Authors Note: I have restored this to its original form by repeated demand from people who had read it prior to my posting the edited version. Should anyone have a problem with this change please feel free to contact me via pm.

Friend Like Me.

You never took Divination. Couldn't bear to see what horrors Fate had in store for you, or worse yet, the pleasures it denied you.

You're smart, you always were, you play your cards close to your chest, pick your moves with a stylised grace and ease that others find bewitching, never knowing just how deeply your own sharp wit cuts you.

At the end of 5th year you promised him death, offered it with venom and malice and the deep-seated belief that it was all you can give him.

Today he walks by you with barely a sideways glance, preoccupied, as he often is, by the many trials and troubles heaped upon his young heart and even as you ache for him, you seethe at his disregard. You make some snide, pathetically hurtful comment, a barb with no real power than to remind him that he is not everybody's Hero.

He pauses, mid-stride, to look back at you blankly, no hatred, no spite, just indifferent curiosity.

"Still want me dead then, Malfoy?" he inquires politely, inky hair dripping over into his eyes, greener than the emerald eyes of Salazar himself, devoid of emotion, hands sunk deep into robe pockets.

You smile nastily, the inbred, pitiable crowd about you jeering at him as you reply in the affirmative, throwing in the odd insult about his parentage to really sink as low as you can go.

His eyes are focused solely on you as he listens and you ignore the drumbeat in your chest as his eyebrow cocks and inexplicably takes a few steps back towards you. You're not sure if it's his concentration on you and only you for once that has you stepping away from your pack, gaping as you break their protective swathe about you, watching as you take an equal amount of strides to put you face to face with the inquisitive Gryffindor.

"Really?" he drawls offhandedly as you stand a mere foot span away, "And what if I'd taken your hand, your friendship back in 1st year? Where would we be now?"

He expects you to flush with resentment at the reminder of his disdainful refusal of your friendship, expects you to snarl and spit, threaten him and his then and walk away. But not this time.

This time as you stand close enough to glare, you step closer still, your impressive height letting you look the all-important few inches down at him. You know his father was tall, as is yours, but then malnutrition withheld the boost you got and there is still a deceptive delicacy to his stature. You step as close as you can bear, sneering as if it pains you to step so close but then, in truth, it does. You clench your fists and feel the smooth cobbles of your knuckles brush some warm part of his hand but cannot allow yourself to look and see where. You're so close you can taste the tang of his breath as it spreads through the air and for one awful yet rapture inspiring moment, you consider telling him precisely where you think you'd be.

Memories curl around your mind, occasionally throttling the other memories it encounters. It is a virus, this game you play, yet you find you cannot stop it, and you want to share it with him, the thoughts you drown yourself in, the need and longing dissipated by your firm belief in these precious, false events.

You want to tell him about the day he took your hand, glaring at you reproachfully, reminding you that he can judge people for himself, that he would hate to lose a friend before even making any. You glare at Weasley, he glares at you, but Harry takes no sides and when the Sorting Hat screams 'Slytherin' to all and sundry, you see him smile with pleasure. He then smiles ruefully at the Weasley's who gape as he strolls over to sit beside you. He chooses the bed next to yours, looking about almost fearful when he realises there are no windows. You spend the night sitting on the end of his bed, telling him about wizarding facts and items of which he never dreamed possible. By the time the unseen sun rises, the two of you are inseparable.

You hate him early on in the year when you let him ride your broom (smuggled in of course) and he is instantly snatched up for the Quidditch team, as Seeker, no less. You refuse to speak to him for three days, silently fearing your father's harsh judgement of both your friend and talents, it is only when he crawls up onto your bed beside you and simply says 'Please' that you forgive him.

He insists on befriending that awful Weasley from the train and, worse yet, the Mudblood, too, you argue greatly over this until he finally understands your meaning and refuses to speak to 'you' for days. It is only a week later that you remember his Mother was a Mudblood. You beg his forgiveness, promise not to use the word in his presence and, although things are tense, he relents, making many new friends in different houses and weakening the bond between you.

The next year you join the Quidditch team too, a chaser, faster than lightning, twice as evasive and at least a million times more beautiful, or so he tells you, grinning from ear to ear. You spend until Christmas trying to not take that to heart.

He insists on keeping his other friends and before you know it, you find yourself enduring hours with Gryffindorks, Ravenbores and Hufflepoofs just to still be at his side, the immovable best friend, impervious to all usurpers. You sit up all night revising and find yourself asleep with your head on his shoulder. Why didn't he wake you? You just looked so happy, he says, he didn't have the heart to. When he leaves the train at the end of year to walk towards his vile relations, you bite almost clear through your lip to not call out after him to not forget you.

At the beginning of third year he returns, looking haggard from mistreatment, wobbling as he first spies you in Diagon Ally, he drags you into a deserted side lane and hugs you tightly, wanting to know why you didn't write him, did you forget his birthday? He doesn't care, but why didn't you so much as send a note? Did you forget him? You hold him close and tell him you were busy and it'll be true, if your father knew you were slacking off your dark studies to write to the Golden Boy you'd have never seen him again, so you stayed busy, thinking of him with every break in focus, every chink in the armour of a Malfoy heir. You make it up to him by spending every available moment by his side and with you he becomes arrogant, his potions are abysmal and it tickles him that you are forced to tutor him and while you measure ingredients you catch him passing notes.

Girls. Harry wants to date girls. Not just one but all, he wants to know love, he says, and you damn near bite your tongue off trying not to tell him that he's looking in the wrong places. He storms in just after Christmas, scowling darkly and sulking. His first official date ended rather sooner than planned after he froze under the mistletoe. He confesses he's never kissed before, you tell him it's easy and his eyes boggle. You've kissed before? He wants details, listens intently as you grudgingly share the few clumsy kisses you've shared with the odd pureblood brought to your house. He blinks at you, sits in silence awhile before haltingly asking if you'll show him how. You laugh and ask him how exactly you are supposed to do that and he stares at his feet and blushes. You stand and leave the room without a word. You hear him creep into bed a few hours later, hear him whisper your name but you ignore it.

