Title: Yet Another Protector
Author: tir-synni
Disclaimer: If I was really JK Rowling, do you think I would be writing fanfiction?
Author Notes: Revised, but I'm still not sure how IC everyone is.  If you noticed any mistakes,
especially in names and such (for which my sister laughed at me), please email me.  Also, this is AU,
and was written before OoTP.
Warning: Slash, implied child abuse/neglect, implied dark magic, light citrus, AU, language, etc.
Addy: relisprince@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13 (probably only a PG, but I'm horrible at rating)
Beta: My beautiful sister Stef, the owner of "pokity pokity poke."

     " ‘Do not leave the house.  You are protected here.' " Brilliant gray eyes glittered with rage.  " ‘You
are protected here.'  What do they think I am, a bloody novice?!?"
     The heir of the Malfoy fortune and name swept through his home in a way that would have
made his Head of House smirk in pride.  Usually a matter for gloating, now ignored in the favor of
indignant fury.  All around, Draco could hear the slight popping of house elves as they scurried out of
his path.  They were beneath his notice.
     "I can take care of myself," he seethed, narrowly avoiding a small stand set aside for his
mother's favorite vase.  Only the quick thinking of a house elf averted disaster.  "Father has been
teaching me the Dark Arts since I was a child.  Do they truly believe that a Death Eater gathering would
be too dangerous for me?  I bet they just wanted me out of the way for a while!"
     Normally, talking to one's self was below a Malfoy.  Now Draco exulted in it, rebelling slightly
in revenge . . . especially since his father was not there to see it.  With each passing moment, his rant
increased in volume.          
     "They treat me like a helpless child!" Draco continued haughtily.  " ‘You are protected here.' 
Bloody hell, I will graduate from Hogwarts this year.  I do not need protection!"
     If Dobby still remained a Malfoy house elf, he would have tsked disapprovingly at Draco's
language.  However, Dobby was long gone, his father never explaining his favorite house elf's
disappearance.  No other elf dared to challenge the young master, instead all hiding like the filthy–
     Dobby gone.
     Other elves in hiding.
     Hey. . . .
     Draco's step faltered, but his lips continued in his screeching rant.  No longer aware of the
words, the blond's mind spun.  Carelessly, he tossed in another furious curse into his dramatic speech,
keeping the house elves far from his location.
     ‘I'll show them I'm not some helpless child.  I'm the son of a Death Eater, a student of the
Dark Arts.  There is nothing out there from which a powerful wizard needs protection.'
~~~~~~
     ‘Why the bloody hell does summer have to be so hot, anyway?'
     Sweat poured into his eyes and ruined his beautiful blond hair.  Draco had tried glaring at some
of the more rebellious strands, but that only ruined his concentration.  After the third time his broom had
wavered underneath him, Draco decided that he could graciously overlook his hair's rudeness . . . this
time.
     Through the tint of his father's old invisibility cloak, wrapped securely around him and his
broom, Draco scowled at the glorious English countryside.  At least, it had been glorious when he first
left Malfoy Manor three hours ago.  Only after he left his home, armed with a small bag of supplies and
his wand, did he realize he had no where to go.  While he knew other Slytherins, he doubted he could
use their homes as temporary sanctuary.  Unbeknownst to the other houses, Slytherins were
remarkably loyal to each other.  Not one other Slytherin would inform his father that he had left Malfoy
Manor.  However, if one of their parents caught Draco, Draco would not be punished: they would be. 
Draco refused to endanger them for several hours' freedom.  Instead, he flew randomly around the
countryside, hoping to see something interesting.
     More sweat dripped into his crossed eyes.  Frustrated, Draco scowled.  He was hot, tired, and
hungry.  Despite his wand resting in his cloak pocket, Draco dared not to use a cooling spell.  Away
from Malfoy Manor's wards, the Ministry of Magic could easily detect the use of underage magic. 
When he had left the Manor, Draco had not considered that.  All he had thought of was harassing food
from the house elves and grabbing his invisibility cloak.  Under the impression he was spending the rest
of the day in his room, most likely still ranting, the house elves had been easy to manipulate.  So he had
food, but he was still hot, and he had no place to set down to eat.  No way by Salazar was he sitting on
the dirty ground in some unknown area to rest and eat.
