"Love and hatred are not blind, but are blinded by the fire they bear within themselves." - Friedrich Nietzsche

Draco woke up feeling hollow and weak and a little puffy, but cleansed. Like he'd been thoroughly and forcefully rinsed and then wrung out, clearing away the debris of the lies and repressions he'd clogged himself with out of a deluded sense of self-preservation. He slid out of bed, realizing he'd fallen asleep in his clothes from yesterday. It was yet another thing to strike off the list of 'Things Draco Malfoy Never Does.' He went into his bathroom and splashed cold water on his face to wake himself up, then lifted his eyes to the mirror.

The same face peered back at him: the same tilted, translucent grey eyes, the almost invisible, blond, arched eyebrows, the high, subtle yet defining cheekbones, and the thin nose. The soft blond hair was now long enough to begin toying with the idea of drifting onto his forehead.

He realized he'd been expecting to look different, to be somehow marked by what he'd acknowledged last night. It had changed his inner composition irrevocably, so it only seemed fitting that his outward composition should have shifted as well. He was both relieved and regretful that it hadn't. He didn't want people to be able to give him a once-over and know, but it had been such an impossible, heart-rending thing to acknowledge, such a monumental personal upheaval, that he felt the outside world should have felt the change, too, on some level. He leaned closer to the mirror, as close as he could get without losing view of his whole face, looking for some physical indication that a new Draco Malfoy now inhabited his body. Still nothing.

And then, though he didn't move a muscle, the corner of his reflection's mouth twitched ever so slightly upwards.

When Draco approached the Slytherin table a half an hour later for breakfast, he saw Pansy and Goyle sitting across from each other. The sight struck Draco as oddly domestic and cozy, the two of them sharing space and sipping coffee. It made him ache a little, in a corner of his heart he hadn't known existed. It must belong to the new Draco.

Pansy glanced over suddenly and noticed his approach, then forcefully set her coffee mug down and stood up. She stormed away from the table, pointedly not looking at Draco as she passed him but staring stonily ahead. Somewhat to Draco's surprise, Goyle stood up to follow. He shrugged apologetically at Draco and his body language, ever more eloquent than his tongue, seemed to say, "What can you do?" Then he, too, walked away.

Some kind of alliance appeared to be forming between the two of them, Draco mused as he sat down by himself, a pale deserted island in a sea of black robes. As it stood now, it looked as if his friend count had dissipated from 2 to 0. It struck him that he should be more bothered by this, but he'd never measured himself by the number of people who liked him – if he had, his value would be even lower than he currently appraised it at – and he had more pressing concerns this morning, of all mornings. Far more pressing indeed.

Such as the fact that in twenty minutes he would be seated next to Harry Potter for almost two hours, since today was double Potions. Not only would he be seated next to Potter, but he would be seated next to the... Draco shut his eyes and his stomach knotted. The person responsible for putting those knots in his stomach. The object of his oh-so misguided affections.

Draco really had to hand it to whoever was in charge in the larger-than-life scheme of things: this was one sick twist he had never seen coming.

Last night's submission to the invasion of the truth had been a quiet thing, sneaking into his mind under the cover of darkness. Now, rather than being able to chalk it up to the folly of semi-consciousness and over-wrought emotions, the light of day seemed to be illuminating every newly clear corner within Draco, showing him just how surely this truth had taken root in him. It was reaching eagerly up toward the light, preening and begging for attention.

He would not be able to ignore Potter today.

As if thoughts were magnets, Draco turned his eyes toward the Gryffindor table. Potter's mop of hair was just visible over the edge of the Daily Prophet, which he appeared to be using as a screen to hide behind rather than a vehicle of news as it was intended.

Draco was equal parts disappointed to be thwarted in his effort to get his first view of Potter since the Acknowledgement (as he was referring to it now, not quite as willing to define it fully conscious as he had been half-asleep), relieved to avoid what was sure to be a disconcertingly evocative reaction to Potter's familiar – though not any less striking for it – face, and anxiety that that reaction would now be doomed to take place in person.