The next morning you watch him during breakfast, his eyes are puffy, the skin red and bruised, he says barely a word to anyone. You stew all day in your guilt before finally hauling him into the abandoned prefects lounge, sit him down on a couch and before he can speak, bark instructions 'tilt your head like this, yes this way, part your lips that way, alternate between one deep breath through your mouth and several short ones through your nose' and then you kiss him.

He blinks and then closes his eyes, you can see the concentration on his face as you softly whisper commands past his lips 'use your tongue a little, switch angle' and the whole time you keep your eyes open, not to maintain distance as you wish you could pretend, but so you can watch as well as feel him kissing you, the blur of ink black lashes on his cheek, the soft red lips slipping beneath yours, the intense verdant glow of his eyes as he opens them slightly, suddenly to catch you observing every detail of his face. He draws back, blushing, asks if he was supposed to keep his eyes open, too.

Your mouth still throbs from where it touched his and you want to cry because it's the only time you've ever realised you really can't have everything you want.

He dates recurrently from that time on.

As the fourth year begins you find he has been writing that Weasley git over the summer and that they have bonded whilst you left him alone, out of fear of the destruction of your friendship. Everything is 'Ron this, Ron that' and you hate him all the more than you did for dating. After you refuse to go with him to cheer Ron on as keeper in their match versus Ravenclaw he lashes out at you, Are You Jealous? What's Your Problem? It would be all too easy to tell him, so instead you give him the same sneer you've bottled over Weasley and simply walk away.

Christmas comes and goes with the barest word spoken between you, you. You hide the gift you bought him and the absence of his smiling face on Christmas morning cuts you deeper than the lack of his gift to you. His bed, only a few feet away from yours, gives you the only chance to be near him, and how you wish he might sleep deeper so you could crawl over to him, watch him unawares.

It is May before you are with him again, a bludger flying straight at you, a deliberate blow, the result of a direct order from Weasley and you are plummeting towards the ground. You are unconscious before you hit, eyes fixed on Potter's white, stricken face as he dives to save you. When you awake it is to find him curled up on the end of your hospital bed like a ruffled, abused kitten. You are weak from your injury and so it is excusable to slowly move down your bed with your blanket to curl your battered body around his.

You open your eyes a few hours later to find him gone but when you return to class you see him smile and you are ok with the silence between you. He still cares and it is only a matter of days before you find him gazing at you, blushing. I miss you, y'know. I'm jealous, you tell him, I'm jealous because it's easier for him to be your friend than it is for us to be. He shrugs. Tells you he doesn't care. Crosses the room to clamber up onto your bed as he used to before and rests his head on your shoulder.

I like Ron, he says simply. But he isn't you.

If you didn't have the warmth of him seeping through you, you might question whether that was a good thing or not.

You each spend the train ride home in silence, him pressed tighter against your side on the seat than he needs to be and you are sadistically pleased that it is the loss of you that worries him because the Weasel has already said he'll write. You exchange curt nods, muttered 'Take Care's' and as you move to walk away, he leans up on tiptoe, his body still smaller, malnourished over time, to peck you on the cheek. Don't forget me, he implores. You watch him scamper off, heart thudding painfully in your throat. You could as soon tear that treacherous organ from your chest as you could forget him.

Somehow you make it through the summer, sleeping as much as possible to make the days pass faster, the welcome absence of your father enabling you to spend your time sketching Harry's face before resolutely burning each more telling rendition of him, aching to lay eyes upon the genuine article.

September arrives, as do you, early to stand at Kings Cross, eyes watering as you squint against the sun, determined to see him as fast, faster, than possible. Somehow you miss him creeping up to stand beside you, coolly enquiring as to whom you are searching for. You start and then jump fully as you take in his appearance. He has nearly matched your height in a few interminable weeks, the resulting tautness of his skin across his bones giving him a slightly gaunt look but he smiles, revealing pinched, fragile wrists and wand slim fingers as he pushes his glasses up, you feel content, just being near him.

You cannot believe the change in him as you while away the school's opening months. He is quieter, certainly, but more intense and every now and then you find yourself on the receiving end of a searching, inquisitive gaze that threatens to undo you and more than once you smile and ask him to please not attempt to read your thoughts and he'll laugh. You sincerely hope he cannot read your thoughts because they now reside with him every hour of the day, as do your eyes, lingering on him even when he has left the room, somehow you are always looking at him, even if you're merely reliving his smile at breakfast.

Christmas comes and with it mistletoe and you spend too much time watching him kissing varied girls beneath it. You find him sitting alone in the few minutes before midnight, New Years Eve, he tells you he sent his date away. You frown and climb up to sit beside him on the low wall outside the Great Hall. He leans into you, staring up into the night and you struggle to not put your arms fully round him. Did you know that if you are with someone in the moment the year changes, it means you'll be with them all the following year? he murmurs and you swallow, trying to clamp down the euphoria that bubbles at the idea of being with him. He tells you he sent his date away because he'd rather be alone all the next year than spend it with someone he didn't love. Should I go then, you ask, beginning to rise, but a fragile hand twining its fingers in yours halts you mid-motion. No, he says, you're good. So you sit together, him staring up at the sky as the stars shine into a brand new year whilst you stare upwards, seeing nothing through your tears, each gripping the others hand so tight it hurts. If nothing else, you think, you'll always have this moment, this one moment where he wanted to be with you and no one else.

You dread Valentines Day, as if the hundreds of owls with cards from witches and wizards across the country weren't bad enough, you are required to date and Harry feels it is his sacred obligation to date as many as possible. He suggests a double date, you demur, pointing out you'd cramp each other's style and he laughs, suggesting a gangbang. You laugh hollowly, Sure, you tell him, cos I really want to see you going at it while I'm trying to get laid. He chuckles and fakes remorse, yet you feel you've actually upset him somehow. This feeling dogs you all through your 'date' and, even as your willing partner goes down on you, your thoughts are of him, but then they always are.

You go to seek him out and, walking through the door to your room, your heart stops and shatters at your feet.