     ‘I'm not going back yet,' Draco thought petulantly.  He raised his head and blinked at the
blazing noon sun.  ‘Still, it is hot. . . .'
     Sighing dramatically, the blond wiped his sweaty face again.  He ignored his broom's protesting
buck.  He should really consider asking his father for a new broom.  This one was incredibly moody.
     ‘I need somewhere to go,' Draco decided, cruising lazily into a suburb.  Muggles traveled
below him like cattle.  Draco wrinkled his nose at them before haughtily drawing into himself.  ‘Pathetic
Muggles.  But where can I go where I won't get caught?  The other Slytherins are out of the question. 
So where . . . ?'
     Frowning, Draco looked away from his disdainful perusal of the Muggles . . . only to narrowly
avoid a street sign.  The broom bucked even more as he hastily jerked it to one side.  Frantically, he
looked around, but his father's invisibility cloak shielded him from any curious eyes.  Thank Salazar! 
No jokes about being unable to think and fly at the same time.
     Draco turned to glare at the cocky street sign, only to freeze as he read it for the first time. 
Privet Drive.  ‘Well, well, what do you know?  Potter's supposed to live here . . . though I suppose the
old bat is paranoid enough about his Golden Boy to lie on his school forms.  Heh.  The day is looking
up.'
     Trying to remember the rest of Saint Potter's address, Draco flew down the street.  ‘I wonder
how Potter lives during the summer?' the teenager mused.  ‘Probably pampered and fussed over by his
loving fans.'  Deliberately, Draco shifted his thoughts from how he had spent the summer till then,
looking at street numbers.  ‘Only one way to find out!'
~~~~~
     To Draco's disappointment, it didn't take much to find Potter's house.  It had been harder to
find the original address than to find his home.  He had been expecting powerful shields, spies, anything
but an open road to the Boy-Who-Lived's home.  So much for the great protection boasted by the
professors.  Fortunately for Potter, he was not the Dark Lord, otherwise Potter would be dead now.
     Draco snorted.  Probably not.  Potter would defeat the Dark Lord yet again and give his loyal
fans another reason to gawk at him.  Lucky git.  Not, of course, like he didn't have his own fans to
gawk over him, with his beauty and power.  And he achieved his popularity without a bloody scar.
     Draco's disappointment grew as he studied Potter's home.  Again, it fell far short of his
expectations.  Whereas he expected the house suited to the hero of the wizarding world, a pathetic,
drab, painfully *Muggle* home greeted him.  He could not even tell it apart from the other houses!  He
had never expected the famous Boy-Who-Lived to lower himself to this.  Perhaps this was his defense
against You-Know-Who?  Sheer blandness and ambiguity?  This house was the most Muggle of them–
  Draco blinked.  Was that Potter?
  Slender fingers clutched the invisibility cloak closer to him as he edged towards the house.  Safely
shielded behind its magic, Draco peeked at the lone figure in the yard.  That wild, black hair . . . those
*ugly* clothes. . . .  That *was* Potter!  Im-impossible!
  His jaw resting on his chest in a most undignified fashion, Draco eased into the yard.  Before him,
the legendary Boy-Who-Lived pushed some strange, noisy Muggle device over the grass.  Manual
labor!  How horrid!  And his skin!  Draco would never admit it out loud, but he had appreciated the
other boy's smooth tan.  Now, every inch of Potter's skin revealed to the sun glowed a fierce red,
shining with sweat.  The younger boy revealed no discomfort to his harsh conditions, however, instead
tediously running the growling device over every inch of the yard.  Draco distastefully wrinkled his nose. 
How barbaric!
     After Potter put the strange contraption away behind the house, he trudged wearily to the front
door.  Hovering over the lawn, Draco listened as he called through the door, "Aunt Petunia, may I have
a glass of water?"
     Draco swore a banshee answered Potter, making a mental note to see if any banshees lived in this
area.  "Not until you're done, boy!  And you had better start being more careful with my roses!"
     Potter scowled and wiped a shaky hand over his sweaty face.  Still, his voice remained steady. 
"Yes, Aunt Petunia."  Sighing, Potter turned away from the door and trudged back into the sun.  He
went back around the house and emerged with more strange contraptions.  Plopping under one of the
windows, Potter set to work on the rose garden there.
