…umm, ‘polishing my own broomstick’, because she doesn’t seem the type to willing help with that. So I’m afraid my destiny decrees that my broomstick and I shall always be alone. Rather heroic. And Dumbledore thought the whole Boy-Who-Lived-Voldemort incident was heroic.”

He was snickering even as he finished it, glad to have had something break him out of his morose mood, even if it had been something Malfoy had said.

At lunch the next day, Harry didn’t bother to go to the Great Hall. He did not feel up to Hermione’s determination to discover what, exactly, it was that was bothering him, or Ron’s attempts to cheer him up by describing in vivid detail exactly how Gryffindor would slaughter Slytherin in the up-coming match.

After all, he’d heard it all before.

So instead, he wrapped his crimson and gold scarf around his neck and struck out for the hollow. There was a reply waiting there for him, written in familiar elegant script.

“… Well then. Love, I don’t believe in, Potter, but the very idea of your future as you laid it out in your last note…THAT I could see happening. It’s very amusing as well. As for me, my destiny is probably that I shall marry some gorgeous third cousin of mine, part Veela, from good breeding stock, who throws marvelous dinner parties, doesn’t like words that are more than three syllables long, and likes ballroom dancing and fancy-dress parties. So either way, I say fuck destiny. Just like love, I choose not to believe in it.

“And, oh, Potter, don’t get philosophical on me now, I don’t like it. Quite frankly, there is no point to this or life either, it’s all just a random chain of disconnected accidents that eventually lead to death. This is just another of those mistakes we’ll regret when we’re older. For now, it’s an easy way to pass the time… I mean, honestly, it’s a lot less time consuming than making sure I pass you in the hall to insult you between classes or trying to throw things at your head in potions.

“And besides… Who cares what fate has in store for you, Wonder Boy? You haven’t been doing too badly for yourself, being a ‘hero’ and a ‘celebrity’ and all. It’s quite disgusting. But then, the thing about fame is that anyone who doesn’t have it mopes about being unimportant and anyone who DOES have it mopes because of it. But shall I infer from your rather pathetic ramblings that you do not WISH to marry-and-have-red-haired-children? Why ever not? That Weasley girl is so… adequate. I do however agree that Weasley and Granger are certainly nauseating enough as just friends. And, as much as this pains me to suggest, perhaps you and I can come up with a compromise? You see, there is a favor I wish to ask of you… And trust me, as much as I hate Gryffindors as a whole, I hate you worst of all, so this pains me to ask more than it ever could for you to accept. And if the night was cold, this morning is doubly so. I think I can smell snow on the air. I loathe winter, and much prefer autumn. Something about the smell of falling leaves.”

Harry nearly dropped the quill; he was so surprised that Malfoy would ask anything of him. “A favor? What’s in it for me? And if my philosophic nature surprised you, Malfoy, imagine my horror at discovering you have a poetic side. ‘Smell snow on the air’? Snow doesn’t have a smell. And falling leaves smell like rot, death, and decay. Autumn is the nastiest month of all. Spring’s much better. Cleaner.”

He slipped the book back into its hiding place, smiling a little, his mood a little lighter, and feeling strangely excited as he wondered what, exactly, Malfoy thought to ask of him.

Classes that afternoon were long and he was restless throughout them. Hermione and Ron did not bother to ask him where he had been at lunch, though they did stare at him and whisper every now and again. He was not aware of it, however. He was not aware of much until in Care of Magical Creatures, his last class of the day, they were having an oral exam on the nature of Demiguises and Hagrid asked Malfoy for an answer.

“The first defense of a Demiguise?” Malfoy stammered, caught off guard. He hadn’t been paying attention. “Why… to run away. Isn’t it?”

“Honestly, Malfoy,” Harry drawled, startling even Hagrid. He usually didn’t speak out in class. “You expect one of the most difficult creatures to capture simply to run away? Its first defense is that it can turn invisible, it’s fur is spun into invisibility cloaks.”

Rather than scowl as he usually did, Malfoy shocked everyone, Harry included, by smiling knowingly, the smirk an answer to the challenge in Harry’s eyes.

