Harry Potter and The Sanguine Brother's Bond

It’s been quite awhile since my last update, and for this I apologize. I’ve spent the last week drawing skeletons for my life drawing class, and have come up against a bit of a writer’s block. Hopefully we’ve taken a big chunk out of that with this chapter (the longest one yet?). I promise this will be romantic soon you smut-heads.



Keep yourself occupied with some PWP in the meantime.



I hope these new divider’s will help with the flow a little bit, I’ll be going back through the other chapter’s and fixing them.



----oooo----



Malfoy felt his hair mixing softly with the moist grass beneath his head. His eyes were closed, basking in the bleak warmth of the morning sun that graced his long blond lashes. A small breeze blew over him, and with it came the sweet smell of lilac and jasmine.



The smell was such a vivid picture that Draco could see the blue sky and the wind blowing in the tall Iris without needing to open his eyes. He knew they way their frilled petals swayed and danced at the gentle caress of the air passing over their deep purple and blue.



It was one of those rare moments when Malfoy was not lost in deep introspection. Instead his mind was a silent space, languidly exploring the outer reaches of his secret garden. He was not within himself, but out on the green lawn and amongst the wet roots that thrust themselves and twined into the water’s edge. The entire space seemed to swell and coil in and out with his breath, the solid earth breathing tight beneath him.



He felt a shimmer pass over him and rolled over to feel the soft fur of a familiar beast. As he opened his eyes a hundred dreams came back to him and at the base of his skull he felt the pang of pleasure that told him this white stag was to comfort him.



Not that he had been particularly suffering from a lack of comfort, but as he lay his head back into its fluffy chest it was incomprehensible that he should have thought this garden complete only moments before. Several minutes passed as Draco slowly let himself doze with the gentle rising and falling of the brilliant animal’s chest, and eventually he reached a hand up to twirl in its diamond down.



They lay tucked away in this space dense with secret until the sun had risen high into the sky, and Draco had to squint shut his eyelids to stave off the blinding red. The dew began to rise and the grassy smell of the early morning gave way to the bright scent of wildflowers in bloom, and the freshly opened buds of honeysuckle that crept over the garden walls.



The white stag reached its head down to nuzzle the soft blond locks, and breathed in deeply. Malfoy felt it shudder slightly beneath him, and he snuggled closer to its great chest. As he did so, he felt it let out a sharp breath, its nostrils flaring, and in a great wind Malfoy found his head once again lying on the damp grass.



He sank into the dank earth that still smelt of the great beast and mourned its leaving. His dreaming mind had no inclination to pursue the reasons why the stag ‘s absence held such powerful sadness; instead he merely floundered on the lawn, tossing and turning to find his comfortable spot. But every way he turned he ended up in the depression that lay flat the grass in the wake of the deer.



And now as the wind blew over his prone from, it brought not visions of graceful flowers, but faint wisps of a white deer long gone. As Malfoy floated out of his dream, he tried in vain to cling to it, but felt it slipping between his fingers like the clouds that now raced past his face.



----oooooo----



Malfoy woke with his hand twined in the sheets to his right. He pulled himself over too it and felt the depression and the warmth of a body still radiating from it. Disappointment and a half remembered feeling of comfort washed over him, quickly followed by confusion. It suffused his mind, which was still very much asleep, and he turned to face the late morning sun shinning brightly into their room.



The window was not open, and so the room still hung with the musty dense warmth of the thick house. Draco snuggled back under the thick sheets and breathed a heavy sigh as his body relaxed into his contortion. It was from here that he began his morning stretching, something that had fallen out of his routine of late.



And he was glad of its return as he felt his muscles loosen with each turn and pleasurable twist of his body. He emerged a few minutes later from the tangled mass of quilts and heavy blankets, rosy eyed and his blond hair slightly disheveled. It was only then, as he looked around the room that he noticed the absence and felt a muted wave of panic run through his thoughts.



He rose from the bed quickly and walked over to the bathroom, feeling the gentle tingles in his legs as they came to support his mass after a weighty sleep. He pressed himself against the dark wood of the door and listened, hoping to hear Potter sloshing around in the tub. After a few moments of silence he felt himself tense again as another wave of panic swept over him.



“Potter are you in there?” he held his breath in the silence that followed.



“Yes, Malfoy, do you need to pee vanilla again?” Potter’s voice held none of the easy sarcasm it usually threw in Malfoy’s direction, instead the blond perceived awkwardness, tinged with just a hint of morose sadness.



Draco felt his heart flutter with relief, and he screwed up his face in confusion, overwhelmed by the intensity of it. He hadn’t expected to be so worried about Potter in the first place, and felt himself a little dramatic thinking that the he would just up and leave again.



“Malfoy?” Evidently he had taken too long to respond, but still Draco did not say anything. He listened to the muffled sound of Potter’s voice as it carried through the wood and tried to explore his relief further. It felt familiar, but he could not put his finger on where he had felt it before, just as his mind seemed to grasp at it, it would slip away into the misty crevices of his mind once more.



“It’s nothing Potter, I just thought- I just thought….” Draco sighed and leaned against the door, unsure of how Potter might react to his worry, and not wanting to make him feel any more awkward than he already did.



He would have to write Hermione, and see if Potter was the kind of person who wanted everyone to pretend it never happened, or make a big deal out of it. Though given Potter’s supposed hatred of the media, he guessed it was the later.



He felt Harry’s silence and bit his lip, but was distracted by a growing pressure in his groin. Malfoy let out an exasperated chuckle as he realized his need to pee.



“Actually Potter, I thought I do have to pee.” It was a bad coverup, but he had to use the opportunity the best he could. At the very least it would leave Potter confused, something his father had often told him was better than certainty with any political opponent. And he mustn't keeping thinking like that.



