Secondhand Robes

DISCLAIMER: Warning! I make no claim to any property of J.K. Rowling's, and am in no way profiting by this. I do offer her my sincerest thanks for allowing us this garden of the mind in which we play. Further Warning! This story...and likely any I ever write...are dominated by gay themes and characters. That’s how it is, if this in any way makes you uncomfortable...do not read further.


Secondhand Robes (part 4)…by Samayel


‘Fuck all, how long can he keep this up?! He should have gotten the bloody point by now! This shite is driving me insane. He might be right…I don’t think I can hide forever!’

This was by far not Harry’s best year. Admittedly, no one had tried to kill him…yet, but Malfoy had been hounding Harry for weeks. An attempt on Harry’s life would have been a refreshing change of pace at this point! The ferret-faced, arrogant little bastard just wouldn’t quit.

No hallway was safe, unless Harry was surrounded by his friends. No journey to class was complete without Malfoy’s icy stare boring into Harry from one direction or another. Harry had taken to spending more time with his friends, instead of moping about alone, as an act of self defense.

He was only barely over Sirius’ death…though the memories still made his breath catch in his throat. His summer had been an empty hell, until Draco had given something to think about other than his godfather. All Harry wanted was to get back to classes and drown himself in routine, thereby regaining something vaguely like a life. What had possessed him to get involved in ANYTHING related to Malfoy? He was certainly paying for it now!

Malfoy was practically everywhere. He must have acquired Harry’s class schedule…which would explain the sneaky little snake’s ability to pop up and demand a conversation almost every time Harry was alone. It had been necessary to start keeping his map and cloak handy in his book bag, just for emergency escapes! Harry was even beginning to develop a slight nervous twitch at the sight of blond hair!

The only thing that kept Harry on the run, as opposed to just giving Draco his answers, was the damning knowledge that, if he admitted all that he knew and all that he had done, Malfoy would have every right to be furious, and that would make this strife between them look like child’s play!

Almost a month had passed since their debacle on the train. Harry had nearly cracked then, desperate to let go of the secrets and lies, and just pay the price for his crime. He was guilty and he knew it…he’d had no right to violate Draco’s mind. He recalled all too well the words of Severus Snape, and the haunting doubts about his own morals had been nagging at him ever since. Apparently, rules really didn’t apply to Harry Potter, unless they were convenient.

This past month, Harry had had no peace, and no time alone, save in his bed with the curtains drawn. Tonight was no exception. Harry was beginning to tire of being constantly surrounded by people, and it was sheer relief to find himself alone just before he fell asleep. This was the only time he could quietly gather and pick apart his thoughts without interruption.

Sleep claimed Harry quickly, and that wasn’t surprising, given the amount of stress he’d been under lately. That, however, was not the end to his troubles.

Harry’s dream was a comfortable and pleasant one. Muzzy and disjointed after the fashion of dreams, but full of vague tension, and strangely nice in a way he couldn’t quite pin down.

He was walking the halls without worry, talking to friends and laughing. An empty corridor was ahead of him, and he had no fear of traveling it alone.

At the end of the corridor, Draco Malfoy wore his predatory smile, all charm and sleek grace. Harry couldn’t remember the words, but they were talking…and it was warm…oddly warm, and tense, but not disagreeably so.

Malfoy’s smiles were genuine, and the hazy dream image of him was void of hostility. The dream shifted, and still at the mercy of his subconscious, Harry tossed and turned as well.

Some small remnant of his mind worried at the sudden realization that he was hugging Draco in his dream. It felt so very, very good. Warm, close and comfortable. For some inexplicable reason, Draco had no shirt…and neither did Harry! Their chests were pressed together, their arms were wrapped around one another, and Harry’s face was at rest against the velvet of Draco’s cheek…so warm, so close, so…

Harry woke violently, instantly aware of the trickle of moisture in his pajamas. He stared in disbelief at the evidence, and dropped his head back down onto his pillow with a half strangled sob.

‘I had a wet dream…over Malfoy. My life is officially ruined! Voldemort…kill me now…please?’

------------------------------------------

Harry had never considered the possibility of being gay…at least not seriously. He knew what it meant, and he even knew of a few students who were, but it had always seemed like a condition of others…nothing Harry himself had ever felt. When ‘odd’ thoughts had crept up over the last couple of years, Harry had pushed them from the forefront of his mind to a safer place near the back, neatly avoiding the subject.