After class, Harry returned to the hollow. Malfoy had not yet replied, but he scribbled, “ Perhaps you should take lessons from me, Malfoy, and learn to PAY ATTENTION IN CLASS.”

He walked away from the hollow humming softly to himself.

The Slytherins were already practicing for the next day’s match, and he paused before going inside to study Malfoy’s flying technique. Without the hangover, he was graceful and fast, nearly as fast as Harry himself was, and that was a worry, of course.

Except that at the moment, it seemed more like something to admire.

He stood there for a long while, watching Draco fly.

***

That night, after Draco had replied to Potter in the book, Draco sat in his common room, while the other Slytherins talked cheerfully of the first snowfall of the season, which had surprised everyone by coming so soon, and the Quidditch match the next day. Draco sat alone in front of the fire, watching the flames thoughtfully. If anyone had asked him what, exactly, he’d been thinking about, he wouldn’t have been able to reply, because he really wasn’t thinking of anything specific. He was just thinking obscure little thoughts that Potter, of course, would have called ‘poetic’, that were really just introspective. Guilty thoughts, mostly regarding Potter. It seemed wrong, somehow, to take advantage of things as they were now. However, it was too late to turn back. The spell had been cast, and if this was Potter’s Destiny, it was too late for Draco to stop it.

“Did you talk to him?” Pansy asked softly, coming to sit beside him. For a minute, Draco feared that she meant Potter, and he flushed.

“What?” he asked, stalling.

“Vincent. Did you talk to him?”

“Oh. Oh, no, I didn’t. I should though. I will.” He nodded.

She smiled in relief. “And… and did you talk to Ron?”

Draco’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Of course not. You couldn’t pay me enough to talk to Weasley. But I’m working on it, you’ll just have to trust me.”

She smiled, a bright and sunny smile that almost made her pretty, and shocked the hell out of him by hugging him suddenly. Nobody touched a Malfoy without permission. “Thank you,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. She’d hurried out of the common room before he could get over his shock and reprimand her.

Grimacing, Draco scrubbed his cheek with the back of his hand. “Disgusting,” he mumbled to himself. “What’s wrong with me? First shoving books down my trousers, then communicating to Potter through the damned thing, then offering to fix Pansy up with Weasley. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that stupid journal was cursed before I ever got my hands on it.”

“Draco?” Blaise asked, looking worried. “You’re not talking to yourself, are you?”

Draco laughed. “Of course not. Malfoys don’t talk to themselves.”

Blaise didn’t look convinced.

***

It was dark when Harry made his way to the hollow, the glowing light of his wand the only thing to guide him. It had started to snow a while earlier, tiny, icy droplets that stuck to his eyelashes. It was too early for snow.

He read Draco’s reply in the glowing light of his wand. “Of course winter has a smell, Potter. It smells like icicles and pine trees, the kind of coldness that tickles the back of your noise and makes your lips chap up; frost and cold fire. You’re less imaginative than I thought if you cannot imagine what winter smells like. Then again, Gryffindors aren’t known for their imagination. Smelling winter on the air is hardly poetic, Potter. You disappoint me if you think that is poetry.

“As for the favor… Perhaps with a little bit of cooperation, you and I can solve this issue of whether or not everything is accidental or led by fate. You see, you claim that it is ‘fated’ that Granger and Weasley end up together. I say that if they do, it is mere coincidence. Shall we dare to prove this fate thing of yours wrong?”

Harry considered for a moment, shivering, and then he replied, “Prove fate wrong? How do you propose we do this? Because even if we manage to prove it wrong, maybe it was fated that we do so? See? Everything in life is a consequence of a million things that have already happened and there is no way to prove that what does happen wasn’t fate. It DID happen, therefore it was supposed to happen. It’s not possible, Malfoy. But still, this favor you keep mentioning does intrigue me. What is it?

Oh, and on a side note, I refuse to believe that the Ever Estimable Malfoy’s lips EVER chap up, and if they do, the fact that they give off a distinctive odor while doing it disturbs me more than you will ever know.”

He hurried back to the castle, freezing, and back to his common room, quickly finishing his homework.