And it was with conflicting thoughts about his father and the future that Malfoy entered the bathroom, deigning not to look upon Potter lest his early morning arousal well up. The boy in the tub sloshed a bit, and Draco could not help but reflexively look in his direction.



Harry Potter was turned towards Draco, and green met gray in a sublime moment. Draco felt his knees grow weak and he let out a hot heady breath when he saw the wet glisten on Potter’s lips. He watched them all they way as he stumbled to the adjoining bathroom.



His hand stroked down his body a little too sensually as it slipped under the band of his briefs to pull out his cock. As he grasped the shaft that was still half-hard from whatever he had been dreaming about, he felt it stir and twitch. His hips ground forwards unconsciously, and he closed his eyes as he felt the sensual feeling of the head of his cock as it hung weightily in his hand.



Draco felt a little shutter as he slid his foreskin back and felt it drag against the sensitive skin. As he began to pee he could feel a fuzzy arousal buzzing in his head, and he bit his lips hard to push it away. It would not be a very good thing for Harry to see him this way, and he thanked Merlin that he had decided to keep the pajamas on last night, even as it got very warm under the covers.



He felt the last drops squeezing from his cock, and it stirred again, rubbing, almost purring, when he put it back in his briefs. It ground against the dark silk fabric and he felt the hot meat against his skin. The heat in his groin was now coming out in his breath, great sultry waves and he could feel the tingle behind his testicles also in the backs of his eyes. Blood throbbed hot in his temples, and he knew not why his arousal was flaring so.



He tucked his dick to the side and angled himself away from Harry, hoping the boy wouldn’t notice his protrusion. Draco walked swiftly out of the bathroom without so much as a backward glance, which he was sure would have positively crippled him.



He lay himself on the cool sheets and panted for several moments before he realized the subtle unconscious grinding of his hips into the mattress, and though his cock was holding his mind captive and making it almost painful for him to stop, he eventually rolled him self over.



Malfoy gripped the sheets with his hands in an attempt to keep himself from grabbing at his pulsating cock. and took deep rhythmic breaths. He tried to think about the day ahead to move his mind along from the arousal. Unfortunately he barely knew anything about what was planned for the day, so his usual tactic did not work quite as well as it did when he had double potions and a transfiguration essay to write over lunch.



Instead he thought about just how long it had been since he had last released, it was coming close to a month now, and he chastised himself for not doing it while Potter was gone. Now that he was back, the chances of having a private moment to himself were quite slim. And he knew it would be impossible to get it off in secret while Potter was sleeping in the same room.



Though he could still feel his erection straining against its dark prison, he was no longer laboring under the heavy feeling of arousal, and so he rolled out of bed and busied himself making the bed while it fell away. It was nearly 10:30, and Draco was sure to be chastised by his mother for being such a lay about, and he figured maybe if he waited for Potter she might not be as vocal.



Malfoy debated a bit, whether or not to change out of his pajamas. He decided it would be better to wait and see what the day held in store for them. Their Hogwarts letters ought to be arriving soon, and if they were going to be out in public he would have to put a little extra primp in his outfit. He and his mother were sure to still get the scornful looks from the average passerby; though everyone knew the Malfoy manor now lay in cinders, they did not know of their defection from darkness.



The blond gave a slight shudder at the thought of his father still roaming the countryside, scheming in the black corners of the world with the Dark Lord. He would no doubt be struggling to keep his place in the ranks, with his name having disappointed the Dark Lord many times over now.



As Draco went to stand before his trunk he wondered if his father truly knew the extent to which Draco was familiar with the inner workings of the Death Eater order. His father had always tried his hardest to keep Malfoy in the shadows of the shadow organization, whether out of fear for his safety or suspicion of what he might have called weakness, Draco was not sure. But Snape had taught him well, and he planned on making the most of the knowledge he had gathered.



He had already shared all of this with Dumbledore of course, but at some point he knew he would have to have a discussion with Potter. He sighed and began, once again, the task of organizing his worldly possessions. Draco managed to sort through his collection of formal jackets and vests by the time Harry emerged from the bathroom.



Upon seeing out of the corner of his eye that Potter was wrapped in only the fluffy white towel, he ducked quickly into his trunk and disappeared into its dark interior until he no longer heard the sound of Harry dressing. It was hardly better to be in the dark while hearing the rustling of cloth as Harry lay it over his body, as it made it all the easier for Malfoy’s sex starved mind to imagine it in vivid, sultry detail. Potter’s voice carried with it images of his smooth skin shinning pale in the light of the sun, and Malfoy resorted to imagining a Dementor sucking cock to fight off his arousal for the second time that day. Instead of the smooth expanse of white skin that ran along Harry’s neck he saw the clammy black hand of a Dementor reach for him and the sickening squelching sound of its mouth heading straight for him.



A dull pain coursed through his groin and he clutched at his stomach, feeling the cold that was always associated with the memory of Dementors. Strangely enough he also felt slightly wet, almost as if rain was falling on his face. He stumbled out of the trunk looking very confused and probably a little pale.



“Are you feeling alright?”



“Yes, Potter, it’s nothing. It’s just… nothing” His stupid words were met with a raised brow from Potter, and as he walked by Draco to lace up his shoes on the window sill, Draco caught a sent that was becoming far too familiar. But oddly enough this time he saw a brilliant flash of light and felt the feeling of wet on his face again. Harry gave him yet another quizzical look as he looked up from his shoes, but Draco shook his head and went back to sorting the various clothes that were scattered in piles about his trunk.



“Merlin, Malfoy, do you actually wear all these clothes?”



He snatched the gold embroidered jacket that Harry had picked up out of his hands and threw in roughly into a pile to his left.



“Why yes, actually. Not that I would expect you to know much about elite wizarding society.”  Seeing the look on Potter’s face, he knew that his sarcasm was not well received and hastened to recover. “I’m sorry Potter, its just so easy to tease. You can borrow anything you like, I’d say we are about the same size, no?”



