The Veiled Boy

It was two weeks after the departure of Draco Malfoy when Harry reluctantly ventured into Hogsmeade in pursuit of a gift for Draco—he turned sixteen last week, but public outings were limited for the political climate was now much too unstable. There were strict restrictions placed against leaving the school by Dumbledore, but Harry was not one to follow the rules. 

The entire air of the small village had been dramatically transformed. To walk into what once was a lively, diverse community of vibrant personalities, it was almost a personal loss to see the insignificance to which they sank. Nearly all the pureblood women, now unrecognizable, wore black, makeshift Veils over their heads. The lower-class purebloods felt it necessary even without the funds to use quite literally anything to adhere. Harry witnessed over the ladies' heads washcloths, cotton sheets, burlap, and even on one pitifully poor woman, a paper bag. 

Muggle-born wizards and witches walked in the roads, for there were signs reserving the pavements for pure bloods and half-bloods; even the pavements themselves were segregated with the innermost parts solely for the use of pure blood women and children—those under the Veil. Harry learned this the hard way. A man stood at every corner of the street—in an opening between the post office and Dervish & Banges—holding his wand up high to determine the blood status of those passing by. When Harry walked by him, the point of the wand shone a bright yellow, and Harry was pushed rudely toward the edge of the pavement, away from the shops. 

"Half bloods walk toward the roads!" 

The man had shouted with tremendous aggression as if Harry had attempted to rob him of his service coat. The voice brought attention to Harry, and a pureblood woman who wore expensive fur hugged her belongings closer to her chest and hurried her pace and slowed only when she'd thoroughly passed him. Harry now recognized the man as a regular at the Three Broomsticks. He was often seen chatting in good nature with Madame Rosmerta. But now his previously youthful, promisingly handsome face was pinched with permanent condemnation, and his black hair fell in messy clumps over his eyes, as if to conceal old, audacious friends from greeting him. 

Harry soon recovered from the insult he'd suffered—to be pushed was nothing but a trivial matter now—and ventured on toward High Street. Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop still retained its distinguished look, and this filled Harry with a warmth he would cling onto forever. The shop's windows displayed the wide variety of quills, from peacock to owl, with bronze to golden stems, all of which were laid out tastefully on a decorative display. Walking in, he was greeted kindly by the old clerk, DuPont, Scrivenshaft's substitute whenever he went off on holiday. Harry had a terrible thought that Scrivenshaft wouldn't be returning at all. 

Harry knew Draco adored a steady quill; the boy would go on and on about the fantastical colors and would conjure up lofty scenarios of writing love letters in pink or red. Harry moved toward the tables and picked up the newest box, turning it over twice in his hands, and then took it to the sales counter. 

"Good choice, Potter," DuPont looked upon him with immense pride. "The newest quill writes effortlessly! It is the very same as running one's hand over satin. You are very smart to wish to use it."

"Oh, it's not for me. It's for a friend."

"What a shame you will not experience the Odyssey's lauded glide! Nonetheless, would you want me to wrap it then?" DuPont asked, rummaging through a drawer behind the counter. 

"No, that's alright."

"Alright, here is your charge." From the drawer, DuPont produced a small sign and placed it casually on the counter. Harry adjusted his glasses to get a better look.

The Odyssey Quill

Pure-Blood Price: Four Galleons

Half-Blood Price: Eight Galleons*

Mud-Blood Price: Nineteen Galleons**

*If you are purchasing as a service for a pureblood, show your registration under the House you are employed.

**Pure-Blooded witches and wizards unconforming to the Veil are subjected to paying the price of mudbloods.

"Since when did these prices come about?" Harry asked, reaching into his pockets. "It used to be four galleons for everyone."

DuPont's wrinkled face twisted with severe paranoia; he frantically looked over his shoulders and beyond the shop windows as if someone were waiting to arrest him. "Times change, Potter. Eight galleons on the tray, please."

"It's rubbish, I think," said Harry as he counted out his galleons on his palm. "Hermione would be heartbroken to learn she has to pay nineteen bloody galleons for her favorite quill."

DuPont frowned and fidgeted with his shop apron. "It's not for me to decide. The ministry has placed price ceilings and floors on all of the shops, even private practices. It's about time you get used to it. It'd be better for you the sooner you do. Especially for Miss Granger." 

Harry saw the agitation he'd brought upon the old man and decided not to further protest the price. So, submitting once again, Harry reluctantly placed eight galleons into the tray and bid the man a thank you and a farewell. 