Later that night, Harry was sitting at the window in his dorm room. All his roommates were still in the common room, he could distantly hear their chatter and laughter, but he had developed a headache and, after taking a potion for it, come upstairs where it was quieter. He’d opened the window in his room, letting in the chilly air, and climbed up on the windowsill watching the tiny white drops twirling lazily from the dark sky.

He sniffed a few times, cautiously, but didn’t smell any difference in the air. No icicles, no pine, no cold fire. Just the rotting leaves of autumn that he hated. The smell of decay and rot.

Ron appeared then, in the doorway, beaming. There was always something about the first snowfall that brought out bright smiles and shining faces, childlike enthusiasm and excitement. “It’s snowing!” he cried. “I knew it was going to snow tonight, I could just smell it!”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not even November,” he said stiffly. “It’s too soon for snow, and it’ll mean bad conditions for Quidditch tomorrow.”

Ron shrugged. “It’ll probably be finished by then anyway, and first snowfalls never stick on the ground, so don’t worry about it. Besides, you can beat Slytherin, no matter what happens.”

“Yeah, like I did last time.”

“That wasn’t your fault, Malfoy was hung over, you told me that.”

Harry shrugged, not in the mood for Ron’s enthusiasm. He was feeling strangely thoughtful. “I guess. We’ll have to see what happens.”

Ron studied him in the darkness. “You alright? You’ve been acting strangely.”

“I’m fine. Just a headache.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“No.”

Ron studied him for a moment longer and then nodded curtly, looking hurt. “Fine then. I’ll be downstairs.”

Harry nodded and Ron left. Turning back to the window, Harry watched the snow falling for a few minutes more before climbing down from the window and closing it. He changed into his pajamas and crawled into bed, though it was a long time before he managed to fall asleep.

***

The next morning before breakfast, Harry woke early and went outside, his usual ritual every morning of a Quidditch match. Though the grass had a light dusting of frost on it, the snow hadn’t stuck. It was a cold day and his breath fogged in the air as he walked, frost crunching beneath his feet. He’d brought his broomstick but lacked the inclination to fly; he wanted his feet firmly on the ground for some reason he couldn’t define. Maybe because it was easier to balance, and he was feeling distinctly unbalanced lately.

After a quick tour of the pitch, he went inside to eat breakfast and get his schoolbooks. They only had morning classes today and the Quidditch game was scheduled for after lunch. Most people had already gathered in the Great Hall for breakfast, the atmosphere typical of any morning before a game, and a bit more energetic because of last night’s snow fall. He slipped into his chair, picked up a piece of toast, and then everything went fuzzy.

“…Harry? Harry.”

He glanced up to find Hermione watching him worriedly. “Wh…what?” he asked a little hoarsely as the dizziness faded.

“You alright? You went really pale.”

But Harry suddenly felt as if he were not all right. In fact, he felt as if, any moment, he were going to vomit, and the Great Hall was certainly no place for that.

He got up hurriedly, smiling wanly at her. “Fine. Just not hungry.”

She opened her mouth to ask more, but Harry was already hurrying away and didn’t pause to listen.

Dizziness hit him again near the door, and he stumbled, catching himself on the wall.

“Alright, Potter?”

Was it his imagination, or was there a faint undertone of concern in that familiar, sneering voice? He stiffened and turned slowly. Malfoy stood behind him, Crabbe on one side, Goyle still back at the table, eating. The familiar, dark nastiness in Malfoy’s eyes destroyed any notion of concern. “I’m fine, Malfoy,” he said coldly.

Malfoy smirked. “Wouldn’t want you falling off your broomstick again, like in third year, now, would we?”

“Trust me, Malfoy, you don’t have to worry about that,” Harry replied. He left quickly, before Malfoy could say anything more, and before vomiting all over the floor.

He went outside, the cold morning clearing his head and easing the strange dizziness. He went around the side of the castle so no one coming out would see him, and sat down heavily on the grass, breathing slowly and waiting for the nausea to pass. By the time class started twenty minutes later, he’d forgotten all about the sudden illness, and started concentrating on more important things, like Quidditch.

***

Draco watched Potter stumble away, his eyes narrowed in thought as he wondered what, possibly could be wrong. An odd and very faint coil of unease made its way into his belly, but he squashed it firmly. After all, he hadn’t really done anything, right? Nothing to be responsible for Potter’s pale face and tight lips, anyway.