Harry said nothing, but smiled and turned away quickly and Draco could have sworn he saw the beginnings of a blush. He was caught of guard by the sight of Harry standing there in the brilliant morning sun, and a large quantity of feelings welled up inside him. Malfoy walked towards the window and settled himself against the panes of clear but slightly warped glass, hoping to let some of them float away.  Draco felt the sun on his skin and watched it suffuse the slight hair on his arm, glinting in the light. He watched this and felt its warmth and the calm but not quite happy state of his mind and how very far away the thoughts of last night were.



He felt a subtle form of depression slip in around the edges of his mind at this thought, and his mottled identity floated once again before his eyes, and who was he? How could he, or anyone be anyone when thoughts flowed in and out in great tumultuous waves faster than vogue fashion? And his mind began to stir with a thousand different things as he prowled and explored what it might mean to be Draco Malfoy and to be both despairing and hopeful about being Harry Potter’s friend and feeling his dick give a twitch every time the boy opened his mouth and the vibrations shook the air and went straight to his cock.



But as these ideas streamed before him warping, bending, and bubbling in places like the antique glass that distorted his view of the muggles on the street below, he turned to Harry and felt it all melt away into languid silence.



All capacity for though fell away as Draco watched Harry walk across the small room to the door. He saw the dust sparkle in the sun and then his eyes focused beyond it, the sun also illuminating the tall dark haired figure as it moved fluidly and Draco could feel the fabric of Harry’s robes brush against his skin as if it were his own and he felt the weight on his leg and hip as Potter put his foot down. It was a marvelous thing to be so entranced and it was not Potter’s beauty that captivated him, but the sheer reality of it all. Here, being with Potter, he felt grounded in a reality that escaped him when he lay alone in the darkness.



He was in the midst of trying to formulate a way to say this but Potter interrupted him with a hand on the door.



“Are you coming Malfoy? I thought we were going to breakfast.”



Startled out of his trance, it took a great deal of effort not to stutter incomprehensibly. “Uh, yes I do believe we are. But hey, can we - can we talk later?”



Potter eyed him suspiciously but nodded his head and opened the door for Malfoy. They walked silently down to breakfast, each feeling the space between them as it rubbed awkwardly against their nerves.



---oooooo-----



Draco must be fucking planning something. It was one of the many thoughts that now spun lazily about Potter’s head as he sat around the quiet table. He could still feel himself shaking, the awkward walk down the stairs had done nothing to quell his trepidation. Narcissa and Dumbledore hand thankfully remained very quiet when he’d walked into the kitchen, and though his robes felt several sizes too small for him, he did not die of embarrassment as he had expected.



It was clear that Narcissa was making every effort to pretend that Harry had not run off for three weeks like an overly emotional child, asking him how he slept and if he enjoyed the mock prefects bathroom as much as she did.



“It reminds me of my time at Hogwarts so very much, I dare say they are even nicer than the ones we had at the manor.”



And though it shocked Harry to think of a teenage Narcissa roaming the halls of his beloved school, he gave it barely a passing thought, for he was still ruminating on the nature of one Draco Malfoy. Harry was still working through the feelings and thoughts that Draco had shared with him through the pensive, for they had assaulted him with an intensity of despair that matched his own.



But what gave him the most to think about was Draco’s final epiphany, the idea of a uniquely human power to reject the meaninglessness of this world and the passage of time. The power to create, in the bonds forged between two people, enough meaning and care to last a lifetime.



In his time alone Harry had brooded long into the weak hours of the night, battling back and forth with himself on this very thing. Several times he had given up on the entire effort to defeat Voldemort, giving in to the existential truth of reality. He had wallowed in filth to liken the despair. Then, as he would lay there in the cold darkness, listening as the rain began to fall outside his sheet metal hermitage, he would feel again the weight of Malfoy’s body pressed against his back. He would feel again the strong pulse that had beat in time with his own, calling to him in the most ancient language of blood and flesh.



As he looked across the table at the blond, who smiled as he talked to his mother about the old bathrooms at the manor, Harry could not reconcile him with the Malfoy he had known for so long. The long dimple that ran from the inner corner of his eye to the edge of his cheek was the same when he was smiling as it was when he was sneering. But his eyes held such a warmth that Harry had only ever seen on that one night that they lay on their first night together.



Seeing this, here and now, facing the stark reality of Malfoy’s new self, Harry could believe it. How could he not believe it when Malfoy turned just a little and his hair shone like white gold set aflame in the sunlight? But this was not enough when Harry was alone and undistracted by the way Malfoy’s cheeks flushed red with blood against his pale ivory skin.



There was still a large part of himself that could not believe that Malfoy had changed, despite what the shared memory had shown him. Harry knew all too well how fleeting such ideas could be, no matter how powerful and irrevocable they may be, no matter if they felt like rock beneath your feet. It was just the right gust of wind and you would be carried off to somewhere new, and how long would it take Voldemort to find the breeze that would bring Malfoy back to kneel before his feet?



Harry blew the steam from his steeping tea and watched it swirl and dissipate, and it was that simple. Just a breath, and he couldn’t trust him. They would have their little talk, and he would be nice, but Malfoy was going to have to do a hell of a lot more than try to give him their only blanket to convince Harry that a bond between them would be strong and lasting. He watched as Malfoy set down his tea, and saw the glisten on his red lips, their slight pucker as he sat back in his chair. Harry felt again the memory of Malfoy’s pulse, and he could see it now coursing through Malfoy’s innocent lips and he knew that Malfoy meant his offer of friendship to be genuine. It may not be so as time passed, but Harry felt compelled to give it a chance.