Draco's own owl deposited the Daily Prophet on his plate then. Potter's face blinked up at him from the front page. The headline announced the Ministry's desire to name their new wing after the wizarding world's poster child. Seeing the miniature Potter fidget in the frame – it was a posed photo, presumably from some victory photo shoot or another – gripped Draco with a fresh wave of panic.

What was he thinking, nursing a crush on Potter? It was ludicrous!

Potter was... well, he was Harry Potter, the darling of the wizarding world. And Draco was a Malfoy – the scourge of the wizarding world. Gay or not, Potter would never consider Draco that way. The fact that even a tiny bit of him held a flame of hope for this possibility proved how barmy Draco's mind had gone around the edges.

Draco evaluated the food on his plate and came to the obvious conclusion that there was no way he was going to be able to keep it down – if he was even able to force it down in the first place. Not feeling as he did, nearly sick to his stomach with anxiety and uncertainty and a nagging hope that he couldn't quell no matter how many times he said firmly to himself, "Harry Potter will never fancy you. Harry Potter will never fancy you."

Across the hall, Harry Potter violently shook out his sagging newspaper like it was Voldemort's eighth Horcrux, so that it stood straight again. Draco pushed his plate away, food untouched.

"Be calm," he told himself while walking to Potions a few minutes later. "Deep breaths. Relax. It's only Potter. The same prat he was yesterday. There's no need to get so worked up just because you might possibly fancy him, just a little bit."

He'd been making progress until he mentioned the last bit, which had the adverse effect of jump-starting his pulse. Again.

"Seriously," he lectured himself, "get a grip. He is not going to find out, because you are not going to tell him. And he is not going to be able to tell, because he can't read minds – Snape said he was a crap Occlumens, so I'm sure his Legilimency is just as pants. So just keep it cool, and it will remain your secret. Nobody will ever know, and you will only think about it a little bit, and it will be fine."

Draco paused outside the classroom, then took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Potter's head was bent over his textbook, so Draco would be able to take his seat without incident. It was going to be fine, it was, but then –

But then Potter looked up and straight at Draco with those eyes that seemed to have been specifically designed to disrupt Draco's composure. Draco froze next to his seat.

Draco hadn't, of course, expected this to be an easy transition – from thinking of Potter as his prat Potions partner to the person who set his heart to pounding – but he wasn't prepared for the deluge the sight of Potter would spawn in him. Excitement, titillation, nervousness, panic, and even anger (that Potter had the power to put Draco in such a state) flooded into his stomach, churning into one incomprehensible mess that spread throughout his body so rapidly that in a matter of seconds his skin was flushed and his hands were shaking and he felt a bit lightheaded.

"Hi," he choked out.

In response, Potter only regarded him with hard eyes and a flat mouth.

Draco's heart sank into his stomach. Somehow, he managed to sit.

Bloody hell. This was bad. Not only was he suddenly holding a blistering torch for Potter that he didn't know what to do with, but he'd also managed to douse any flickering reciprocation of fondness Potter had felt for him that had made their polite interactions of the past few weeks possible. And his heart now felt like it'd been kicked as consequence.

It wasn't as if he'd expected anything to actually happen. Of course not, he reminded himself, to soothe the ache. He wouldn't have allowed it, even if it had begun to seem possible. Now there was nothing to worry about. He ought to feel relieved, if anything. If Potter wouldn't even speak to him, Draco's secret was as safe as it could be.

Except... he didn't feel relieved. Not even close. Draco frowned and forced his limbs to stop vibrating with residual adrenaline.

"Books away," Slughorn commanded. Draco started. He had actually managed to forget that they were in class, "and quills out."

What was this? Draco glanced around the room with wild eyes that landed on the blackboard, where he read: POP QUIZ TODAY. Oh, hell. Well, that explained why Potter had actually been reading his textbook.

A parchment covered in equations and diagrams was slipped onto the desk in front of him. Okay. He could do this. Potions, at least, was straightforward. Variables always behaved. Outcomes could always be predicted. Patterns were never diverged from.