As he walked along the outermost part of the pavement, he observed cautiously a disconcerting amount of posters with the nastiest insults he'd seen published. There was the face of a particularly ugly woman, whose teeth were enlarged and yellowed, and her face was littered with pus-filled warts. In bold letters, The Prettiest Mudblood Woman was rudely stamped above her portrait. Beside it was a hooded figure with a large eye stamped over the veiled front. This figure was displayed as a powerful, honorable being with the rocky terrain beneath them and a grand view behind. We Count on You to Protect Our Very Best. Become a Scout Today. 

"Come." There was a strong hand on his shoulder that pulled him forcefully away from the posters. Professor Snape had not once looked at him or spoke to him again until they'd moved into the quieter part of town where pavement patrollers and wicked posters were scarce. 

"You're not supposed to be out, Potter," Snape said. "It isn't safe out here anymore."

"I've seen," said Harry. "Eight galleons for a quill, Professor. Just because I'm half blood?"

"Yes, I know," Snape said calmly. "You know why this is all happening so quickly, don't you?"

Harry had his theories but remained silent and hoped the professor would, in time, save him from embarrassing himself. He merely shrugged. 

"Draco returned home," said Snape. "The Veiled gained the confidence necessary to exact their malicious, premeditated demise onto the ministry and those they governed. Just yesterday, a majority of the new department heads declared loyalty to the Veiled, and soon the entire ministry will be swallowed whole by what was previously believed to be a dormant ideology. Fudge was sloppy." 

"Didn't you know of it?" Harry asked quietly. "Don't you go to their meetings and discuss all of the infiltration business? Couldn't you have warned someone?" 

"I did know of it, but not to the degree it has unfolded," said the professor. "Understand that when Draco was placed at Hogwarts, Lucius wished to keep me entirely focused on the safety of his son, so he purposely avoided any allusion to how elaborately they'd been planning. He felt he was being kind to me, I suppose. But it is not useful for you if Lucius is kind."

Harry tried a laugh. How inappropriate it would sound in the miserable streets upon which they walked. "Should we be worried at all, sir? If Hogsmeade could change so quickly, then by next month the entire country will be wearing Veils."

Snape's sallow face only darkened. "I wish I could leave you out of it, Potter. It's not your place to meddle with the affairs of adults, but Dumbledore has already dragged you in much too deep. Things are going to change, Harry. This was expected, but this much too sudden... Dumbledore is frightened, I can tell. He'd believed his people at the ministry were indissolublely loyal to his name. But how easily people are swayed by fear and power?"

"We need to get Draco back. Riddle would lose all of his confidence the moment he's back with us, and all of this rubbish will stop." 

"It won't stop, per se, but it would slow down considerably. Riddle's carnage will never cease at anything, and having Draco at his side is only accelerating his pace. Bringing Draco back will prove difficult, but he may leave on his own. You've done a fine job in planting your hooks into his back," said Snape. 

"Don't say it like that," Harry snapped. The professor looked wearily at him. "I know at first it was forced and planned, but I care about him just as you do now. My relationship with him is very real; it stopped being an act a long, long time ago." 

"My apologies," said Snape, not at all vexed with the irritable tone used by his student. In fact, Snape seemed relieved and very pleased with Harry's castigation. There was a short silence between the two, but never longer than a moment, for the tension was cured quickly by Harry's curiosity.

"Do you have a letter for me?"

The professor nodded, and from a pocket within his black robes, he pulled out a thick envelope and handed it to Harry. "I told him to keep it brief. The boy doesn't listen."

Harry held the packet in his hands and smiled warmly, knowing that Draco's own fingers were on it. In the loveliest of penmanship, there was his name, Draco Lucius Malfoy. The name itself was enough to produce in him a tremendous heartache and longing for his friend. 

"Do you miss him?" The professor asked, observing him for a while.

Harry blushed, quickly storing the letter away in his bag. "Yes, of course. He's one of my closest friends now."

"He misses you immensely," said Snape with a suspicious nonchalance. "Every time I visit him, it is your name that is first to leave his lips. You see, he's so desperate to see you that he's asked that I take him with me to Hogwarts just for an afternoon."

"He can't?"

"No. Riddle seldom allows Draco out of his sight. Lucius argues with him daily. Just yesterday, Lucius accompanied his son into the gardens, and this sparked a terrible rage in the Lord; it is a very frightful house now. But I expect Draco will be allowed to leave soon if accompanied by a chaperone; his attitude is worsening and Riddle cannot stand the adolescent rage." 