Dumbledore was watching him with a calm smile on his face, but Harry could feel his eyes as though they were probing his very soul. And though he knew Dumbledore would have him throw his heart out to everyone that bothered to hold the door for him, he felt he was being sufficiently charitable to Draco, and sent this thought across the space between them. The elder wizard turned away with his usual knowing twinkle, and Harry felt a calm he had not felt in weeks as he turned the deep amber of his tea to his mouth.



“Brace yourself Harry, Arthur Weasley may or may not have asked me if I knew anything about the destruction of a muggle warehouse late last night.” Said Dumbledore quietly, taking Harry by surprise.



Harry saw Malfoy raise a questioning eyebrow in his direction, but he merely turned away from them all and smiled, imaging Mr. Weasley’s astonished face when Dumbledore told him of Harry’s magical outburst.



As if on cue, Harry heard several loud cracks, the noise rising to a compounding cacophony as it appeared the entire Weasley family had apparated onto the front porch. Dumbledore chuckled and flicked his wand in the direction of the door, and Harry braced himself as he heard thunderous footsteps race down the hall.



He stood up just as Ron barreled around the corner, breathless. “Blimey, Harry, you’re back!” He rushed to embrace him in a hug, that was soon added to as Hermione caught up to Ron’s long legs. The three of them stood there, Hermione and Ron giggling with happiness, and Harry relishing in the warmth of his friendship. It had taken him several years to get over a childhood of never being touched, but now Harry did not shy away, even as Ginny came to join them. Finally, after far too soon a time they stepped back to allow Harry room to breathe.



A stern look suddenly crossed Hermione’s face, and she turned her scowl to Harry, putting her hands on her hips. “Harry James Potter, if you ever do that again, so help me Merlin you will find yourself on the wrong end of the most powerful jelly legs jinx you’ve ever seen. Won’t be running off on your own again after that, it’s a promise.”



“Yes thanks Mum, I shant ever leave you again.” Said Harry with a mock pleading tone.



“Now Harry, you be nice! We’ve all been worried sick about you.” Mrs. Weasley came to stand beside Hermione, and after a few moments of silence, the group could not help but burst out laughing as the two stood there, tense with their bushy hair and identical stance.



In their distraction, none of them noticed Dumbledore charming the length of the table, but soon they all turned to face him as he asked Narcissa if she could fetch a bit more food for everyone. The Weasley’s chorused the obligatory “we’ve already eaten”, but Narcissa shushed them with a wave of her hand and turned quickly into the kitchen.



They settled themselves down at the table, Ron and Hermione flanking Harry. Mrs Weasley sat down in her chair tentatively, wringing her hands and looking as awkward as Harry had ever seen her. Eventually, after a tense silence she stood up abruptly and went to the kitchen, muttering something about helping.



Harry smiled, musing on the predictability of the people he considered as close as family. He saw Draco eyeing the curtain suspiciously, and Harry wondered who on the other side, the blond was concerned about. Several minutes later the two women emerged from the kitchen, chatting excitedly about the efficacy of Narcissa’s warming charms, that had apparently kept the extra food warm in anticipation of their arrival.



Molly and Narcissa spent the rest of the breakfast talking about various cooking charms that were passed around in pureblood families, occasionally laughing about disasters that had been wrought by a particularly finicky spell. It was, however, becoming very common for Harry to barely perceive any of the discussion around him, and he was yet again becoming very hot under the collar. Though he had forgotten some of his brooding thoughts as he was embraced by his friends, as they sat quietly around him he felt the air growing very close about him. It was primarily Ron’s presence that disturbed him.



In the long nights that he had spent alone, Harry’s mind had been visited many times by the rogue image of Malfoy’s naked body beside him in the bath, and though it also brought with it the terrible image of steel gray betrayed, Harry could do nothing to stem the tide of trickling fire that would spread from the depths of his loins. He had spent many weeks being taunted by his cousin for murmuring Cedric’s name in the night, and had vehemently denied Dudley’s digs at his sexuality in the typical homophobic tone that pervaded the muggle world. It had never really occurred to him that he might be gay, he’d always just considered his appreciation of the male body to be purely an aesthetic sensibility.



Now, as he faced the prospect of discussing his uncertain sexual nature with his closest, oldest, and first real friend in the world, it was a daunting task that settled queasy tentacles about his shoulders. Stewing a bit in his uncomfortable thoughts, Harry eventually decided to discover some sort of certainty about himself before passing it on to Ron, but resolved at least to tell Hermione some of what he was feeling. He caught her eyeing him with a smirk on her face, and knew that she probably already had some idea of what he was thinking about, but half convinced himself that she was just happy to have him back.



Taking a quieting breath, he readied himself for the onslaught of Quidditch analysis he was about to solicit from Ron, and before he knew it he had lost himself in a dramatic retelling of the debut game with the Chudley Cannon’s newest seeker. Time passed so quickly that Harry found himself suddenly hugging the Weasley’s goodbye, promising to come to dinner at the Burrow later in the evening.



In the wake of their absence Harry came slowly from a blissful trance that left a lingering warmth about him, and he only just then noticed that the tingle on the nape of his neck was due to the staring of a certain blond from across the table. For the first time in nearly twenty minutes, Harry took note of Draco and looked him in the eye. Malfoy saw this and turned away instantaneously to examine the hem of his napkin. Harry watched as the lithe fingers pulled at the fraying edge of the fabric, noting the healthy sheen of Malfoy’s manicured nails. Before he could stop himself, he was imagining Malfoy’s same delicate tugs pulling at the wild tangles of his own hair, and could practically feel the hypnotic waves of pleasure as they crept across his skull and into the base of his neck.



Rather than trying to deny himself this mental pleasure, he merely sighed and moved on to try and pinpoint when exactly this whole attraction had started. He admitted it was an attraction, and hoped that if he could find its origin he could calm it down enough for him to make his decision on whether or not the blond was trust worthy.