Arrows and letters swam before Draco's eyes. Damn it, what was wrong? It was like trying to read Ancient Runes. Draco blinked forcefully and all the symbols settled, but they didn't make any more sense than before. Somewhere between perceiving and processing, his mind was failing to absorb any meaning from the words on the page. He knew this stuff like he knew himself, he knew he did. Except if last night was anything to go by, maybe that wasn't as well as he might've thought.

He forced himself to comprehend the first question. Always the easiest, he knew absolutely that he could answer it. It was just a matter of clearing his mind and encouraging the knowledge to surface. So he did so, forcefully, and to his relief the answer came obligingly, albeit reluctantly.

As he wrote it down, he looked over at Potter for reassurance. If Draco was stymied, surely Potter was completely stumped. However, to Draco's immense chagrin, Potter was scribbling furiously across the parchment. Draco scowled and turned back to his own work. When he looked at his paper, though, his stomach turned over.

It was some sickness of the mind he'd been corrupted with, surely, that had caused his sophisticated answer to dissolve into an absent string of ... slurring across the answer blank in his cursive. Furious with himself, Draco violently scratched the name out and finished his original sentence, determined to score higher marks on this quiz than Potter, no matter how diligently Potter had been cramming beforehand or how furiously he was writing now.

… & …

Harry was scribbling the names of the Chudley Cannon players – first, middle, and last – furiously into the answer blanks of his parchment. When those ran out, he started filling out the quiz with fragments of Shakespeare, the Lord's prayer, and Draco Malfoy's name, over and over and over.

Wait. What? No! Strike that last bit out. Damn. Harry scribbled across the few repetitions of the blond's name until the letters were black and scarred and indecipherable.

It didn't matter that Harry would fail this quiz with flagging colors. What mattered was Malfoy not seeing how flustered his presence – his entire existence – was making Harry. And that meant writing, because Harry was flustered. And because he didn't know this stuff from Ancient Runes, that meant writing nonsense. It didn't matter, though, because Malfoy couldn't know the difference unless he was reading over his shoulder. Which he wasn't, because he was surely too preoccupied filling out his own quiz – and with the right answers, too, the git.

Harry looked over to glower at Malfoy at the injustice of this. His quill stalled when he saw Malfoy, instead of leisurely scripting his way to top marks, staring blankly at his parchment, not even holding his quill. What was going on? Malfoy would never wittingly allow himself to fail at Potions, not even to mess with Harry.

"Time!" Slughorn called out, then Accioed their quizzes. "You may go now, that is all for the day."

Harry packed up quickly and left before either Georgia or Ginny could catch up with him. He needed time to think, to work things out, to be alone. Oddly, Malfoy remained seated with that blank expression still in place, like he'd been Stunned or Obliviated into complete confusion, rather than sweeping out before Harry could even process the lesson's end as he usually did. Adding this to his running, and recently growing, list of 'Things Draco Malfoy Did Not Do' anomalies, Harry set off striding through the less-trafficked corridors of the castle.

To be honest, Ginny and Georgia weren't the only people he was keen to avoid. They weren't even his priorities. The person he really didn't want to see was Hermione. He'd managed to avoid any prolonged conversation with her since that first detention two days ago – mainly because when the choice came down to speaking to Harry or speaking to Ron, she always chose Ron – and he wanted to keep it that way. He wasn't any more ready to discuss the state of his affairs with Malfoy than he had been then.

And therein lay the problem. The reason he was prowling empty castle corridors, alone.

After their first detention, Harry had decided the only thing to do was to match Malfoy's sangfroid. He wasn't about to degrade himself by pursuing Malfoy when it was clear Malfoy wanted less to do with him than ever. He was starting to question whether that kiss had even really happened, or whether he'd hallucinated it. That would make more sense, anyway, and it wouldn't even be the first time he'd mistaken a delusion for reality.