     Draco's fists clenched tightly around the handle of the broomstick, never straying from his perch as
he watched the other boy.  ‘He's a wizard!  No Muggle should treat a wizard like this!  Ever!'  Draco
growled low in his throat.  Potter paused once, before continuing his work.  ‘If the Boy-Who-Lived
should be put in his place by *anyone,* it should be another wizard!  Why is he letting those lowly
creatures treat him like this?'
     The exhausted boy below provided no answers.
     ‘Still . . . I suppose this would be adequate reason why he chose Weasel over me.  No experience
with the finer things in life.  I knew it was not my fault.'
~~~~~
     Two hours and nearly three falls later, Draco Malfoy sat safely on the ground, his invisibility cloak a
tent around him.  Pulling yet another pumpkin pastry from his enchanted basket, Draco happily
munched as Potter slaved away in front of him.  Finished in the garden, Potter now trimmed the bushes
on the other side of the small lawn.  Draco amused himself by admiring Potter's glistening form.  While
Potter was no great beauty, he held a charm rarely found, and his father *had* taught him the
importance of uniqueness.  And no other Slytherins were around, so Draco could Potter-watch to his
heart's content.  He would worry about the propriety of admiring your master's greatest enemy later. 
Currently, he was bored, still annoyed over his parents' leaving, and there was not anything else to
watch.
     Or so he told himself.
     Earlier he had surprised himself, a rare thing for a Malfoy.  He had considered offering some of his
pumpkin juice to Potter!  The other boy had tried twice more to request water, and each time the
shrieking banshee had turned him away.  The hot sun had transformed Potter's smooth tan into an
angry flush, and the dark-haired wizard constantly wiped sweat from his scarred forehead.  Draco
actually had been pouring the extra goblet before he realized his plan would not work.  Potter would
probably panic at the sight of a Death Eater's son and attract attention to them . . . or blast him into
oblivion.  Definitely against all known rules of survival.  Instead, Draco remained quiet in the shadows,
admiring how Potter's feline eyes glittered whenever he glared at the closed door.
     Only after sunset did the evil banshee (Draco was fully determined never to learn her name, content
with his title) allow Potter back inside.  Already, Draco could hear her shouting at Potter for supposed
ills.  Draco sniffed disdainfully at the closed door.  It was because of Muggles like her that You-Know-
Who was so determined to wipe out their kind.  Now really, who would really want *that* filth dirtying
the planet?  One would think Potter would be in full support of You-Know-Who, rather than being his
greatest enemy.  Yet another thing for which that manipulative headmaster could be blamed.
     Gracefully, Draco finished his pumpkin juice and cleaned his small mess.  His magic basket
remained filled with scrumptious food, the house elves seemingly opposed to his lithe, elegant frame, but
Draco supposed he could forgive them this once for that.  After all, a true Slytherin such as himself
could easily use that food for other, more advantageous, ends.
     With his father's invisibility cloak once again fully covering him, Draco lifted into the air. 
Fortunately, those pesky poles from earlier were now lit.  Seems they actually served a purpose after
all, rather than sitting around uselessly like so many Muggle items.  Guided by the poles' light, he rose
into the air and circled the house.  The large window had to be–Draco wrinkled his nose–the "master"
bedroom.  The second window . . . Draco snorted (elegantly, of course).  Not even by *Muggle*
standards was that worth mentioning.  And the third window. . . .
     Draco cringed as he drifted closer to the window.  The wood around the window strangely
chipped, the glass crooked and cracked, the third window physically represented the banshee's voice
from earlier.  One of the lights allowed Draco to peer inside the window.  He did not have to recognize
any of the items to tell they were broken.  Draco scowled darkly.  He was willing to bet his inheritance
that those shattered Muggle items were not Potter's.  His hatred of Muggles grew at their
contemptuous treatment of a wizard, someone who was in all ways their superior.  Strangely enough, he
did not see any of Potter's things.
     Movement caught his attention.  The door, yet another crooked item in a room full of trash, burst
open to reveal a flushed Potter.  The black-haired boy glared at the door as he carefully shut it.  Draco
saw his trembling hands, musing to himself how badly Potter probably wanted to slam it.  Again, those
feline eyes caught his attention, glittering with fury.
     And those idiots Crabbe and Goyle thought he angered Potter for the hell of it.