Harry had felt it grow stronger in the long days he had spent alone roaming the dark alley’s of London, but far from being a completely unfamiliar feeling as he had once thought, Harry realized that his attraction for Malfoy, not just men in general, extended quite far back.



It would be subtle things, small mannerisms that he would pick up on whenever Malfoy didn’t notice Harry’s presence. They way he would tuck his long locks behind his ear as he bent over a cauldron in intense concentration, or the graceful way Draco would twirl a quill between his long aristocratic fingers. Sometimes he would even let the long sable feather ghost against his lips, but for some reason Harry had never really caught himself noticing these things about the boy.



It was perhaps that full appreciation of these traits escaped him and hid behind the layers of hatred that he had always allowed to filter his perception of Malfoy. And now that he was cautiously beginning to disentangle himself from their deeply rooted holds, Harry could see the beauty that had always been before his very eyes.



The fact that there had always been some undercurrent of attraction between them bolstered Harry’s confidence that perhaps the tentative bond between them could grow into something strong. Someday, he would get over the physical effects of Malfoy’s presence and then they could begin their friendship proper. Until then was Malfoy’s opportunity to prove himself redeemed from his life of darkness and servitude.



Harry felt a sense of calm spread like the warm caress of the sun on his bare skin, warming and numbing away all the stress that he had been accumulating about his mind. Finally after months of loneliness and torment he had returned to a state of relative peace. He had the prospect of a long awaited friendship ahead of him, and though he still hadn’t truly banished his lack of faith in the power of love, slowly he was allowing the distraction of humanity to creep back into his life. And right now he was tired of being the misanthrope, so he steadied himself with a deep breath and leapt back into it.



“Did Hermione say anything about coming back later to work on the pensive, professor?” said Draco as he took his last sip of tea.



“No I do not think she did, Draco. Perhaps it is for the better though, to let the memory rest a bit. I hear you did quite a bit of damage to yesterday.” Dumbledore smiled across the table at the blond, who looked away with a profuse blush creeping across his cheeks. Harry was too busy blushing in his own right to notice; Of course the second he was ready to be social again, Malfoy had to go and bring up something like that.



“It’s just, I can’t help but wonder who it was. Why wouldn’t they want credit for something so marvelous?”



“Sometimes the role of the hero is played unwillingly, Draco. Isn’t that right Harry?” Draco looked slightly mollified by Harry’s subtle nod.



“Still, you would think they would at least let me know who they are. They don’t have to go writing to the prophet, I’m not saying that. But don’t you think I should have the opportunity to at least thank the man who saved my life?” He grew quiet when no one answered his question, even Narcissa simply held her mug in her hands and smiled.



After a moment he continued, “And what’s more, the world deserves to know how to conjure a Patronus like that, it’s inhumane, this not being able to feel happiness.”



“It happened to you too?” Harry’s sudden volume startled even him, but Malfoy had no chance to answer for at that very moment a small owl zoomed into the kitchen and landed clumsily by Malfoy, nearly falling off the dark wood in its attempt to deliver its letter.



Mafloy hesitantly took the letter from the excitable owl, grimacing as Pigwidgeon visibly shook with anticipation. The blond flicked open the letter with practiced fingers, a movement that Harry relished and didn’t even bother to regret.



Draco read the letter quickly, letting out a gasping breath which turned into a smile as he read it through to the end. He stood up hastily, and walked out of the room, presumably to answer the letter which Harry suspected was from Hermione.



“What have they been doing while I was- while I was gone?” Asked Harry after getting over the shock of knowing that Malfoy could no longer feel happiness.



“It seems who ever saved him, also obliviated his memory, as you may have gathered, but it seems they did so half heartedly at best.”



“Then they’re trying to break through to the original memory? How much progress have they made? Do they have any idea who did it?”



“Yes, they are attempting to locate the spell signature of the caster. But I don’t know how much luck they’ll have, locating his savior, even if they mange to get his signature, there is no guarantee that the ministry will have it on record.”



“They can’t actually dispel the fog without the caster?”



“No, Harry, they cannot. And I suspect Malfoy won’t truly begin to recover the other aspects of his memory until its gone. You remember what happened to Sirius don’t you? It took him weeks to regain some of his happiest times.”



Dumbledore was eyeing him again, so Harry straightened up and looked him in the eye. “I suppose you’ll want to know what happened that night, professor?”



“Oh, it is no great mystery. Should you wish to talk about it we should certainly do so, but that can wait till later. It’s far too early in the morning for such things, don’t you agree?”



Narcissa set down her mug with force, and seemed startled out of intense concentration by the noise. She looked around at the both of them with wide eyes. Harry surmised that she had been hoping to hear what had happened to her son, as any worried mother might, but he was unsure of how he felt about telling her anything. Yes she had been more than gracious, but she hadn’t been born into a life of darkness as Malfoy had, she had chosen it. This was something that could not be so easily forgiven, no matter how much she claimed to have switched sides.



“Er, yes professor.” He reached up to stroke the hair out of his eyes, his face feeling hot under Narcissa’s gaze. “About the occlumency lessons from Malfoy, I don’t - I don’t know if I’m entirely comfortable with that.”



“Well I shouldn’t think so. It is very rare to come across a person so unashamed that they would let all the world peer into their mind. But life, alas, is not about being comfortable. I have no doubt that the prospect of Lord Voldemort entering your mind is perhaps just tad worse than Malfoy?”



“Yes, professor.”



“Not to worry though, I told you I would get you started along the right path, and I mean to stand by my word. I expect you and Malfoy wont be starting until the beginning of term.”



“I know it took me months to make any sort of progress with Snape, but I think….with a proper teacher I could do better.”



“Professor Snape, Harry. And don’t worry yourself about when term starts. On that note, I have received the final supply requests from our professors, so your owl’s should be arriving tomorrow.”