Still, just to be sure, he made an excuse to Vincent and left the Great Hall. He’d seen Harry turn towards the door and made to follow him. When he stepped out of the castle and into the cold morning, however, there was no sign of him.

With a vague hope of finding him by the hollow, Draco hurried into the trees, but Potter wasn’t there. He flipped through the book, read the last note, and then, after checking to be sure he had a few minutes, began his reply. It pained him to have to suggest a partnership with Potter, even with the ulterior motive of getting rid of Pansy and her whining, simpering, heart-broken moans about Weasley. However, if it meant that he no longer had to wait for Vincent and Pansy to finish shagging every night before going to bed, then it was worth it. And besides, there were more things at stake here, besides his pride, as hard to imagine as that was. He had to keep Potter writing.

“Trust me, Potter, it pains me to suggest this. However, the alternative is even more terrifying to consider, so I am afraid this is necessary. Pansy fancies herself in love with none other than your friend Weasley (the male one, not the female one). So here is my proposal. You claim that life is driven by fate and that it is fated that Granger and Weasley end up together and create thousands of red-haired, Halfblood children. I say that everything in life is an accident. So if Weasley were to end up with someone else (say… Pansy…?) it would mean that FATE had nothing to do with it, WE caused it to happen. And, of course, it would also mean that a Pureblooded line like the Weasleys (as poor and distasteful as I find them) was not watered down by Muggle-tainted blood. So, what do you say? Accept my challenge?”

That finished, Draco suddenly realized that he had taken longer than he thought, and, even if he ran, he was going to be late for Potions.

Cursing softly, he took off at a run for the castle. Even so, he arrived late, gasping for breath and red-faced.

Snape raised an inquisitive brow, which was nothing compared to the look of shock on Potter’s face. Draco was never late for Potions.

Scowling, he sat down beside Pansy and got out a quill, thankful that Snape didn’t ask questions. Had it been Potter, he would have lost at least twenty house points.

Draco glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes met Potter’s green ones. They held for a moment and then, shocking them both, Potter smiled a slight, lopsided smile that held neither challenge nor mockery, but only understanding. Draco spun around so fast that the sleeve of his robe caught his ink well, knocking it to the floor, drawing Snape’s attention again as he quickly muttered a cleaning spell, cursing softly under his breath.

He heard laughter behind him and felt an uncharacteristic flush paint his cheekbones an unbecoming pink. Malfoys, after all, were not clumsy, and did not blush.

“Problems, Malfoy?” Weasley drawled from somewhere behind him, and Draco heard Pansy catch her breath and then let out a loving sigh.

“Twenty points from Gryffindor for disrupting class,” Snape barked, glaring furiously. There were mutinous mumbles from the Gryffindors, but Draco flashed his professor a grateful smile, finished cleaning up the mess, and shot Pansy a scathing glare, though none of it was really her fault.

It was not turning into a good day, which, of course, did not bode well for the upcoming Quidditch match.

***

Harry was furious. Blinding, burning, aching rage ran through him, making him tremble, and he slammed the notebook shut firmly. How dare Malfoy say those things about Hermione and Ron? Sure, Harry himself was against them being together because it seemed as though they were ‘destined’ to be and he was against destiny as a matter of principle, but that was a far cry from claiming it was wrong because Hermione’s parents were Muggles and Ron was poor. It made the entire thing seem petty somehow. As if he sought to break apart his best friends who had demonstrated a tiny bit of possible attraction for one another that may possibly grow into something more, and he sought to destroy it to prove that it didn’t have to be that way? He sought to destroy it with the help of Malfoy?

He tossed the book back into the hollow and stalked away furiously. By the time the Quidditch match started an hour or so later, he was still angry, his rage fueled by an unacknowledged feeling of guilt that he had shared a secret with someone who would say such things about his best friends. How could he have forgotten?

“Alright, Harry?” Neville, the team’s water boy, asked him as they waited in the Gryffindor changing rooms. “You look a little pale.”

“Not nervous, are you?” Seamus asked with a lopsided grin. “We’re sure to win, as long as you stay on your broomstick this time.”