     "Stupid gits," Potter snarled, his voice easily floating through the cracked window.  "I cooked the
damned meal, and I still get toast.  Bloody bastards."
     With one last, fierce glare, Potter whirled around and stalked to the decrepit bed.  Still hidden
under the cloak, Draco watched as the boy lifted a floorboard beside the bed.  A moment later, Potter
emerged with a photo album, a can, and several bags of candy.  Potter rested the photo album on the
bed with a reverence Draco saved for only his most precious gifts.  In sharp contrast, he tore into the
bags like a ravenous beat.  He ate the Chocolate Frogs with a savageness that made Draco cringe–he
did not want to know what Potter was thinking about when he bit their heads off–and devoured his
pumpkin pastries.  The can was opened with an odd pop, with Potter swigging some strange liquid from
it.  Draco wrinkled his nose as a trickle of brown slid down the corner of Potter's lip.  The less he
knew about that, the better.  At last, Potter returned to the photo album.  The anger faded from those
brilliant emerald eyes, the green darkening to almost black as he flipped through the pages.  Sometimes,
he would stop and finger a photograph.  However, from Draco's angle, he could not see what Potter
was looking at, only that it was strangely painful, judging by the look on his face.
   ‘What is going through your head, Potter?' Draco thought, watching as the younger boy bit his lip. 
‘You always had to be a difficult one, didn't you?  You make me think you're Hogwarts' Golden Boy,
and then you show me this.'  Surprising himself, he smirked slightly.  ‘But my father always taught me
that such things make the prize even more precious: if it's unique and difficult to attain.'
     Draco glanced at the basket carefully perched on his beloved broom.  ‘The more precious
something is, the better it is.  And Father always told me that Malfoys deserve the best.'
     Slipping his cloak off his head, Draco tossed his head.  His hair was probably a mess!  However,
judging by Potter's panicked leap backwards against the wall, he should worry about his hair later. 
Perhaps he should have planned it better.  Most people were surprised by the sight of a decapitated
head floating out their window.  Still, it was *his* beautiful head Potter was graced enough to see, and
it was always nice to be the cause of Potter's stunned look.  Yes, it was worth it.
   His own amused, gray eyes met Potter's wide, dark-ringed emerald eyes through the shoddy glass. 
"Well, Potter," he drawled, "I know you were raised by Muggles, but that's no excuse to leave me
hanging out here."
     *That* effectively killed Potter's surprise.  Startled eyes narrowed angrily.  "What the bloody hell
are you doing here, Malfoy?" he hissed.  At that moment, Draco recalled that Potter was indeed a
parseltongue.  More interesting by the moment.  Why had he waited so long?  "Go back to whatever
rock you crawled from."
     Draco rolled his eyes. *Already* with the insults!  "Shush and let me in.  You don't want your
relatives to know I'm here, do you?"
     Draco felt a hint of remorse as Potter instantly paled, but only a tiny bit.  He would not have
*followed through* with the threat.  Why by Merlin would he want to associate with that scum?
   A moment later, Potter was all Gryffindor again, eyes narrowed and claws bared.  "Don't wake
them up," Potter warned.  "I'll let you in, but remember, you're on *my* territory.  If anything happens,
you are the one who gets to deal with Dumbledore."
     Dismissively, Draco ignored the threat, only paying attention to Potter opening the window.  It
caught slightly, and Draco cringed as Potter pulled it open at an intricate angle.  The cheap window
could not even open right.
    Carefully, Draco eased himself and his things through the slit.  Fear of terrible Muggle infections
ran through him as he avoided the splintered wood and broken toys.  Feeling terribly daring, Draco
allowed his father's cloak to slide to the floor, and he stood tall under Potter's glare.  He bet the other
Slytherins had never done *this* before.
     Unmindful of Potter's wary, angry gaze, Draco graciously offered the other boy his basket.  "Here. 
It has actual wizard food in it.  This way you won't have to lower yourself into eating–" he shuddered
"–Muggle food."
     Now Potter was looking at him with a different type of wariness.  Idly, Draco noticed he was
looking at him like his mother looked at her brother after the Potion Incident.  For a moment, he
worried about his hair, but dismissed the fear.  It was still a hundred times better than Potter's hair.
     "You came here," Potter commented skeptically, "to offer me food.  Yeah.  Get the hell out."