Harry is kissing someone in your dorm, kissing someone on his bed, the bed only a foot or so away from yours and all of this is bad but not soul-destroying. What stops you in your tracks is who he's kissing.

Harry Potter is kissing a boy. And that boy is not you.

He breaks away from Ernie Macmillan to gaze at you in shock. Drake, he whispers hoarsely and you turn, you run away. He finds you hours later, curled into an angry ball of resentment in the Quidditch stands. I'm sorry, he says.

You sit in silence till the suns impending rays break over the horizon, and he sits a foot away or so, waiting, just waiting.

I thought we were friends, you say, trying to stop the blood welling in your chest from pouring past your lips. We are, he says, horrified when you shake your head. I'm supposed to be your 'best' friend and you didn't even tell me you were gay. The ice in your tone gives you relief, you feel less likely to ball yourself into his arms and beg him, plead with him, cry until he explains how he can love boys but not you.

He doesn't respond and you finally spare him a glance to see him, knees drawn up to his chest, sobbing silently, shoulders heaving.

Before you know it, your arms are around him and you're rocking him back and forth against your chest, murmuring every platitude you can think of, face pressed into his hair, forgiving him repeatedly if he'll only stop crying, please don't cry, don't cry. You are my best friend, he sobs, I didn't want to lose you, didn't want you to hate me. You could never hate him and you tell him so. He blinks tear sodden lashes at you, sniffing. But he thought you and all purebloods were homophobic? You laugh with no real mirth. Purebloods, you tell him, believe in fucking anything they can catch and it is considered gauche to have not had lovers of both sexes. He gapes. Then... then you? He stammers. You nod. I think I actually prefer boys to girls, you say, lying through your teeth. You don't like boys, you don't like girls, you love 'him'. Everyone else is just superfluous.

He sniffs and draws himself from your embrace. So, you don't mind that I'm gay then? He stutters and your heart grinds itself to dust beneath his feet. No, I mind not being told, you say and he smiles. It is this smile that somehow see's you through your exams, through his tentative gay dates and proffered confidences over kissing both sexes. That smile makes you precious to him. You are his best friend, he may not love you but he cares about you and he doesn't care for the many different dates he has. You wish this made you feel better than it does.

At Kings Cross station you watch him walk away, no hug, no kiss and part of you walks with him. It isn't till you're in your bedroom later that night that you discover the note tucked into your pocket. Don't Forget Me, it reads.

Fifth year begins with a bang, literally. He stalks up to you at platform 9 & 3/4 smiling with a feral glee, he knows how appealing he has become and as he draws you close to him for a hug, he purrs how good you look into your ear. You know it's true, you've grown again, as has he, but you still top him by a few inches, your hair and skin are as flawless as usual, the puppy fat melting from your face to leave you lean and fierce looking. Adonis, Harry proclaims, taking in your cheekbones and you gape at him. His shoulders have bloomed, he is still too thin but you can see the sinews, strong twisting muscles cording over his forearms and you note how absurdly physical he looks. You scowl, his family must have set him to hard work over the summer yet still his eyes gleam as he stares at you, awaiting a response to you know not what. You look into his face for answers and the resulting animal grin forces the blood from your face as you again trail your eyes over his body, the new awareness he seems to have of his position and posture. You gape. His body seems to thrum with life and the wink he throws your way confirms it.

Harry Potter has had sex.

Who? You whisper hoarsely and he flushes, dragging you to a compartment. He tells you a went to club a few times over the holidays, snuck out and met someone, just some guy and that the last time he went the guy had 'taught' him a few tricks. He grins devilishly at this before frowning at your blank expression. Aren't you pleased for him? Don't Forget Me, you think and tears burn at the backs of your eyes. Of course you're pleased, you tell him, just shocked he moved so fast. He laughs and says all he has to do is get you laid. It is with no small amount of relish that you tell him you had sex two summers before with both genders. His face freezes slightly and for a moment you think you see jealousy but it is swiftly covered by mock disappointment that you beat him to it. You're not quite sure how but you've angered him, you can feel him pushing the boundaries of your relationship with every passing week until one day you come back to your room to find him fucking Seamus Finnegan. For a moment you freeze, watch him with a morbid pleasure as he sits in the chair by his bed, the notoriously easy Gryffindor riding him hard and muttering in his thick accent. It takes a moment before you realise that Harry is looking at you, a twisted grin upon his face as he continues to fuck Finnegan. You nod, blushing, and leave. An hour later, he finds you, claps you on the back like the snivelling sycophants and yes-men your Father works with. Sorry 'bout that, he drawls in a dreadful imitation of you, didn't know you'd be back so soon but then, he winks, I guess it's nothing you haven't seen before, right? You smile tightly and assent, hating him again for the first time in so long.

You date frequently, as you always have, but now, now you go public. You stop fucking them in their rooms and make sure he sees you with them and more notably, you now publicly date boys, too. It is only a matter of time before he comes in to find you fucking a naked, mewling Zacharias Smith. You take him from behind, kneeling at the end of your bed, still clad in undone black school trousers, hands gripping his hips firmly as you fuck him slowly, deeply, loving the mirror at the head of your bed that shows you Harry's glazed eyes as he watches you sliding in and out of the other boy. You cannot help but be grateful for how vocal Smith is, you know all Harry can hear is him begging for you to do it, like that, again, hard, oh so good, so big, Merlin yes like that, and you avert your eyes from the mirror so Harry will think you're unaware of his presence. You wait until you draw nearly all the way out to slam back in, Harry's caught breath enough to lift your gaze and meet his with your 'shocked' expression. You blink in surprise and Smith squeaks as your motion stills, Harry flushes, mutters a quick 'Sorry' then flees. You smile wickedly, reaming Smith with all you have. Harry left the room with a hard-on.

Christmas comes and you congratulate yourself on Harry's present. A complex book of charms, its major redeeming feature being a spell to enchant the canopy above his bed to look like a window into the night sky. He throws himself at you upon reading it, arms locked tightly about your neck, beyond happy that you remember how much he hates the dungeons, and you laugh as he performs the same spell above your bed. There, he says pleased with himself, now we can sleep beneath the moonlight together and he blushes. You would give anything to know his thoughts at that moment.