“That wasn’t his fault!” Natalie, a third year Beater, cried. “Malfoy knocked him off.”

“Right then, as long as he doesn’t let Malfoy knock him around again,” Seamus amended.

“Trust me,” Harry said grimly. “Malfoy won’t stand a chance against me.”

“That’s the spirit!” Neville said with a smile, handing him some water.

Quidditch took all of Harry’s concentration. He tuned all other thoughts out and focused on the Snitch. Well, the Snitch, and the other Seeker. He was so angry.

Malfoy, evidently, was not expecting rage, and he had the grace to look startled at Harry’s scathing scowl as they took their places above the pitch.

“Problems, Potter?” Malfoy drawled with a haughty smirk.

“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy.

”

Malfoy looked even more startled by this, and his sneering tone dropped as he cried with a bewildered sort of confusion, “What?”

“What do you think?” The game started below and Harry restlessly began scanning the pitch for the Snitch. Malfoy was too busy studying his face to do the same.

“If this has anything to do with that cute smile in my direction in Potions, Potter—”

Harry interrupted him. “You? You thought I was smiling at you?” he lied. “Trust me, I wasn’t. I was laughing at you, Malfoy. Your face was so red… It amused me.”

Malfoy laughed. “Whatever, Potter.”

Ducking a Bludger and moving a little higher to get out of the way of the main game play, Harry rolled his eyes. “What, did you think we were friends or something, Malfoy?”

“Of course not! But I certainly don’t see what I’ve done to deserve—”

Malfoy was too busy arguing to notice a Bludger coming right for him and Harry reacted instinctively, slamming into him and shoving him out of the way.

Malfoy yelped and opened his mouth to shout, until he noticed the Bludger fly past. He glanced from it to Harry and then back again and said in an odd, almost humble voice, “Thanks. I didn’t see it.”

Harry was too furious even to let this uncharacteristic display of gratitude affect his anger. He spun away, ignoring Malfoy and focusing on the Snitch, which had yet to make an appearance. Malfoy followed him.

“Potter,” he said finally, sighing. “Just tell me what I’ve supposedly done.”

He had been flying a few feet ahead and he spun suddenly, so that the tip of his broom was nearly close enough to touch Malfoy’s. “You don’t see what you’ve done? You think you have the right to call my friends those things?”

“What things?” Malfoy asked blankly.

It occurred to Harry then that Malfoy honestly did not see the insult behind the things he had said, and it shocked him. Shaken, he merely stared at Draco in a bemused sort of fascination, wondering what it must be like to live in a world where the line between what is right and what is wrong was so clearly defined, yet so obviously skewed. He struggled hard enough just to define what was real and what wasn’t.

Before either of them could break the strange, thoughtful sense of awareness that had fallen over them, a flicker of gold flew in between them. The Snitch. They tore their eyes away from each other and took off after it at the same speed, diving downwards in a perfect replica of the dive that had nearly killed them in the last match, except this time with more control and grace. They pulled out at the same time, the Snitch, as could be expected, held triumphantly between Harry’s fingers.

Rather than wait for the fans and his team to reach the ground and congratulate him, which he normally did, this time, Harry crushed the Snitch in his palm, tossed the broken pieces onto the pitch, snarled something under his breath, and stalked away.

The dive had given him enough time to remember his fury and to let it wash over him again, and by the time he’d reached the ground, he was safely hidden behind it again.

No one noticed him leave. His team was busy hooting and dancing about with the spectators, and the Slytherins were scowling and mumbling beneath their breath. All of them except one, and it only took Malfoy a few seconds to realize that Harry had left the pitch and was already almost back to the Gryffindor changing rooms.

Draco wasn’t upset about losing. Hell, to be honest, he’d expected it. However, what he had not expected was Potter’s fury.

“It’s not about them, Potter, don’t you get it?” he called, and Potter stopped, glancing over his shoulder warily.

“What’s it about then?”

Us. Draco’s eyes widened and he forced the strange thought away. “Fate,” he said smoothly, grabbing Potter’s wrist as Potter moved to open the door to the dressing room. “Do you believe in it, Harry?”