But then Malfoy had come into class this morning looking so... so clean and good and oddly young, like he'd been set back four years to before he'd been marked by the scar tissue of the war. And he'd said "Hi," in that way that was so un-Malfoy-like, with wide eyes that didn't seem to know what they wanted but were hopeful all the same. Harry had felt a horrible, irrational twinge of hope at that, so he'd had to seal his mouth shut and pretend not to have heard so as not to give himself away. But then Malfoy had looked so stricken... and none of that could've been faked, Harry was sure of it. Not that Malfoy wasn't capable of a convincing act, just that he would never fake vulnerability, because that's what his behavior this morning came down to – vulnerability.

You couldn't be vulnerable if you didn't care. But why would you be distant and cold if you did? Only to turn around and crack again? And tonight, which would it be?

More importantly, what did any of it mean ?

Harry realized he was stomping and forced himself to stop. He was near a window. Looking out, he spotted a small person attached to bright red hair standing by the lake, so he changed course and went for the nearest staircase.

"I," he seethed as he approached Ginny, "hate Draco Malfoy."

Ginny turned as if expecting him. She was holding a roll in one hand and crumbs in the other, feeding the giant squid. "Any particular reason?" she asked mildly.

Harry picked up a rock and tossed it out over the lake. He was too worked up to aim, so it plonked heavily down into the water instead of skipping across. "Because he's a git."

"Not arguing that accusation," said Ginny, "but it might help if you elaborated a little."

Harry flopped down onto the grass. The blades were crunchy underneath him from last night's frost. "He ignored me all through detention – didn't say a bloody word! – then comes in this morning all 'hi' and I-can't-even-focus-enough-to-flaunt-my-Potions-skills."

Ginny tossed the rest of her roll into the water and sat down next to Harry. "That's odd," she said. "I mean, not the ignoring bit – that's classic Malfoy – but the coming around and the barmy bit. Definitely odd."

"Odd?" Harry echoed. "It's a nightmare!"

"Hmm," she mused. Harry could almost hear her girl-mind evaluating Malfoy's behavior from every possible angle until it came up with some far-fetched explanation that covered every base while simultaneously putting the subject in the best possible light. He was grateful, again, to have Ginny as a friend. Her girl-mind reasoning was exactly what he'd come for. His mind had been going through the same motions without any of the same results, like the basic imposition of being male prevented him from getting anywhere.

"Have you considered," she said at last, "that in detention he might still have been in shock over... whatever happened between you in the corridor, and since then he's been able to think about things, so he's acting differently now?"

"Think about things?" Harry repeated. Things like me? he wondered. Things like what happened between us? Things like why it happened? A strange but undeniably pleasurable excitement filled his belly at the thought of Malfoy thinking about him, about snogging him. "And what conclusions could he have drawn that would make him act so differently?" he asked.

"Well I don't know, do I?" said Ginny. "It depends on what happened between you in the first place."

It sure does, thought Harry. It sure does. "Well... I guess you could be right," he said out loud. "It makes some sense I suppose. I just wish I knew..." He trailed off, pinching a blade of grass between two fingertips.

"You could always ask him, you know," Ginny pointed out quietly.

"Ask him?" And most likely get punched again? "No way. You have no idea..."

"Well unless you're expecting him to make you his new confidant—"

"Not bloody likely," Harry interjected.

"—or are planning to practice Legilimency for ages until you can pick his brain for the answer, I don't see how you have any other choice."

They were quiet for a while, listening to the water lapping at the shoreline. Then, once goose bumps had begun emerging on Harry's skin from the breeze promising the oncoming of winter, Ginny stood up to go.

"He kissed me," Harry admitted quietly to her back, not looking at her, but out at the lake.

He felt her sit back down. "What?" she asked, though he was confident she had heard.

"In the hallway. Malfoy kissed me."

"Oh," she said. "Oh."

"Oh?" said Harry. "That's all you have to say? 'Oh'?"

"Give me a minute, will you? It's a lot to process."

"You're telling me," Harry muttered.

He picked at the grass while Ginny's mouth went from slightly agape to thoughtful to quirked at the corners.

"So," she said. "How was it?"

"I don't know," replied Harry truthfully. "Short, mostly."