“I wasn’t - what do you mean? it’s only the end of July... And are you really going to go through the trouble of owling me my letter?”



“Tradition Harry, and on that note, Happy Birthday.”



The slow sputtering gurgle of surprise that was becoming somewhat habitual for Harry manifested itself again. How was he to have conversations with people if half of what he said was spittle and loud huffs? This was what Harry asked himself several minutes later as he sat around the now empty kitchen table, fingering the small package that Dumbledore had given him.



It was an odd thing, to be given a present and told at the same time not to open it until he needed someone to confide in. The present was wrapped in beautiful blue and turquoise, that seemed to be made of infinitesimally small strands of an iridescent material that looped and swirled about itself like the so many glowing strands of Harry’s protective wards. He lost himself in their slow undulating forms for the better part of a few minutes, before realizing that both Dumbledore and Narcissa had left.



He could hear the soft clanking that came muffled from beyond the curtain that meant Narcissa was busying herself with the dishes. As he moved to sit in one of the comfy lounge chairs that sat in soft glow of the little sun room that adjoined the dinning room, he couldn’t help but think this really was a time that he needed to confide in someone. He fingered the velvety bow that encircled the small heavy thing, figuring it was some sort of diary and wondering if Dumbledore had imbued it with any magical properties.



Slipping a finger under the edge of the wrapping, Harry coaxed out the small book with great care, endeavoring to save the wrappings for something. It was a beautiful thing, dark bound leather inlaid with gold and emerald patterns of vaguely Celtic feeling. They seemed to turn and twist as he looked at them, pulsing and knotting themselves in impossible ways.



Seeming to sense that fact that he might just sit and stare at it all day, the gold clasp unlocked under the touch of his finger, and flipped gracefully open to the first page. At the same moment a tuft of beautiful white appeared from the spine, and Harry grasped at it to pull out a long regal quill. He twirled it in his hands, marveling at the softness and the balance, before turning to wait expectantly for a pot of ink to jump out of some secret compartment.



When it did not come he flicked his wand and summoned a pot of ink from upstairs, the small bit of magic causing him to remember to ask Dumbledore about something. It wasn’t technically his birthday until later that evening, and he needed to know why the hell the ministry wasn’t breathing down his neck over the numerous and severe cases of underage magic he had been doing recently.



Dipping the long white plumage into well, Harry pulled it out and examined the tip with some confusion. Several times more he slipped it into inky darkness only to pull it forth white and virginal as he had first found it.  Sighing, Harry let the quill fall despondently from his hands, clearly it was not the right time to begin using the diary. But as the quill splayed itself on the page, a smattering of opalescent ink appeared at its tip.



He was mesmerized by the dark emerald and red colors that came together to form the rich dark words that he was now writing with great excitement. For the most part, the next five minutes were spent writing trite nonsense, simply so he could see the marvelous magic and playful swirl of the colors. After he got over the initial interest in the thing, he sat back, unsure of just what exactly he wanted to write about.



At that moment Malfoy came rustling into the room, and stood awkwardly by the door, watching Harry from a distance. Looking rather sneaky, he shuffled sidelong into the kitchen, never taking his eyes off Harry. But even as he did so, Harry couldn’t help but take in every subtle movement and shift of weight that took the blond lithely past the curtain.



A list. He had to make a list. Write out his feelings about Malfoy on parchment, to make concrete the nebulous thoughts that swam about his mind like the shimmering ink that flowed from the tip of his quill.



1. Malfoy apologized for everything.



He had already begun forming the next line of his list, but suddenly Harry felt a strange compulsion. Before he knew it, he was writing something else beneath the thin script.



And what the hell is that supposed to mean? You can’t just up and apologize for six years of loathing and contempt so intense it would make the Dursley’s proud.



2. I feel pity for him.



Maybe its not his fault that he was who he was. It doesn’t excuse him, but maybe that means his isn’t rotten to the core. After all, none of us are born good or evil right?



Voldemort.



Harry was rather startled by the sudden writing of this word, unaware that he had made a connection between Malfoy and Tom Riddle.



When I saw him, sitting alone at the Slytherin table, despondent and adrift, I couldn’t help but pity him. Perhaps it is my incessant Gryffindor need to save everyone, but I felt, and still feel, the need to help him. And sometimes he would just sit for hours in the library, not really reading, just sitting by the window looking out onto the lake. I think perhaps he was afraid to go back to the common room, afraid to face his friends, if they could still be called that.



Quidditch, Neville.



Somehow, Draco had broken his arm and several ribs during Quidditch practice. Though he swore vehemently that he had merely fallen off his broom, the sinister smiles that graced the rest of the team for nearly a week afterwards told Harry otherwise. Neville had been assigned detention with Madame Pomfrey for trying to raise Screaming Curttlewort in one of the less used boy’s lavatories, and he said that not once did any of Malfoy’s Slytherin cronies come to visit him.



And I thought I was lonely.



Harry watched the dark dot sink into the paper at the end of sentence, feeling slightly odd and noting that he had written more than he had anticipated. It wasn’t his intention to write more than just a list, and though part of him wanted to keep writing, he could feel thoughts mulling about in his subconsciousness that he wasn’t ready for this early in the morning.



3. I am attracted to him.



And there it was, that ghastly realization that was sweet and terrible all at once. He quickly scribbled underneath it, almost fighting himself to keep from unleashing a deluge of observations on just how attractive the proud git was. This last thought led him to his next point, and he bull rushed through the compulsion to write about point number three.



4. I don’t trust him.



He may have betrayed his father and everything he once stood for by failing to assassinate Dumbledore, but fear makes people capable of anything, right?



Harry wasn’t sure who he was asking, but somehow the last two times he’d finished a thought in the diary, he felt again the weird compulsion to write, which had this far culminated in the revelation of several subconscious links.