“No.”

“Then prove it isn’t real,” Draco challenged in a silken, tempting tone.

And Harry, staring into his eyes, his wrist caught in Malfoy’s grip, honestly had no choice. Whether fate was real or not hardly mattered, because whether this was chance or destiny, he was already firmly wrapped up in it.

He nodded once, jerking his wrist away. “Alright,” he said with a nod. “I’ll prove it wrong.”

Malfoy smiled at him and nodded in reply. “Right then,” he said. “We’ve got to make plans.”

The Gryffindors were spilling off the pitch, Harry could hear them. “Later,” he said. “We’ll make plans later.”

It was an incredibly awkward moment and, rather than attempt to break it with words, Malfoy nodded curtly and walked away.

***

“Rotten luck.”

Draco jumped, spinning around. He’d been making his way back to the Slytherin common room, lost in thought, when the sudden voice had startled him. Goyle had caught up to him. “What?”

“Rotten luck. You nearly had it that time.”

Suddenly eerily worried that Goyle had somehow read his mind and had known the confusion and questions he’d been mulling over, Draco scowled. “Almost had what?”

“The Snitch.”

Smiling a little sardonically at his own paranoia, Draco shrugged. “Yeah,” he said.

They fell into step together. “You’ll beat him one of these days.”

“Of course I will. It’s inevitable.” They were silent for a bit, making their way down a flight of stairs. Suddenly, Draco, pushing his hair out of his eyes, said rather desperately, “Greg, have you ever… you know…”

“Have I ever what?”

“Done something that you should regret but somehow find yourself unable to stop?”

He considered for a moment. “You mean… like eat too much for dinner?”

“Sod it, never mind,” Draco snarled, rolling his eyes. They’d arrived at the entrance to the common room and he snapped the password.

“Draco, wait!” Goyle cried, following him inside. “If you’ll just explain…”

“There’s nothing to explain. Just leave me alone to think, will you?”

It was dinnertime now, and most of the Slytherins had gone straight from the Quidditch Pitch to the Hall, and Goyle, with a shrug, left the room to join them.

Draco sprawled in a chair before the blazing hearth and scowled, resting his chin on his hand and watching the flames. He was uncomfortably aware of something happening to him that he could not define, did not like, and yet couldn’t seem to shake off. Almost like a flu of some sort, except it did not make him feel ill, it made him… restless.

Of course Gregory wouldn’t understand. He hardly understood anything.

Draco sat alone in silent contemplation for a short while, before entranceway and Pansy stumbled inside. She was sobbing wildly.

Draco watched in shock as she wove her way to his chair and collapsed at his feet, sobbing to hard to speak. “What’s wrong?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s Vincent,” she said finally, hiccupping. “I was coming back here and Harry Potter called my name and came running after me, Ron and Hermione trailing behind and I didn’t know what they were doing or anything, so I waited for them to catch up. Harry started going on about Potions and how he and Ron needed a Potions tutor or something, and Ron looked just as confused as I did. You know how bad I am at Potions. Hermione looked totally horrified, I suspect she was annoyed they didn’t ask her, and I was trying to explain that there was no way I could help them, when Vincent came down the hall, and as soon as he saw me talking to Harry and Ron, he started shouting, and pushed me, and I knocked into Harry and Harry fell over,” her voice was coming faster and faster now as her chest rose and fell hysterically. “Hermione went to help Harry and I’d dropped all the library books I had taken out and tried picking them up, but I was crying too hard and the next thing I knew, Ron had leapt on Vincent and was trying to punch him! And Vincent just laughed and started pounding on him, and, Draco, I think he’s going to kill him!”

Draco swore. He certainly couldn’t fix Pansy up with Weasley if Weasley was dead. “They’re still fighting?”

“Just down the hall.”

He nodded quickly, told her to stay in the common room, and hurried into the hall.

Vincent was holding Weasley against the wall, pounding his fists into the redhead’s stomach, while Granger was restraining Potter, saying rather hysterically that everything would be fine, they just needed to find a teacher.

“Vincent!” Draco barked, coming towards them. “Let him go.”

Vincent looked no more shocked than Weasley and his friends. His hands reflexively tightened on Weasley’s robes. “What?”