"So he kissed you," she mused aloud, "and then you punched him? God, Harry. No wonder he was giving you the freeze. Honestly."

Harry sighed in exasperation. "Well what would you do if your arch enemy was yelling at you one minute, grabbing you and kissing you the next, and then shoving you away like you were the one who assaulted him?" cried Harry indignantly.

"Definitely punch him in the face," said Ginny sarcastically.

"Gin..." Harry warned.

"Okay, okay, I'll be serious." Harry threw a blade of grass at her. "Look, I'm not saying you weren't right to be upset, but it sounds like Malfoy is even more confused than you are."

Harry was about to rebut this when Ginny interrupted him by speaking again. "Is Malfoy gay?" she asked suddenly.

Harry gaped at her. "I don't know!" he exclaimed. "Why would I know? He's not exactly going to confess his secrets to me, is he?"

"He's been flirting with you all term," Ginny pointed out, "and he's kissed you. Are you honestly telling me you haven't considered the possibility?"

"Well, yeah," said Harry. "Malfoy, gay? No way. He's just been playing games with me, to mess with my head."

"So I suppose kissing you was all part of his nefarious plan?"

Harry recalled how stunned Malfoy had looked when they broke apart, like he hadn't even known what he'd been doing. "Well it's probably..." he protested. "I'm sure it's just..."

Ginny's smirk was very self-satisfied.

"You're the one who said he was up to something in the first place!" he accused.

"True, but that was before I knew he kissed you. This changes things."

"How so?"

"Well I hardly think he's plotting against you anymore," she said. "In fact, I think it's far more likely that..."

"That what?" Harry prodded.

"That, well, he might fancy you," Ginny finished, only somewhat sheepishly, "and he can't deal with it, so he's lashing out at you."

Harry's mouth dropped open again. "Come on," he said, almost desperately. "That's mental."

"Why?"

"Because it's Malfoy!"

"So?"

"So, he can't fancy me!"

"Can't he? It certainly seems like he can. The theory's compatible with the evidence, anyway. Why do you think you two could never leave each other alone?"

"Um, because we loathe each other?"

"Maybe," she shrugged. "Maybe not."

"What are you saying, that we've secretly been in love with each other all these years?"

"No, I'm just saying that hate and love are two sides of the same coin."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you've always reacted strongly to each other, and that you don't exactly hate each other anymore."

Harry was far from convinced that Malfoy fancied him, but he did have to concede that this last statement, at least, was true. He didn't hate Malfoy anymore – not by a long shot – and Malfoy appeared to have similarly thawed when it came to Harry. Where this left them, he wasn't sure.

"So... what now?" he asked, after a moment.

"What now?" Ginny repeated. "Well, I suppose giving him a chance might be a good place to start."

Harry looked at her skeptically.

"He wasn't distant this morning, was he? That's a step in the right direction," she pointed out.

"But in what direction?" Harry mused, largely to himself. Ginny answered him anyway.

"I don't know. But don't even try to tell me you don't want to find out."

She was right, of course. He did.

… & …

Draco was early again, had already been fidgeting in his seat for five minutes when Potter arrived just barely on time. Draco never fidgeted. At least, he never used to. In comparison to other changes in his behavior of late – a certain encounter in a corridor was first to mind – it was hardly a scandal, but still.

Right now, he was fidgeting out of nerves. He had no reason to expect Potter to treat him with anything but the cool indifference of this morning, the same cool indifference Draco had been dishing out ever since that corridor scene. Yet he didn't know how he could stand to see that detached haughtiness in Potter's eyes all month long. Draco was too familiar with that haughtiness. It had always been in his father's eyes when he spoke to Draco, and it had been in Draco's whenever he spoke to his peers, starting the moment he'd stepped out of Potter's compartment that fateful day on the train, his hand still cold from where Potter hadn't touched it. It made him sick to see it in Potter's eyes now, where it had never and would never belong. Those eyes were colored for passion, whereas Draco's were carved from stone, and their properties should never be interchanged.