Peter Pettigrew



Yes, that lying bastard is afraid of Voldemort too. One of their closest friends, and he couldn’t even resist the power of Dark magic. He chopped off his own fucking finger and lived as a rat for eleven years out of fear. And out of pure fear he returned to the vile creature of a master. If we could’ve captured Voldemort while he was still weak, we’d just have to keep him prisoner until all the Horcruxes were found. Instead we are all in greater mortal peril than ever before, and Dumbledore is only alive because Malfoy just barely realized that he was more afraid of dying alone and friendless in the dark.



The only reason he is here, in this house, is because he is afraid of death, and Dumbledore is just his latest pair of legs to cower behind. You can dress it up in fancy clothes and parade it about in all your high strung emotions, Malfoy, but that doesn’t change the fact that you are just distracting yourself from your fear.



Dumbledore, love.



Well fuck that. The diary apparently wasn’t getting what it wanted from him, and he shut it with a loud clap and looked resolutely out of the window. He wasn’t sure what kind of subtle magic Dumbledore had worked on the thing, but now that the cover was closed, and the quill stowed back in the binding, he no longer felt a weird itching in the deep layers of his mind.



So Malfoy was his little gryffindor pity project, and even though he was probably only playing the part of goody two shoes until Harry was no longer a distraction, Dumbledore would have him ignore this fact and see it as an opportunity to save him from darkness.



Harry sighed and soon lost himself tracing the twisting trellis flowers that grew only feet from his head, outside in the private magic of the garden. If he listened hard he could almost hear the fuzzy white noise of the neighbor’s television, but it was so faint he could have just been imagining it. He saw shadows creeping slowly across the green space, noting that clouds were once again rolling in to snuff out the few nice days of weather they had been having. He turned his head into the room, which seemed to lift up and grow quiet without the harsh but beautiful light of the sun.



The corners and the dark underside of the table made the whole thing simpler to look at, and it was at that moment that Draco Malfoy chose to enter the room, the light from the kitchen ruffling a small halo through his hair and playing a soft sparkle on the silk brocade pajamas that he was still wearing. The two soft fabrics, Draco’s pajamas, and the kitchen curtain, rubbed against each other with a quiet, decadent sound, and Harry was very sure that all of the furniture in his future home would be deeply embroidered and ornate.



As he looked into Malfoy’s eyes, still full of light silver despite the darkness, he was struck with visions of the regal blond sitting royally splayed across half a dozen pillows and pulling seductively at the silken fabric that clung just ever so slightly at his pale expanse of milk white flesh.



There had been others before who had struck Harry’s fancy, but never before had his mind been so apt at producing such vivid fantasies. There was something different about his attraction to Malfoy that made it seem both the easiest most natural thing in the world, and also incredibly, unnaturally, uncontrolled.



Malfoy hesitated for a moment, as if about to speak, but closed his mouth and licked a small tongue across the bottom of his deep red lips instead. Needless to say, Harry was not really disappointed that Malfoy had decided not to say anything.



----oooo----



Harry found himself, many hours later, sitting alone in the bedroom. He had gathered about himself the majority of Hermione’s books on obliviation, and they now rose up about him in a great wall. As he looked up to take in the sight of the falling sun, Harry was startled to find that he could no longer see the window from behind his barrier.



As he began to disassemble the mess of literature, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glint of golden light that revealed to him the presence of Malfoy. It became all to clear why he had been subtly and subconsciously piling up the books about himself.



He had come in several hours ago to scour the pages for a way to remove the blond’s partial obliviation, and he wondered how long the object of his study had been sitting so close to him. As he watched, Malfoy reached a hand up to tuck a silky lock behind his ear, a movement that Harry saw in exquisite detail. There was a gentleness about the boy when he was unguarded and unwatched, a fresh youthfulness that Harry wondered how many people had ever seen. He was reminded of their first night together, and the small smile, the flash of happiness that had come to him across the darkness of coming sleep, to shine in his dreams for days.



He had almost forgotten about it, but it came back to him now as Malfoy looked up at him with a smile that could have been its double. “Have you been here long Potter?” The tone of Malfoy’s voice was playful, but it was hard for Harry to be startled out of his introspection by anyone without getting kind of grumpy, and the fact that it was Malfoy did not help at all.



“Sod off, Malfoy.”



“Someone is cranky.”



“Someone, is trying to help you. So stop being an ingrate and help me sort these books out.”



Instead of replying Malfoy merely made dramatic blabbing movements with his mouth, mocking Harry as he made to help. After a few minutes they’d sorted the books out, brushing hands more than once, and giving Malfoy the opportunity to laugh quietly at the way Harry tensed when they did so.



The night that Malfoy had arrived on the doorstep of number four privet drive, his submissiveness and general lack of snobbish airs had unnerved Harry. And though Malfoy was not being malicious in his mocking, his confidence and the casual way he was breathing now was too close to his former self.



“How long have you been here anyway, Malfoy?” There was a slight acidity to his tone that he had not really meant, and hoped Malfoy wouldn’t catch.



“No need to be so testy Potter, and I’ve been here for hours, nearly as long as you have.” He said, gesturing behind him to the room, now bereft of his various aristocratic accouterments. “I took the time to finally finish sorting through my things.”



“What’s that then?” said Harry, who had noticed the small silver medallion clutched in Malfoy’s hand.



The blond seemed startled, as if he did not realized he had been holding the thing, and held it up to the light, smiling morosely and looking a bit misty. “It’s nothing Potter, just a childhood memory.”



“Is it a good one?”



“No, it isn’t a bloody good one you fool, and even if it was I haven’t got any of those left anyway.” Spat Malfoy, and fixed Harry with one of his icy stares that looked daggers into Harry’s chest.



Harry’s voice was only slightly shaky when he spoke, normal enough, he hoped, for Malfoy not to suspect anything. “It’s not my fault, so what are you getting all angry at me for?”