Harry laughed weakly. "I better write to him as soon as I can."

"Oh, please. If I return without a letter, it is to me the great agitation is targeted." The two exchanged another healthy laugh. 

The professor bid Harry farewell at the school gates and rushed off into the side building with his cloak billowing out behind him. The moment he'd made it back into his own common room—which was deserted due to both the lack of students and the start of dinner—Harry sat by the hearth and tore open eagerly Draco's letter. 

My dearest Harry, 

How I hate the manor with all that I am! Can it be that I've grown so used to the vastness of Hogwarts that even the luxurious home of which I used to boast only bores me so? My aforementioned woes have only intensified in the last couple of days, and I grieve that I cannot write you a letter every hour and hear back! I keep everything you've ever written me in a small tin box under my bedding, and when I feel exceptionally lonely, I take them out, kiss them, and pretend you are beside me still. Oh, I miss you tremendously, my dearest friend! There are not enough words in the English language that could possibly illustrate how I crave you with a hunger nothing could pacify. Even if I should see you as a figure in the distance or even just your passing shadow, I will feel every vein in my body pulsating with a violent rapture. 

You'll be glad to know that I've started to read the Prophet now, and of it I am most terrified. I ought to have been pleased to read that the Veils are becoming more commonplace, but the measures in which we've taken to make it so are most horrid. If I were in power, I'd have approached it differently. It is no wonder everyone at Hogwarts despised me! If this was the route we were to take, I ought to despise myself too! Even if there are justifications and measures that are necessary—the establishment of rightful order in our society—I wonder if all of it could be done without violence and bloodshed! I wept for nearly an hour yesterday to learn that you, the most lauded being in my life, must pay double than I without committing a crime at all! If only they'd let me speak at those meetings, then maybe I could have proposed a better alternative! But an alternative to what, exactly? What could I say that would possibly suffice? Those men will laugh at me with their eyes; I see it. Yesterday, a man did manage to snort at my suggestion—I'd suggested a civil negotiation with Fudge—and my father had his tongue cut out! I feel terrible about that too, but the man was much too fat anyway. Perhaps it would do him good! 

I don't understand why a negotiation could prompt a laugh. The longer I am home and confronted with the way things really are, I've realized that I've been acquainted with reality only in theory, and I know nothing! It is a terrible realization indeed. How could I have lived fifteen years without knowing a thing about my culture? Do you laugh at me too, Harry? Oh, please do not hate me for my naivety! And most of all, do not hate me for what shall come. Know that if I could, I'd persuade them to take a much more passive approach. But they laugh at me with their eyes, and my heart is elsewhere. Negotiation is deemed a joke! 

How I want to feel you with my hands just to reassure myself that you still wish to be my friend after all the atrocities under my name. Just this morning, an official was publicly hanged for his blood status and mutiny, with justification being the divine-designated authority given to pure bloods. While the latter remains true, my entire soul trembles for the poor official. It is most unfair for us to have been able to continue as we were untouched by the last minister; so what gives us the right to rule with force? 

But enough about politics—even if that has become my entire life now—I want to speak more about you! You must tell me that all is well and you are doing very splendidly at school! How are your friends? Are they very fine? I hope you are very bored of them so you are inclined to rush to me, take me in your arms, and adore me with an intense passion brought on only by our distance. I want to write further about my emotions, but I am scared you will laugh. Maybe you are already laughing at me now; you love to do so! Severus advised me to keep my letters brief, so I have. But let me tell you that I could write a series of the thickest of novels, and even then it would not suffice to relay how much I miss you and long to see you! Oh, I struggle tremendously with ending letters. Please write me as soon as you can. 

Your ailing friend,

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Pureblood

House of Malfoy 

PS: How odd is it we must sign off our letters this way? I don't expect much of it; perhaps they collect charges or taxes based off of status. But I fear they might pay special attention to letters coming from higher houses. It is very lucky that Severus is so willing to carry out letters for us! It's almost a forbidden sort of communication, and it excites me as much as it terrifies me! I am young and vain, so naturally I find great joy in bending the rules to my liking.Have I gone on too long? Let me end it here for your sake (I know you absolutely detest reading)! All the love to you, my dearest friend! 

His every word captivated Harry. Every letter of his was full of a raw passion that created in Harry a deeper adoration for Draco. Perhaps it was because he could not readily access Draco's cast of mind and lively character, but every letter was just as painful as it was rich in the material necessary to bring upon him a sense of genuine happiness. Even the wretchedness of their situation, the horrors of their world, were expressed with such refinement that Harry was liable to forget all about it. That is, only if it ceased to torment Draco too. 