There had been little things, nothing obvious to others, but they were things that made a terrible sense in this new light. The way his cheeks had always pinked and he’d quickly made himself look away whenever another guy was naked near him, and the few times that he hadn’t looked away quick enough, the images of another boy’s naked body lingered so long in Harry’s mind.

Charlie Weasley. During the Tri-wizard Tournament he’d come stay at the Burrow at the same time as Harry, albeit only briefly. Harry had stepped out of his room to use the bathroom one morning, opened the door and found himself facing six and a half feet of scarred, muscled redhead. Harry hadn’t been able to stop staring, flustered though he had been. Charlie was blessedly polite, and simply grabbed a towel and left, apologizing for hogging the loo. Harry had told himself it was normal to admire Dragon Tamers. They were a breed apart, who wouldn’t admire them?

Oliver Wood. Harry had all but worshipped his teacher and Captain. With the exception of expecting Harry to play through any danger, Oliver had been protective, patient and kind to Harry. After life with the Dursleys, why wouldn’t Harry have been fond of him? The fact that he’d often wished he could hug Oliver had just been passed off as a simple expression of his respect for his friend and Captain. Harry suddenly knew better. Oliver was handsome, and funny, and Harry had, rather innocently, pined for his attention, pushing himself as much as possible to play Quidditch in a way that would impress Oliver.

There were other things as well. Girls had simply left Harry nervous and horribly embarrassed, but utterly void of feeling. Not that he didn’t like them, they were nice to talk to and all, but he’d never really wanted to snog a girl before! He was sixteen years old, and still a virgin, who hadn’t done more than a few quick and tension riddled kisses with girls he hadn’t been terribly excited over.

Harry closed his eyes. When he thought of kissing Oliver, or Charlie, his heart raced, his world contracted, and he felt the first pangs of actual lust and a hungry curiosity for more. There wasn’t any point in kidding himself anymore, there was nothing discreet about the damp stain on the front of his pajamas. He was queer. A bender. A pouf. All those other names were for him as well. Harry was gay. That unpleasant reality was completely overshadowed by another, far more threatening truth.

He had it bad for Malfoy. Was his life before this year so uncomplicated that he needed that piled on? Was this as bad as things could get, or, having struck bottom, would Harry find a shovel and dig for a new low?

It was the need for a little private time that guided Harry. He had more than enough to think about. He grabbed his cloak, dressed quickly and slipped out. The halls were chill despite the fact that it wasn’t quite fall yet, and the cool was actually quite refreshing after the disturbing ‘warmth’ of Harry’s dreams.

The Astronomy Tower was a popular place on the weekends, but on a Tuesday night, at four in the morning, no one was about, and that suited Harry just fine.

Malfoy. It always came back to Draco Malfoy. In Malkin’s robe shop, Harry still recalled meeting Draco for the first time. The cheerful, confident, self-possessed little blond boy had made him feel nervous and terribly inadequate. How nice that some things hadn’t changed much over the years!

Harry paced while he mused. Draco had gotten handsome as he’d gotten older. The baby fat had left his cheeks, the roundness of his face had been planed to strong lines, and he was perhaps an inch taller than Harry, albeit a bit thinner now. He liked the way Draco looked, except when his mouth was open! Still, when Malfoy was at least trying to be polite, he was…well…kind of gorgeous.

He always thought he’d known Malfoy well enough. Cruel, self serving, viper tongued, sneaky and cowardly. Nothing had prepared him for seeing the world through Draco’s eyes, while sifting through Draco’s mind.

If Draco was afraid, he hid it well, but with a father like that, who wouldn’t be afraid all the time. Draco craved approval from his father, yet hated the man utterly. He was terribly insecure, and as nervous as a high strung, if well bred, horse. Draco was a bundle of raw nerves, and…and…when the hell did he become Draco? Not Malfoy any longer. Harry looked out the window and sighed.

‘I am so well and rightly screwed it isn’t even funny. At least it can’t get worse than this!’

“STUPEFY!” Draco’s voiced echoed through the Astronomy Tower.

Harry felt himself losing consciousness despite his best effort to fight the spell off.

‘Ha ha. Very funny. Irony sucks!’

And then everything was quiet and black.


TBC