“Let him go. Honestly, you’ve got blood all over the floor, and he’s not as big as you are. Hardly a fair fight. Let him go.”

“Malfoy,” Granger started, looking furious. He didn’t have time for her and shot her a glare, which she caught and wisely snapped her mouth shut. Potter was silent, watching.

“Let Weasley go, he hasn’t done anything,” Draco said, his voice calm, despite the annoyance in his tone.

“He was talking to—” Vincent began.

“Let him go.”

Vincent let Weasley go, who collapsed in a bloody heap. “Fine,” he said stiffly. “Whatever, Malfoy.” He sauntered off to the common room, and Draco watched him go, before sighing and turning back to Weasley.

Granger and Potter were beside him now, trying to help him sit up. Draco suspected he had a few broken bones, or at least cracked ribs, as he was moaning incoherently, unable to move.

Granger managed to pull him almost into a sitting position and Weasley gasped in pain, losing consciousness.

“I’ll go get a teacher,” Granger whispered, voice unusually thick. “He’s bleeding.”

“No need to get a professor,” Draco said quickly. The last thing he wanted was to lose house points over something as paltry as this. “He’ll be fine.” “He’s unconscious and he’s bleeding,” Potter snapped.

Draco pulled out his wand. “I’ll fix it.”

Granger crouched protectively over him. “You won’t touch him,” she snarled. “How do we know you’re not just going to kill him?”

Draco smirked. “You’ll just have to trust me.” He glanced up at Potter, challenge in his eyes as he waited for the other boy to speak. Potter nodded once and Draco snorted. He hadn’t been waiting for permission, merely acknowledgement.

He knelt beside Weasley and performed the complex healing spells he’d memorized over the summer. Weasley’s eyes opened a few moments later, narrowed thoughtfully, and then he moaned.

“I was hit by a train, wasn’t I?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Potter replied. “Are you alright?”

“Stiff, but nothing feels broken anymore.”

“We’d better get you to the dorms,” Granger decided, grabbing his hand and helping him up. “You sure you don’t need to go see Madam Pomfrey?”

He tossed her an annoyed look and she shrugged, helping him down the hall. Potter turned to follow.

“Potter,” Draco called, and Harry turned around nervously.

“What?”

“Don’t do anything stupid again, alright?” Draco said tiredly. “Let me come up with a plan first.”

Potter shrugged. “I didn’t know Crabbe was mad.”

“I’ll handle Vincent. You just don’t do anything stupid until I’ve come up with a plan.”

Potter smiled crookedly, startling Draco, who grimaced. “Thanks. For helping him. He was really hurt.”

Not used to gratitude from Potter, Draco shrugged. “Didn’t want to lose any house points.”

Potter looked oddly disappointed. “Well, whatever. And… congratulations. It was a good game today, wasn’t it?”

“I lost.”

Potter shrugged. “But only just.”

“Which doesn’t count, in Quidditch.”

“I suppose not.” Potter looked reluctant to join his friends, who were bickering as they walked away, and Draco wondered why. He kept glancing over his shoulder at them, turning back, and struggling to find something to say. It was rather… cute.

Cute? It certainly was not! “Go catch up to your little friends, Potter,” Draco snapped. “They’re getting away.”

“Wait. Drac—I mean, Malfoy.”

Draco raised one brow questioningly, crossing his arms over his chest. “What?”

There was an endless second as they studied each other, Draco waiting for Potter to speak, watching as he struggled to find something to say, and it was rather tense. There was, after all, so much that needed to be said between them that neither even knew where to begin finding the words.

Potter sighed. “Nothing.”

“Right then.”

They looked at each other again, Potter looking nervous, Draco rather confused about why things were awkward (why couldn’t he just say something snarky and walk away like usual?). Potter licked his lips and Draco, startled, jumped a little, flushing, much to his own horror. “Don’t do that!”

“Do what?” Potter cried, confused.

Draco turned away, running his hand through his hair and scowling. “Nothing. Nothing, just… nothing.” He turned and stalked away before Potter could say another word, mumbling a quick cleaning charm his mother had taught him, that cleaned up all the blood off the floor.