There are odd moments between you both in the following months, and he spends New Years by your side. You catch him watching you when he thinks you don't see and, in your immense stupidity, you allow this to get your hopes up before remembering that Valentine's Day is almost upon you. You live in dread of his many dates, knowing a few of them may make it back to his bed, possibly all at once depending on how sexually advanced your best friend may feel. You decide that if you're going to suffer this holiday then you'd best suffer a great deal. You send him a Valentine's Day card, and you don't sign it but he'd have to be an idiot to not know it's from you.

You get back from your St. Valentines date and cautiously approach your dorm, listening intently for sounds of an orgy. When none are apparent, you enter, finding Harry sprawled out on your bed. He sits up hastily, glowering at you, still dressed from his dates and this fact brings you comfort. His hair is twice as ruffled as normal and as he attempts a ferocious glare it strikes you how very like a kitten with a lion complex he appears. You grin, adding to his scowl as you greet him as 'Kitten', chuckling at his angry face until he holds up the card you sent him. 'Forget Me Not, Harry Potter,' he quips, facing the inside of the card at you, exposing your elegant scrawl, 'You're the Only One Who Matters.'

He looks angry and confused, waving the card at you as if it were a plot to kill him. What is this? he cries and you sigh, sitting heavily on his bed. A joke, you tell him and he sneers, lip curling and your heart chills at the disdainful look. You think it's funny to send me false valentines do you? He snarls, you think it's funny I have all these people pretending to love me? You blink and blanch at his words. It isn't fake, you say. It's no declaration of love but it's not fake, you repeat. I don't think it's funny, I would never pretend, you tell him firmly before seizing his wrist and dragging him to you for a fierce, crushing hug. I would never pretend to love you if I didn't, you reiterate and he slumps against you. I fucking hate Valentine's Day, he whispers, resting his forehead against yours, his breath moistening your lips.

You sit together like that for a while, eyes closed, just resting against each other, his voice a surprise in the quiet. I'm the only one who matters?

You colour faintly before simply saying Yes. Why? he murmurs, pulling back to remove his glasses, rubbing at eyes with the heel of his hand like a tired child. You smile at how deliciously vulnerable he allows himself to be with you. Because, you say and he scowls playfully, pushing at your shoulders as he straddles you. Because what? He gives you a stern look, completely innocent of how his presence in your lap might affect you and it is this easy trust that prevents any adverse reaction from you. Because you're my bestest, you grin and he chuckles. Bestest? You blush, then wink. The bestest, bestest friend, you say, 'my' bestest, bestest friend. He pushes again at your shoulders, gently, eyes cast downwards before bringing his forehead back to rest against yours. You are the only one who matters, you tell him, seeing the vulnerability hovering just beneath his quiet veneer. You are the only one who matters to me.

He gently rubs the tip of his nose against yours, smiling softly. You are the best friend I've ever had or will ever have, he whispers, moving closer, settling himself fully on your lap and you let your arms drape about him, loosely, barely clasped at his waist. His eyes flicker downwards and he blushes slightly, blinking his semi-unfocused gaze back to yours. The hands that rested lightly on your shoulders slide unhurriedly across the smooth material of your robes, one hand gently resting over your collar bone, the other sliding backwards and sideways, fingers cupping themselves lightly about the curl of your nape. He murmurs something so softly you don't hear it, you think it may be your name but your attention shifts to where he tilts his head, trailing the tip of his nose down the aristocratic slope of yours before drawing back slightly, eyes locked on your own shuttered silver gaze.

You vaguely realise that his face is moving closer to yours, slanted somewhat to the left, but you are mesmerised, trapped by what you see gleaming in the emerald depths before you. You see the interest and it pleases you, you see the intent and it makes your stomach clench with anticipation. But what you lose yourself in, what holds you steady before him, is the fear. He wants, he longs, but he is afraid and you're not sure what it is that makes your heart lash out wildly at your ribcage, the notion that he's afraid of whatever may occur or the smooth, warm press of his mouth against yours.

You keep your mouth parted ever so slightly, not enough to invite his taste but enough to feel his heat seep through to you. He keeps his eyes open this time, locked on yours, the kiss hesitant even though his fingers tighten to the point of pain upon your neck. It makes you blush to hear the soft, slick sounds your mouth makes beneath his, each move he makes creating a gentle suction between your lips, the sound moist and lingering as you separate. It takes you a fraction of a second to move your head forward, reclaiming his lips before they had fully retreated and his quick noise of pleasure is worth the pang in your chest. You part your lips expectantly and within moments he's tasting you, filling you and the wet, hot breaths between you are no longer embarrassing but a mantra, repeated over and over with greater feeling until you feel him tipping you backwards onto the bed. Both your eyes have been fixed upon the others as your breaths quicken and are lost between you. You've seen the dilation, felt the now piercing dark gaze upon your face as he devours you and you bite softly at his lower lip, gasping as the black swallows the green. He takes advantage of your sudden distraction with a deep plunge of his tongue, superseding yours to fully plunder your mouth and you are too slow to bite back the whimper of need that escapes you. The hand resting on your collar bone moves downward, palm spread, fingers splayed, curving inwards and you expect them to simply sink through your flesh and then pull back, triumphant, the snitch held aloft in victory.

You wonder if the snitch has ever known the terror you now feel, as his hand seems to close about your heart, the seeming wings beating against his palm and you close your eyes.

It is survival instinct, you think, that then has you snarling, reversing your positions so he now lays beneath you, your tongue scraping over his teeth, battling his on a low roar of need. You fist a hand into his hair and ruthlessly savage his mouth, pressing hard enough to know he'll have swollen lips for hours, lips that will show the world you kissed him. The mere thought of it is enough to have your hips bucking forward into his, your free hand crushing down onto his chest to hold him in place as he mewls and writhes against you, thrusting upwards in quick jabs.