“You’re the one who got all angry at me for sitting in my own room!”



“This isn’t your room Malfoy, it’s mine. And it was Ron’s too, before you came.”



Malfoy didn’t reply, but merely huffed in a mollified sort of way and crossed his arms. It was familiar, this bickering, and Harry couldn’t help but admit it lit a fire inside him and he enjoyed it for the game that it was. Though where before it had been just routine loathing, there was something new in the mix, an undercurrent of desperation, as if there weren’t just merely having a tiff, but fighting, fighting for something more.



Malfoy was standing by the window now, and the downward curve of his shoulders was the same as the day he had slipped defeated from the hospital wing after apologizing to Harry. The guilt that lay upon his own shoulder’s, stemming from his actions on a particular night not three weeks ago, doubled in size as it combined with the still lingering guilt from the hospital wing.



Even though Malfoy seemed to have accepted his apology, Harry felt he still hadn’t truly made it up to him. He had seemed defeated and alone for the rest of the term, and Harry knew that his rage had been the final blow that broke down the icy armor that the blond had once worn.



“I’m sorry Malfoy, I was just surprised that you were in here is all. I really don’t mind at all that you are staying here, I didn’t mean that.”



“Yes, you did, but that’s all right. I never really considered the Mansion my home anyway, so it’s not like I’m really missing anything terribly.”



Somehow, in the course of their conversation Malfoy had gone from playful and mocking, to sad and morose, and now finally he was becoming open and gentle; a prospect that both frightened and intrigued Harry. Malfoy’s admission struck a painful chord in Harry’s chest, who had also never really considered anywhere but Hogwarts home. And Malfoy probably didn’t even think of the castle that way, so he was truly alone. Friendless and homeless.



There was a strange new part of Harry that desperately wished to do something romantic and cliché at this moment; it wished to go over to Malfoy and wrap his arms gently around the lonely creature, and whisper sweet words of comfort until the sun had long set around the both of them. But instead he backed slowly towards the door, and muttered something about needing a break from studying.



“So you’re going to help us then?”



“Yes.” Said Harry softly, as he slunk out the door and turned, only just managing to catch the gleaming eyes that watched him go. They were full of hope, and drew the breath from Harry’s lungs in a wind.



----oooo---



“Harry, I was beginning to think you would never come.”



“I’m sorry sir, you were expecting me?”



“Well yes, you don’t remember? We arranged to meet here, in the drawing room, approximately an hour after breakfast.”



“You’re kidding!? I’m sorry sir, I’ve been a bit distracted today.”



Dumbledore chuckled his characteristic knowing chuckle, and gave Harry the knowing twinkle in his eye. They were dependable, these little mannerisms that the old man had acquired over his great lifetime. Even the little gesture that told Harry to come and sit with him by the fireplace.



“I assume you are enjoying your present then?”



“It is….odd, professor. It feels like I’m writing from a deeper part than what I’m thinking at the moment.”



“I have been alive for a very long time Harry.” Dumbledore paused here, to look at Harry, unnecessarily checking to see if he was paying attention. “And after these long years I would like to think that I have learned some things about the world, about myself. It is a curious thing, but often I have found it hardest to tell the truth to myself.” At this he paused again and raised his eyebrow at Harry, who tried very hard not blush and instead began to play with the frilly edge of his armrest.



“May I speak freely for a moment, professor?”



“I should hope it is never otherwise with us, Harry, a great many things depend on that. But I think what you are going to say has something to do with our last little chat does it not? Well, before you begin, let me make it easier on you by saying first of all that I am not angry, nor disappointed in the least.” Dumbledore clasped his hands in his lap, and looked smilingly at Harry, who could not have been more shocked.



“When we’re sitting here, when I’m with people, and I think about him; the fact that someday one of us will have to kill the other, I don’t feel alone. But in the end it has to be me, it can only be me that kills him. I will be alone against him. No friends by my side, in the final darkness.”



Dumbledore rose and went to stand by one of the long windows, seeming to look out over the tree tops to some far off place that Harry desperately wished he could go too. He been calm up until this point, and firm in his resolution that Dumbledore would respect his unfaith in love, but some part of his anxiety was creeping back.



“Tell me Harry, do you see this squirrel on the window sill?” Harry followed the outstretched hand to see the small bushy animal, chewing contently on a walnut that was clutched in its tiny raking hands. “Do you think it ever ponders the coming of its death? The final institution of its mortality?”



Harry looked deep into the dark pools of empty thought, glistening as they barreled forwards into the space of his consciousness and filled it with a deep animal disinterest. “No, sir.”



“But when it hears the screech of the hawk,  do you not think its heart is clutched by the abject fear of death? Whether or not it truly understands what that means, you cannot deny that there is fear.”



“No sir, you cannot.”



“One last point, and then you can tell me other the other things you have swimming about your mind. It is the thing that, in varying degrees separates us from that squirrel, for though it may feel on the surface things such as contentment and fear, it cannot possibly comprehend death with the depth that we do. And though sometimes it seems the depressing realization that life in death is meaningless, along with that depth we posses a corresponding joy. We posses among all other animals the awareness, the self awareness that enables us to see just what it is this miracle of life we are living. How lucky we are to be alive, no matter the consequence.”



The was a long moment, after which Harry finally said, “I know that, but you see when I’m alone all these truths are weak. They can’t sustain me.”



Dumbledore turned in a dramatic flurry of robes, to face Harry as the setting sun burned bright through the long stretched purple of the clouds and back lit the tiny orbs of dust floating quiet in the room. He said, in a hushed but hurried voice, “That’s it then. The answer. Do not be alone Harry Potter, you needn’t ever be. This time that you share with me, and that you will share with others, this time is ours and it is forever. It will always be here for you to return to when you need it most.”



And in that moment, Harry Potter knew it to be true.