Potter's abrupt entrance made Draco's stomach lurch like he'd stepped into Floo flames. Potter paused in the doorway, looking around the room, presumably for the absent Professor Slughorn.

"He already left," Draco explained, wondering at how his voice didn't sound like his own. "Same directions as last time."

Potter nodded and took his seat.

Draco tried not to get carried away over the absence of the morning's detachment from Potter's countenance. If anything, he looked bewildered. But Draco wasn't going to credit that with any thought either. He was going to sort seeds. Starting now.

"This is all pretty devious of him," said Potter, startling Draco – who had yet to move – out of his thoughts. Potter was calmly sorting already. For a second, Draco wondered if he'd imagined Potter speaking purely out of wishful thinking.

"Pardon?" said Draco, then cleared his throat.

"Putting us in detention together, I mean. Leaving us alone. Forcing us to work out our... issues." Potter looked over at Draco, his eyes opaque and serious, like wet grass.

Draco swallowed. "Well, he was a Slytherin," he pointed out.

A ghost of a smile drifted across Potter's lips, and it was more than Draco had seen directed at him since before he'd overreacted to Potter touching his hand in Potions. Knowing what he did now about himself, Draco wished he'd appreciated that moment more while it had lasted. It wasn't likely to repeat itself any time soon, even if they were speaking again. A few words did not a relationship make.

"So he was," Potter said.

They began working in silence. But the silence had an entirely different texture, temperature, and sound than it had the first time they'd shared it in detention. It was a patient silence rather than a brittle one.

How was it that after everything Draco had subjected him to in the last seventy-two hours, Potter could stand there so mildly and banter with Draco? He could only chalk it up to another one of Potter's unfathomable miracles. No matter the explanation, though, it made Draco bold. After several minutes, he took a chance at breaking the silence himself.

"So... what happened between you and the Weasel – er, your friend Weasley?" he asked as casually as he could, carefully separating mandrake seeds from mistletoe seeds.

"Oh, you noticed?" Potter asked.

"It's hard to miss an irate ginger," Draco covered blithely, panicking inwardly about seeming like a stalker. His observations of Potter's daily movements had become such a given to him that he'd stopped considering them as they would appear to an outsider – obsessive and creepy. "Weasleys are not known for their self-control."

"Yeah..." said Potter, "not so much." He sighed. "Ron's pretty buggered with me right now, actually."

"Why's that?" Draco hoped Potter didn't find his questions intrusive or, worse, suspicious. After all, when had Draco ever before taken a benign interest in the personal life of the Chosen One? Of course, that was because he'd never had the leisure to, but Potter couldn't know that.

Or maybe Potter sensed more of Draco's recent shifting than Draco would've guessed, because he answered. "I... well, I told him something he didn't want to hear," Potter admitted.

Something in Potter's hesitancy to articulate what exactly it was he'd said made Draco suspect it was something Draco had already heard. Or overheard, rather. Draco found himself filling with a sudden indignation on Potter's behalf.

"Well that's hardly fair!" he exclaimed. "What an intolerant little... I mean, it's hardly as if you –" Draco broke off when he recalled that, not being one of Potter's confidants, he was not supposed to be privy to this particular bit of information.

"It's hardly as if I what?" prompted Potter, looking simultaneously nonplussed, amused, and entirely too savvy.

"Just that whatever it was you told him, I'm sure it's not your fault and he shouldn't blame you for it because he's, you know, your friend."

Potter raised his eyebrows. "How very sentimental of you, Malfoy."

"Oh, bugger off," Draco muttered, turning away to hide his embarrassment, cursing himself for blathering like a half-wit. And in front of Potter, too, whose countenance was entirely too well-suited to ironic expressions for Draco's shot composure to handle.

"Aw, come off it, Malfoy," Potter said. "I was only joking."

And then a miraculous thing happened, more miraculous than Potter speaking to him like they were mates, even: Potter reached for Draco's hand and squeezed it.