The door creaks open, a low, groaning sound that mirrors your anguish and you straighten up, spin, meaning to simply move away but somehow your legs carry you further and further until you are out the door, never once looking to see who entered the room or to see the loss written across your best friend's face.

He finds you, he always does, sitting atop the roof of the Astronomy Tower staring out into the night. He slumps down beside you, turning his head to rest it against your shoulder. He trembles and you sigh, moving closer so he is now pressed along your side and he swiftly moves beneath your arm so you are forced to hold him against you as he turns his face into your throat. Please, he whispers and you feel both his damp lips and eyelashes move against you. Please don't hate this. I don't do this, you tell him, I won't do this, you mean too much to me, you're my friend.

There is a pause and he murmurs how he knows you fucked Zabini, Zabini's your friend, how is it different? You shrug gently, not displacing him from his hiding place with your arms. That was Zabini, you point out and you can feel him bristle with indignation. So what? So Zabini's special? He pulls his face away to glare at you, eyes spitting fury and you sigh. No, you say softly, that was 'just' Zabini. You are you. Not just Harry but 'Harry'. I won't fuck us up that way. I need you too much.

He squints at you and you surprise yourself by closing your arms about him and burying your face in his neck. You're the only one who matters, you mumble against his skin and feel him sigh.

His arms tighten about you and you feel his lips on your hair. He murmurs Friends? and you tremble with longing. You can't risk losing him because he finally decided he wants you. You can't be one of those students you see about the school, heart in their eyes, broken, as he walks past. If friendship is the only way you can keep him with you always then friendship is all you'll take from him. Always, you whisper.

When Snape discovers you both curled into each other, asleep, at dawn atop the Astronomy Tower, he gives you both detentions for a month. You wish you could tell him just how severe a punishment you have already inflicted upon yourself.

February's reluctant drizzle soon makes way for the blossoming warmth of spring and somewhere between this buds a new relationship between you and Harry. His dating habits decrease alarmingly and rumours spread throughout the school, Harry's in love, Harry's become celibate, Harry's pregnant. Whichever it is, you don't care because suddenly you have your best friend back and almost nothing comes between you. You continue to date, knowing that reports otherwise will reach your father and bring about more trouble than it's worth. It also has the dubious benefit of making Harry seem jealous, but again this is barely worth it for the infrequent fights between you, now that you only date girls. He thinks you're ashamed of your sexuality, thinks you're repressing yourself, intending to become just another breeder for the Malfoy line, your own heart and desires be damned. You find yourself unable to point out that touching any other man but him is now abhorrent to you.

Spring begins its slow descent into summer, the days warming gradually and you often do your homework outside, continuously distracted by the sight of Harry's strong brown feet pressing into the thick green strands you laze upon. Harry loves to walk barefoot, he attempts to make you feel the same and at least once a week you oblige him by taking an odd, tickling tramp about the lake, your smooth white feet ugly to you as you watch his tanned, firm step upon the ground. It often seems to you that wherever Harry treads, he owns. He flies the sky and makes it his, he walks the corridors of the school and the very walls resound with adoration of him. You might be annoyed by this if you didn't love each and every breath he takes, the way his eyes crinkle against the light to look at you, deliberately blinding himself under the sun just to see you.

One thick, syrupy afternoon under the shade of a large, oak tree overlooking the lake, you tell him. Not with your voice, but with your hands as he lies, sprawled before you, on his stomach, eyes closed, face in the grass where he rests after three hours of solid studying. You'd been talking about meeting up for his imminent 16th birthday, making plans for you to sneak out, him teasing you about the one month age gap between you, the brief time where he'll be of age and you won't, teasing you that this last month together is all you have before he becomes an 'adult' in the eyes of the Muggle world. You cuff him lightly about the head, watching his exaggerated wince with amusement and slight concern as he rolled his taut shoulders. You leant forward to ease the tension from him but found yourself twirling your fingers over his back, connecting the smooth pebbles of his spine with quick steps of your fingertips, smoothing the knots away with your palms, flush against his shirt. He moans and you chuckle softly, twisting your fingers back and forth, signing your name with an elaborate flourish that sends shivers through him, shivers you can actually watch rolling between his shoulder blades. You continue, the school motto, his name, your full name, his full name, Harry & Draco, Draco & Harry and then finally as he seems to doze contentedly beneath your fingers, you quickly scrawl I Love You, each word written stop the other as if you could imbed them into his flesh.

His voice cracks at you like a whip through the heat and you start, hand snatched back as though burnt. What was that last one? You somehow feel he knows but you tell him 'Friends' all the same. He nods, mouth twisting in an odd grimace, both regretful and angry. He sits up, one knee bent, his arm resting on his knee, his other arm shooting out to drag you forwards by your shirt front, between his legs and up against his body. And if it's not enough? He snarls and kisses you brutally.

Before you know it you are flat on your stomach, legs tangled with his as you each hiss and bite at the others mouth, moaning and growling as you reacquaint yourselves with each other's taste. His hand is fisted so tightly in your hair you know he'll have a handful still when he pulls away from you but you won't be angry, after all you 'did' just break his glasses in your hurry to remove them from his face so you might have better access to that firm thrusting tongue and those hot, pliant, demanding lips. His kisses are intoxicating and each time you shift the angle of the kiss you feel the ground lurch sideways, slipping off its axis at the enormity of your situation. His thighs part to allow your roughly grinding pelvis better freedom of movement and the sensation of his hardness rubbing through both of your trousers against your already aching length is almost more than you can bear. You feel his hand snaking down between your writhing bodies to tug at your zipper and you spear a hand back through his hair, tilting his head back to better claim his mouth when the heel of your palm rubs across his scar. His hips buck at the contact and even as you stiffen part of you notes that it must be sensitive but it is so much more than that. His scar, proof of who he is, what he represents, a reminder of how truly special he is and how you simply cannot endanger him or your friendship for a quick, hot fuck.