The moment Harry released his friend's hand, he felt the most suffocating sort of loneliness. Every morning for the last two weeks started with a heavy dread and foreseen dullness. Everything seemed to have lost its color and vibrancy, and Harry has become indifferent to a lot of things that used to bring him joy. Without Draco, school was an obligation, studying was a chore, and quidditch was a mere game. He hadn't noticed the hold this friendship had on him, and now that he was without it, he understood completely that Draco had, in the strangest way, completed him fully. 

"He wrote?" Harry nearly jumped out of his skin when Hermione—whose entry went completely unnoticed—sat next to him and offered him a friendly smile. Ron was there too and stretched himself lazily on the sofa. 

"Yeah," Harry managed, his voice stifled by his great embarrassment as he stored the letter away. It was not that he was embarrassed to keep a Veiled friend anymore, but more so hiding a letter from whom Harry desperately wanted. "You guys haven't been to Hogsmeade in a while, but I managed to sneak in. The prices now are going up for anyone, not a pure blood. For a quill, it's nineteen galleons."

"Me too?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, you know, because you're considered a blood traitor, you're obligated to pay the same as Hermione."

"Blimey! Nineteen bloody galleons for a quill?" Ron sat up; his eyes were wide with shock. "Mum and dad could barely get along as it was!"

Hermione sighed heavily. "I've overheard in the kitchens how complicated the pricing has become for products and grains. One house elf, without the permit of working for Dumbledore, was charged thirty-six galleons for a loaf of bread." 

"Thirty-six galleons," Harry repeated under his breath. 

"We might as well starve," Ron scoffed. He lay back down and stared at the ceiling with utter disbelief.

"Enough about that." Hermione turned herself completely to Harry and gave him a gentle smile. "How is Malfoy doing? Is he well?"

"Oh." A timid grin appeared on Harry as he thought back to the passionate prose tucked away in his pocket. "He misses me, I guess."

"Do you miss him?" Ron asked, tossing a rubber ball high into the air and catching it. "You were with him almost every day for practically the whole year. You must be feeling off."

"Yeah, I actually do miss him." Harry blushed at his admission and turned toward the open fire in an attempt to hide it. "He is a character."

"Well, we will have to get a hold of him again somehow," sighed Ron. "Where are we on that, Harry? Is he willing to leave home?"

"I don't know. We don't really talk about that."

"Why not? Isn't that the whole point, anyway?" Ron asked, still tossing the ball. 

"Oh, give it up, Ron!" Harry stood and faced his friend, who froze, looking to him with a face of utter surprise. "Why can't you understand that it's not a galling task anymore?!"

"Then what is it?" Ron slowly sat up, tucking the rubber ball away into his robes. "That's all it's ever been, right? What's different now?"

"Everything."

"Look, sorry, I don't understand the depth of the relationship between you two. But it get it, I may have been too light about it all," said Ron sincerely. "I mean, if you could at least admit to us that you're in love with the bloke. I wouldn't understand, but I'd understand you more, you know?" 

Harry was utterly humiliated to hear it, and those words remained suspended in the air above him, laughing at him. "I'm not in love with him!" Blushing, Harry turned on his heel and rid himself of the inquisitive looks his friends had given him. It was almost an insult—a blinding reminder of where Harry truly stood. 

He slammed the door behind him and threw himself onto his bed, partially relieved to be away from his friends. For it was his answer they were waiting for, and an answer Harry did not have. He did think of it often—how oddly affectionate he found himself being toward Draco. But it was not a conscious choice; it was something innate, so natural, and done without a thought. Surely, though, everyone could feel this way if they'd only known and seen Draco like he had. Maybe Ron too would want to reach out and brush his fingers through the softness of Draco's blonde hair and watch the shy contentment unfold on the boy's sweet face.