It was a short squeeze, to be sure, but a squeeze nonetheless. It was the first contact either of them had initiated since the incident. Draco knew it was impossible for so small a thing to literally make his heart stop, but as far as he was concerned, that touch stopped it in its tracks. Then, of course, it came back beating all the harder to make up for the pause. Draco's lips parted and he met Potter's eyes, which were earnest and unblinking. It felt like there was something fragile suspended in the air between their joined gaze.

Then Potter turned back to his seeds.

Draco let out the breath he'd caught the moment Potter's skin had met – sought out – his. He wanted nothing more than to flee to the privacy of his room to dissect the past half hour from every possible angle – positive, negative, promising, foreboding, poignant, scandalous, shameful, impossible – but as there were two hours of seed-sorting left ahead of them, he settled to fleeing to the privacy of his mind.

Despite the fact that hardly another word was exchanged between them, they were the most tumultuous and loud two hours of Draco's week thus far.

… & …

Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower in a fog. His conversation with Ginny had prompted him to speculate about whether he might've misinterpreted the state of things between him and Malfoy, but he never anticipated just how right she would be. Who would've thought Malfoy was capable of blushing so prettily? Or that Harry would be the cause of it? A warmth that had spread through Harry at the sight of Draco's vulnerably parted lips and never left flared again at the memory. Who could've predicted he and Malfoy would ever share a silence that wasn't sharpened to a lethal point, or share space without poisoning the air between them? And yet they had. Oh, had they.

Harry stepped through the portrait hole and headed toward the staircase up to his dorm, chewing on his bottom lip absently. Then a sudden movement in the empty room, of someone standing up out of an armchair by the fire, startled him and he jumped.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, catching his breath. "Bloody hell, you scared me."

"Sorry," she apologized.

Harry's initial fright quickly became wariness. It was most likely she'd waited up to corner him about his fight with Malfoy. He berated himself for not being more careful while coming in. He ought to have anticipated something like this, but had gotten so worked up about detention that anything else had slipped his mind.

"Er," he began, "I'm really tired and I've got to..." Then Ron stood up, looking decidedly uncomfortable but no longer hostile, and Harry's wariness turned into confusion. "Um," he finished.

"This won't take long," Hermione assured him, gesturing Ron forward. "Ron just had something he wanted to tell you."

"Oh," said Harry. "Okay." He looked at Ron.

Ron fidgeted. Hermione nudged him. "Ron..." she warned under her breath.

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I was such a wanker the other day. You know, in the locker room. It's really okay with me if you're gay. I was just surprised, is all," explained Ron in a rush.

To be honest, with all the madness of things with Malfoy monopolizing his concentration, Harry had just about forgotten he and Ron were even fighting. But he appreciated the apology nonetheless. Even though the phrasing sounded more Hermione than Ron, he didn't doubt Ron's sincerity.

"Don't worry about it," he told Ron. "I knew all along you'd come 'round. You always do."

Ron looked relieved. "Thanks, mate."

Hermione, satisfied, pulled Ron in for a quick kiss, then bid them goodnight and disappeared up the girls' staircase.

"So," said Ron awkwardly as they climbed their own staircase, "you're sure, then? I mean, it's fine with me. But are you sure?"

Harry thought about the heat the sight of Malfoy's blond hair across a room raised under his skin, the buzz in his veins when they spoke and shared space, the intensity of Malfoy kissing him and how he wanted desperately for it to happen again, properly this time. He thought about earlier tonight, the impulse to touch him and the satisfaction of doing so and not having Malfoy flinch or push him away.

"Yeah," he said. "I really am."

Ron still looked uncomfortable. "You're not, er, seeing anyone, are you?" he asked next.

Harry hesitated for a moment. Strictly speaking, he wasn't, even though he didn't exactly feel single either. He wasn't about to get into it with Ron, though. His acceptance was shaky enough as it was. Whatever was or wasn't happening with Malfoy, Ron didn't need to know until it was absolutely official and absolutely necessary. So he said simply, "No."

"Right then," said Ron, nodding. "Okay. Good."

"Good," Harry echoed.

As he slid beneath the covers and shut the drapes of his four-poster, he wasn't sure 'good' was the right word just yet. But it could be.