You sit up and he claws at you, mumbling No in desperate accents, recognising the same closed look you gave him last time you digressed. I won't, you tell him again as you pull away from his embrace, his eyes blurry yet fixed on you. I won't ruin our friendship, it means too much. You stand and collect your books up, ignoring the quick tears in his eyes. His voice shakes with fury and emotion, scraping past his clenched teeth as he sits, tousled and flushed with anger and passion at your feet. And if it isn't enough?

You look at him sadly, having handed him back his freshly repaired spectacles. It has to be, you tell him and then you walk away.

That night you lay in bed, lit by the soft shine of the night sky charm upon your canopy, glowing richly now with the full moon it echoed outside. Tears fall slowly down your cheeks and you perversely enjoy the sensation of them both burning and quenching your eyes. You can hear him, the only one left awake in your dorms, shifting about aimlessly in his bed and under normal circumstances you would have called out to him. But you can't, even as your mouth opens, your throat closes and you turn over, presenting your unseen back in his direction in the only defence you have against him: Silence.

Draco? It is a muffled whisper from across the room and his voice sounds suspiciously thick with tears. You press your face into the pillow.

Draco? Closer now, just outside the curtains surrounding your bed and you bite back a cry at his wavering tone. You screw your eyes shut tightly.

You hear your curtains part and the bed dips lightly beneath his weight, his breathing so loud in the quiet, his shadow cast over you in the light of his faux moon. He leans across you, mouth whispering huskily by your ear, words ringing with the same desperation that claws in your chest every time you look at him.

I know this is supposed to be enough for us, Draco, and don't think I want to ruin what we have I just... I... He swallows and you feel the nervous action jarring through your entire body, Could you just love me for tonight?

Could you just love him for tonight? The correct answer would be No, simply because you don't know how to love him for any shorter than forever but you roll over to meet his tear damp eyes with your own equally moist but shuttered gaze. He babbles, unable to meet your stare in the oddly bright light of the moon. I mean, I just, couldn't you just love me now, for tonight, because y'know I really need it and its killing me and you could just pretend it never happened tomorrow if you wanted I just, I wish, I wish you would just love me for tonight.

Why? It's a whisper yet it deafens you both and he hesitates, fear glistening in the back of his eyes and dully you reflect what a good Gryffindor he would have made.

Because... because I love you, he murmurs, voice trembling and a single tear escapes his wide eyes, rolling down over his ashen face as he awaits your reply.

Sitting up slowly you repeat his words back to him. You love me? Your voice would shame a legion of your ancestors, weak with emotion, thick with fear and somehow sparkling with hope.

He nods and an odd, hoarse cry escapes your throat and you press your mouth against your palm, spread wide over your mouth, eyes closed as you try to input the notion into your mind of your greatest dream becoming truth. Trembling hands pry yours away from your lips and you see Harry's face before you in the second before you launch yourself at him, kissing him with every suppressed ounce of longing felt in 5 long years. You wrap your arms about his neck, drinking him through the kiss, feeling the sheer bliss of his words pervading you and you are dimly aware of him laying you down against the mattress, both your feet kicking the sheets away as he lays on top of you. You part your thighs, murmuring gently at the exquisite tickle of his hair roughened legs tangling between your own, his hips falling between yours as he lifts his head to look dazedly into your eyes. Silencing charm, you whisper and his eyes widen as you shift beneath him, attempting to remove both his and your underwear. He whispers your name in wonderment and you love him all the more for his not expecting this from you. He hisses as your erection springs free, brushing his own rigidity before resolutely sliding against it as if that were its one true purpose. The charm? you plead and, grabbing your wand from the nightstand, he casts without breaking eye contact with you. You smile at him, letting every ounce of joy shine through. Tell me you love me, you demand throatily, knowing he'll comply. He does, voice catching on the words as he drags his lips and the short, sweet syllables across your smiling mouth. No, you tell him, wrapping your legs about his, lifting your pelvis from the bed, Tell me when you're inside me.

His erection jerks at your words, pre-come splattering against your belly and you whimper, rocking gently to bring him back into contact with you as he blinks slowly, green eyes iridescent above you. He mutters a lubricating charm and the next time his penis brushes yours it is slick and hot and you bite your lip in frustration. He slides a hand beneath you to lift your hips higher, a better angle, wide palm spread across your rear, thumb just resting over the last vertebrae, little finger just barely grazing the crease between your cheeks. He slides into you slowly and you flush, a little embarrassed by the high-pitched whimper of discomfort as he stretches you beyond your limits. He gapes as you wince, eyes bright with shock. No one's... no one? he stammers, eyes flickering shut for a long moment as your already too tight passage clenches around him.

No one, you tell him, no one but you. His breath catches and, sliding his other arm about your back, curving you to him, he muffles your small cry of pain with his kiss, his body slipping deeper into yours as his weight rests against you. Your body throbs with a heady mixture of pain and promise, your toes flex back and forth over his calves, your long legs squeezing him, wanting him to move even as your body spasms around him. Now, you manage between laboured breaths, Tell me. You feel a quiver run through his form, nerves, apprehension, pleasure? You don't know but you feel your heartbeat slowing in an effort to not drown out his words.

He looks down into your face, expression that of deadly seriousness as he brushes a silver strand from your eyes. I love you, he says it simply and, to your surprise, you tremble. Your entire body is wracked with shudders and there's this disturbing wetness seeping from your eyes. Oh, gods, I love you, you gasp and drag his head down to muffle your ecstatic sobs with his lips. You separate for air a few moments later and the smile in his eyes makes you blush at your stupidity in not telling him sooner. You lay there together for a while, him stroking your hair, telling you how long he's loved you, (Couldn't you tell when he asked you to kiss him in 3rd year?) kissing you between words, waiting for your body to relax and accept him deeper. You laugh softly in delight each time he brushes a kiss over your skin, you can't help it, you feel as though your heart might break with the overwhelming wonder of being loved by him.