To suffocate this thought, he opened his bedside drawer, fished out a quill and paper, and began to write his response to Draco. How would he start it? What could he say? Maybe he should start with an honest confession of how pathetically desperate he'd become to see him too. Harry opened Draco's letter and laid it flat on his bed, smoothing it out carefully. Those fair hands have touched this paper, he'd thought to himself. Those hands that I have kissed more than once, of which the smoothness only persuaded me further to continue and never stop. Harry felt that pressure again on his chest, a mix of intense desire and desperation. Ron's words resurfaced. Love. Harry did not love Draco. Harry could not love Draco. He knew all along how dangerous it would be, and so, like any rational being, he'd made sure to never step beyond the limits of platonic adoration. That step was never made, so why did he feel Draco's absence stronger than ever? Why did he have to convince himself every morning to stay put and not run off to the manor, grab the heir, run off to the ends of the world, and love him intensely so that nobody could know Draco ever existed because he'd solely belong to him? Harry is only a man, but isn't man's will the strongest of them all? Yes, it is not love but a mere overprotectiveness that makes him liable for a fault. That is all it was and all it would ever be. 

The lack of ink in his inkwell caused in him a sense of dread, for the spares would be in the common room where his friends still were. He sat up and wondered if it was worth it to save his pride and rid Draco of a timely response. So he stood and made for the door, his hand suspended over the handle. There must be an inkwell somewhere, he thought. If I go out there, Ron will start his apologizing, and Hermione will fuss over me. It'll be too annoying, and I'll become angry again. Harry suddenly remembered Neville's side of the room was always stocked responsibly with supplies. It would cause much teasing in their room when Neville would offer a ridiculous amount of soap, candy, and socks to his friends. They'd call him Grandad Longbottom and reduce the poor boy to a dreadful red color. Harry rummaged messily through Neville's things and found not one but five untouched inkwells. 

Very satisfied with having saved himself from further humiliation, he turned toward the bed to begin his letter and froze. There he was. Draco Malfoy sat in his bed with nothing else on but a thin, cotton nightgown. His expression was that of nonchalance and contentment, and he stretched himself comfortably on the bed, the thin cloth showing all the natural contours of his body. 

Harry could not say much but stand in awe of the sight. Draco was beautifully sprawled out like a resting angel, with the fragmented sunlight golden upon the whiteness of his frame. When they'd faced each other, Draco laughed, blessing Harry entirely with his stately voice and appearance. 

"Why are you here?" Harry asked, his heart filled with bliss; he slowly sat on the bed and hesitated to touch him, almost afraid he would disappear if he did. "Where's your chaperone?"

"My chaperone? Harry, do you believe me to be a child?" Draco laughed again and blushed. "I can make my own decisions; I assure you."

"Then someone's looking for you?"

"What if they are? Isn't it much more thrilling this way?" Draco whispered shyly. How full Harry's breast was of thundering affection now. It was so cruel to be so close to him and not be able to grab hold of him. 

"You've come to sleep then?" whispered Harry. "Aren't you afraid someone might see you?"

"No," Draco replied. "In me has been an intense desire to come see you, Harry, and tell you that my heart nurses for you tremendous love. Do you find an attraction for me too?" Draco asked. He stretched his arms over his head and gave Harry a mischievous smile. Then, with too much casual air, he bent his knees so that the nightshirt fell in a bunch at his hips, revealing the intoxicating sight of his white thighs. 

Harry shuddered, his whole body burning with temptation. "A-an attraction?"

"Yes," said Draco. "Is there any for me?" 

"I-I don't know; I suppose I haven't really thought about it," said Harry with his eyes fixated on the curves of Draco's long legs. "You've always been someone I've felt nothing but respect for," he managed. 

"Why? In your eyes, am I a monk? A saint? Have I sold myself to your personally crafted convent to be a virgin forever?" 

"No, not necessarily." 

"Then what?" Draco slowly reached for Harry's hands, which were gripping the sheets of his bed. "Am I untouchable?"

Harry blushed. That was it. Draco was indeed untouchable. Harry wanted desperately to press his hands into the softness of his flesh and devour him fully, but both Draco's soul and physicality resembled what the philosophers would call an experience of the senses; Harry dared not ruin him. So he sat there with every fiber of his being trembling and resisting the very physical manifestation of the word chaste. 

"I haven't a single objection to it, Harry," said Draco, sitting up. Still wearing that innocent smile, he gently lifted Harry’s hand and held it to his chest; Harry could feel the boy’s heart racing. "Now what, Harry? Will you draw your hand away because you do not care for me at all? Or will you keep it there because you are so smitten by me? What will it be?" 

Harry did not reply but merely moved his finger along the edge of Draco’s collarbone, in awe of the sight, for Draco was always dressed so conservatively and any skin was always hidden away. Seeing it now sent Harry’s nerves ablaze; he could not speak. 

"Go on, Harry; I am all yours." 