Closing your eyes to kiss him deeply, smoothing your tongue across his palate it occurs to you that nearly every inch of him is pressed against you. You shudder, opening your eyes, wanting to see exactly how his body looks against and inside yours but find you can see no further than his beautiful face and shoulders. He catches sight of your pout and chuckles, relieving you that he can recognise when you have a real problem or if you just require a good view of his luscious nude body. Need to see you, you pant, pushing at his shoulders to move him backwards before squeaking in protest as you feel his slick flesh sliding out of you. Hold on. He murmurs, leaning back on his haunches, gathering you around your waist so that the slim thighs you had clasped about him now steady you as you straddle him. You look downwards to where your body aches, past your own straining, dripping hardness just in time to watch him slide that thick hot shaft back inside you. You choke on your own pleasure, gasping as his width rubs the quivering nerve-ends within you and he places his hands on your hips, lifting you and then releasing, groaning as gravity pulls you back down until he's fully seated in you once again.

You blush later to remember the words that spilled from your lips. You've always been quiet during sex before but the feeling of him inside you coupled with the vision of him thrusting into you from beneath you has you spouting sonnets of filth and love, demanding his hot cock harder, deeper, faster because oh gods you love him so much you'll die without him oh gods yes just there fuck me harder oh god Harry yes, I love you, I love you, I love you... you'd be mortified by this if you couldn't hear him speaking words, louder, harsher, sweat pouring over his lips as he slams upwards into you again and again, lifting your hips to yank them down a moment later, eyes locked on your face, serenading you between kisses, hot, syrupy thick, breathless promises that make you melt, your own untouched erection upright against your belly pleading for attention, leaking copiously.

Your hands curl over and around his shoulders, wanting to hold him closer but needing to push at them with every wave of pleasure that strikes you. Weak with emotion now, doing barely more than rocking wildly and whimpering atop him as he thrusts erratically now into you, you rest your forehead against his once more, sighing as the rough pads of his fingers reach up to push your hair from your brow. Eyes locked, you kiss and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge of consciousness, a slow burning filling the hollow of your belly. You know, he whispers against your mouth, I never kissed anyone else with my eyes open.

And just like that, you come.

You thrash madly, head thrown back, back tearing and shoulders knotting as your arch your spine beyond its limits, head filled with every kiss Harry's closed his eyes for, saving that part of him for you and you wail and cry, skin burning bright under the moon and stars that Harry made for you. You arch so far backwards you tilt and you would laugh but for the lightning in your veins and you vaguely worry that you and Harry might both die of it as he collapses on top of you, crying hoarsely as your body clenches around him as he jerks, nearly lost in the throes, in the pleasure you gave him. You feel you could almost come again as the thought passes through you that even though Harry has done this with others, he never loved them and he never looked into their eyes as he came, he never lost himself in them and as you lay there, snatching quick kisses between gasps for breath and loving, triumphant smiles, you know that he is lost as you are when you find yourself literally reflected in his eyes, knowing he'll see himself in yours.

He would roll away to curl beside you, to cradle you close but you won't let him. You want him as he is, pressing down on you like a living stamp of ownership, the heat of his body prickling your skin as the sweat cools on you. In the end you reach a compromise and he twists his legs between yours instead of directly on top of them, shifting one shoulder off of you to curve that arm beneath you but the part that satisfies you remains, his face, buried against your throat. I love you, he mumbles conversationally into the smooth skin above your pulse point and you feel his eyelashes fluttering wildly against exhaustion, waiting for reciprocation before falling into rest. You tighten your arms about his torso and glide one hand through his sweat damp locks. I love you, you whisper, smiling as you feel the relief in him, the gentle increase in weight as he sleeps. You lay there, fighting sleep for hours just so you can imbed the sensation of just being with him upon your very being. He loves me, you think as your eyes flicker shut, he loves me, and you cradle him closer, tears of joy slipping past your lids even as you slumber.

When you open your eyes the moon has gone, its gentle light obliterated by the morning sun now pouring in through your open curtains. Open curtains. You fly into full wakefulness to note Greg and Vin standing over you, eyes wide as they take in the heavily rumpled bedclothes, the sweet stench of sex and the long, firm thigh revealed where the covers have slipped back, betraying the nudity of the man sprawled over and around you. Harry. Harry holding you, Harry sleeping naked in your bed, Harry... Harry loves you.

Ummm, you say, blushing madly as you notice your other dorm mates looking with great interest at your bed partner. I can explain this, ummm... Harry stirs, murmuring against your chest, pressing small kisses there in his sleep.

S'ok, Boss, Greg mumbles, blushing, we kind of know already.

Harry sighs against your skin, eyes fluttering open then closed once more, shifting up along your body to seize your mouth in a brief wet kiss. Morning, he mumbles drowsily, Love you.

Love you back, you murmur, eyes still wide as you consider to best way to make him aware of your audience. Before you can fully formulate a plan, Zabini does it for you.

Hey Harry! he yells mockingly, Nice Silencing Charm!

He stiffens in your embrace before sitting bolt upright, hauling the bed sheets around you fully as his movement exposes your obviously well pleasured body and you chuckle at his protective instincts. What? he barks at Zabini, glaring at him, daring him to spoil the moment and while you marvel at how accurate his glare is even without glasses, you are suddenly struck by Zabini's comment. You blush furiously. Harry never was any good with silencing charms.

Blaise grins devilishly, seeing the colour creep into your face. That's right! he drawls maliciously, eyes bright with mischief, We heard it all!

He seizes his pillow, stretching out atop it, grinding his pelvis down into it as he throws back his head, mimicking Harry's voice with a frightening precision. Oh fuck, oh gods yes Draco, so fucking tight, gods love you so much, yeah baby squeeze me, yeah like that oh fuck I love having my cock inside you, feels so good, so hot, so tight... oh... oh... oh gods yeah, yeah, Merlin yeah Draco, I love you so much don't stop, ride me, god yeah, ride me harder baby, love you, love you... oh god Draco YEAH!

Harry goes pink, scarlet and deep violent maroon in a manner of seconds before diving beneath the covers and hiding his face against your stomach. Please tell me I don't sound like that, he speaks around your navel and you splutter as his lips tickle you. It is obvious by Zabini's roar of laughter that he suspects Harry of an entirely different activity and he pulls back out again to give him a full death glare. It is with great difficulty you hold back a sappy smile as Greg's hand drops to Harry's shoulder. Don't worry, Potter, he smiles kindly whilst shooting Blaise a stern look, I'm only a bed away and all I could hear was Blaise jerking off over you two. He grins at you and Blaise abruptly stops laughing. I think he came louder than both of you. Gods, sometimes you love your friends.

Harry smiles shyly up at Greg as he whispers over loudly, About fucking time, and Vin beams, giving you both the thumbs up sign, Blaise sulkily replacing his pillow and glaring at your 'henchmen'.

Harry turns to you, heart in his eyes, to kiss you deeply, arms curving about you to trace the words 'I love you' on top of each other on your back. You smile guiltily before letting your lips sink into his. I love you, he says.

And there the dream stops.

For each of these twisting, deceitful memories you award yourself to make it through the day, to deal with the simple task of breathing without him, for every single moment of happiness you allow yourself with him inside your head, your heart finds a fault to prevent the happy ending you so require.

You've tried many times to get past these glitches, you're sure with time you could create a believable happy ending but deep within you, you know it can't be done.

For every stolen kiss there is a duplicitous, deranged professor, bent on resurrecting his master and leaving Harry's broken 11 year old body before a flickering mirror where his parents hold him tight and a ruby red stone brings back a monster.

For every moment where he presses himself against you in sheer need of your presence there is a 16 year old boy with the heart of a madman to set a murderous serpent to spear its teeth through Harry for his half blood status and leave him poisoned, dying, deep in the darkness of a cavern you could never find.

You know that the price for his laughter would be high, you'd have prevented his Godfather from finding him, kept him from the only family he truly had and the Dementors would have sucked the very spirit from him to leave him empty and alone, as you are.

Then, ah then, the Triwizard tournament. How fitting that the hours spent absorbing his goodness might result in such great honour. You see his body twisted atop a gravestone as clearly as if it had been your own, the very life force drained to give life back to that which you are supposed to serve, to love, yet hate.

Or perhaps 5th year where the longing in your heart is only matched by the burning ache of evil through Harry's blood, all that remains of the Dark Lords possession as it sweeps in a great tide over the floor from Harry's cold, silent form, struck down by Voldemort's hand as the prophecy had foretold.

These many separate fates, twisted into each other yet negating the existence of the others as they weave their way, jagged thorns of pain, of reality, into the lying, soft and splendid world of your dreams to destroy the only thing that keeps you going.


Somewhere in your mind you match an ending to your beautiful shining tale and while it does not match the events you scribed across reality, it is certainly closer to the truth than you'd prefer.

There is one ending, the only ending that brings you mild satisfaction with your pain and grief. Harry looks at you, tears of horror and betrayal running over his ashen cheeks, his eyes fixed upon your bared left forearm. His mouth works but he is always too hurt by your faithlessness to speak, or maybe you simply cannot bear to imagine the words he would say to you. Even in this dream you cannot allow yourself to justify the gross disfigurement that mars your skin in both your mind and reality, you cannot explain to him about the small child, raised on fairy tales of the boy who saved the world, who stopped the bad people, sent them away and how that child wrote faithfully to that boy for help for many years until the summer he was branded as a monster, the very same summer that child laid eyes upon the Boy Who Lived and loved, and hoped, and dreamed. You cannot tell him of the child's dreams, in truth they were washed away by tears and blood long before so it is with a certain gladness you except the curse he casts at you, rich and intense and as vivid as his eyes. You always knew you could sink into his eyes and die there. So you do.

But that is only in your mind. If you could kill your heart, your love as easily as you can imagine your own demise then surely you'd survive. You have survived so far, witnessed horrors, borne the terrors and burdens no child should bear until you grew into the young man you are now, surprised to hear your heart still beating whenever he walks by.

Sometimes you wonder if you've done enough, borne more than your load, taken more than you could stand and surely, surely that must merit a reward? Maybe now you could start afresh, say you're sorry, take his hand and hold on tight, hoping he won't pull away, beg him for the merest smile or kind word to you, maybe your dreams aren't that far wrong, maybe he would see you, just you, just once and really see you and know. Maybe you could stop surviving and live to just be near him.

Then your arm burns and feel the darkness writhing in the back of your mind, feel the bite and stench of hatred, so wholly unconnected with you but so utterly focused on him. Get close to him, your father once told you, be his friend then one day... and he closes his fist with a snap, smiling grimly. And so you are his nemesis, you mock him, hurt him, hate him in the public eye and spin your web of dreams within your skull to cradle as you fall, weeping, into dreams each night where a voice hisses and laughs at your love, red eyes fixed on him, always, unwavering.

They want you close to him, close enough to break him. You take that last step closer now and you can actually feel his chest against yours, the unrelenting Gryffindor standing his ground, you dip your head and answer him as best you can, answer him with the only truth you can give him.

"You'd be dead already," you spit, and it is neither clever nor cutting but it is the only answer you have. He backs away, lip curling in disdain at your immensely predictable response and it delights you to feel the fizzing pain of frustrated fury in your arm, burning at the back of your skull, you would almost laugh to feel the Dark Lord's displeasure at Harry's retreat only the further he walks from you, the greater he tears the fragile threads that hold you upright, keep you breathing.

With each step he takes, you feel the Harry who loved you slip further into distortion and every attempt to resurrect him is wrong when faced with the truth of his disregard. You recall his face as he smiles at you through the sunlight, noting dully that you have his mouth all wrong and suddenly the sun is gone and there has never shone a moon or star above your bed and Harry never loved you or simply wished to be your friend.

Don't Forget Me.

So you stand there, watching him walk away from you, adrift from your supposed peers in the middle of the corridor, face twisted in anguish, swift, silent tears burning your face and you know that if you called out to him he'd turn to face you, see you there with your heart in your eyes, bleeding, broken and dying for him.

But you don't, and he doesn't, and in that moment you are the best friend he's ever had.