It did not take another word from Draco; there needn't be another ask or request, for Harry grabbed Draco hungrily by the waist and pulled him close with a force only natural for a man devoured completely by lust. Draco let out a sweet laugh as Harry showered the length of his porcelain neck with kisses. How intoxicating! Harry could not get enough and felt he'd been reduced to a state of drunkenness as he gathered Draco in his arms. 

"You're a fool, Potter," Draco whispered into his ear. Harry pulled away from him and looked into the silver of his eyes. His cheeks were aflame, and he looked upon Harry with a content languor and a playful smile about his boyish lips. "Can you really stand to be without me?"

"No," Harry replied and kissed Draco tenderly on the forehead. "I miss you so much, and it worsens by the second." 

"But you don't love me?"

"I don't know."

"Why not?"

"I don't know." 

"But here I am under your lips and tangled in your arms with nothing but a word to separate us. How can you still maintain you do not feel more than a platonic affection for me? Is it that you truly do not know or that you do not want to know?"

"Both, I think," Harry whispered. He was tempted to kiss him again, but he'd be a perfect hypocrite to do so. With his hands gripping Draco's waist, he gradually felt himself return to the softness of the mattress on which they lay. "You're not really here, are you?"

Draco smiled sweetly and shook his head. 

"Oh." Harry frowned and gently let go of Draco, letting him lay flat on the bed. "I guess I miss you too much, huh."

"When you miss your friends to this degree, do you dream that they appear in your bed as vulnerable as I do? And during such a dream, do you hold them as you've held me and kiss them with the same hunger?"

Harry blushed. "No." 

"But you don't know if you love me."

Harry nodded.

Draco placed a kiss on Harry's cheek. "Oh, what a real shame, Harry. Who knows how much time we have together, and you'll waste it all on your indecision!" 

"We have forever, don't we?"

"You don't know that." Draco sat up quickly and smiled with his natural fragrance of purity. "Close your eyes, Harry." 

He obliged. But nothing came of it. After a while, Harry opened his eyes and found he was in the very same position, but the patch of bed where Draco had been was nothing but tangled sheets, a blank piece of parchment, and the empty vial of ink. With utter disappointment, Harry lay flat on his back, his heart still racing from the exhilarating sensations augmented by his imagination. It seemed even in his dreams he would be laughed at and teased for his indecision. As if one could choose who to love, he thought. And if all the obstacles before me now suddenly disappeared, how easy would it be for me to love him? Harry angrily covered himself with his blanket and turned onto his side, facing away from where the dreamed-up Draco was laying moments earlier. 

"Harry?"

Ron had opened the door and poked his head in. When Harry did not reply—he hoped he could convince his friend he was truly asleep—Ron's footsteps approached his bed, and there was a telling sink in the mattress. 

"I know you're not sleeping, Harry. If you were, you'd be snoring." 

Harry remained silent. 

"Look, mate, I didn't mean to push you earlier. But I wish you would talk to me again. We used to stay up late talking like girls about who's fit and who's kissable. Remember? I know we've got other things to worry about, bigger things, but I don't think it's so bad to be a teenager every once in a while." 

"Why would I want to talk to you when all you have to say is rubbish anyway?" Harry muttered against his pillow. 

"Yeah, I know. But I promise you I'm just bitter because I'm stupid. 'Mione says I lack emotional depth or whatever. She's probably right. But hey, if I talk, will you?"

"What could you possibly have to say that'd interest me? I'm not in the mood for another one of your tangents on how Draco is a privileged snob."

"I snogged Hermione."

Harry finally turned to his friend, who was grinning mischievously. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Yeah, last week. It was pretty nice actually; I even got to hold her hand."

Harry sat up and turned to his friend. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" 

"You were so upset about Malfoy being gone that I didn't want to rub it in your face that my life is way better than yours!" Ron puffed out his chest triumphantly. 

"Is it? You have to pay nineteen galleons for a quill!" 

The two of them shared a real, honest-to-goodness laugh. Even with the many suppressed emotions, Harry felt the familiar comfort of his friendship returning to its rightful place. Suddenly, whether or not he loved Draco was a trivial matter, for the foundation for everything he'd ever cared about—including Draco Malfoy—grew increasingly unsteady. Should he lose his focus on what really mattered and find out he did indeed love Draco, it would prove worthless if the boy had become a mere carcass with a beating heart. The very thought sent a wave of terror throughout. 

When all of this is over, thought Harry, when Draco is free, I might let myself fall in love with him and I'll be the happiest man alive.