     Draco raised his chin, miffed.  "I came here out of sheer boredom, I'll have you know.  And I'm
trying to be nice for a change.  I thought you would be hungry."
     "Out of sheer boredom?" Potter echoed.
     Draco sighed.  Ungrateful *and* slow.  "I wanted out of my house for a bit," Draco clarified,
enunciating carefully.  "I did it without permission, so I couldn't go to any Slytherin houses.  I recalled
where you lived, so I came here.  I've been waiting for you to finish up that *work* all day!  Now, do
you want the basket, or not?"
     Potter blinked.  "And you had no problem getting here?"
     Perhaps Potter was not worth the hassle after all.  "No.  Rather disappointing, actually."
     Potter looked at him consideringly.  "You just came here because you were bored?"
     Draco scowled.  "Yes, already!  We've been through this!"
     To Draco's surprise, Potter smiled.  "I suppose I believe you.  Otherwise, you never would have
gotten past the wards.  No one with ill intent could have gotten anywhere close to this house.  Besides,
if you were lying, you wouldn't have made such a dumb--" He seemed to consider something.  "I
believe you."
     Draco rolled his eyes.  He had already said that!!!  "So you want the basket?"  Then he blinked. 
Wait a moment, what had Potter been saying?  "Potter–"
     "What's in there?" Potter interrupted.  Hunger replaced the distrust in Potter's eyes as he eagerly
examined the contents of the basket.  Draco forgot his annoyance in lieu of a smirk.
     "Hungry, eh?" he purred.  "This is proper wizarding fare, from a pureblood kitchen!  Not even
Hogwarts can compare!"  A slight exaggeration, but Potter did not have to know that.
     Potter eyed the basket.  "What do you want in exchange?" he demanded, his fingers twitching. 
Very aristocratic hands, Draco noted with approval.  He may not be a classical beauty, but with some
fixing up–Draco itched to refer him to his manicurist–he could definitely attract some attention.  And, he
mentally added, glaring disdainfully at Potter's old, baggy clothes, a shopping spree.  Yes, he had not
been on a shopping spree for a while.  It would be very nice–
     "Malfoy?" Potter prodded.  "What do you want in exchange?"
     Draco blinked.  Right.  The basket.  "Let me stay here sometimes," he proposed.  "It's nice to get
out of the house occasionally, and no one would suspect me coming here.  In return, I'll bring you a
basket every night."
     Potter hesitated, attempting to slyly look at the basket.  Of course, Draco thought proudly, no
*Gryffindor* could pull that off!
     "And owl snacks," Potter added decisively.  "Hedwig has problems over the summer, too."
     Draco nodded.  "Deal.  Your owl will be eating better this summer than she has her whole life!"
     Potter rolled his eyes, but didn't hesitate snatching the basket out of Draco's hands.  He plopped on
the tiny bed to peruse through its contents, his eyes wide at the sight of all the food.  Gingerly, Draco
sat beside him.  He cringed at the dangerous creak it made.  Perhaps the momentary freedom was not
worth the risk.
     As Potter happily munched on a stacked sandwich, Draco took his time examining the room.  He
couldn't see Potter's trunk anywhere.  He guessed the rest of Potter's things were hidden under the
floorboard, away from those nasty Muggles.  Broken Muggle toys littered the room, but for the most
part, they all seemed shoved away in different corners.  Only a shuddery old desk, littered with what
appeared to be Potions homework, appeared clean and apart.  Beside the desk, there was an owl
cage.  The cage, the single wizarding item he saw, remained clean and new in the otherwise decrepit
room.
     "Hedwig's outside," Potter explained through a mouthful of bread.  Draco graciously hid a cringe. 
"If she's inside, Aunt Petunia forces me to keep her in the cage."
     Draco studied the dirt under Potter's bitten nails.  "She does a good job of keeping you in a cage,
too."
     Potter stiffened mid-bite.  Deliberately, he swallowed and turned to Draco.  "You can hang out
here," Potter said calmly, "you can hide in my room, I don't care.  But you will not comment on my life. 
You will not tell anyone else of what you had seen here.  If you do, you will learn *precisely* why I am
Voldemort's–" Draco cringed "–bane.  If anyone learns of this, I will know who told them.  All clear?"
     Draco met Potter's eyes and hastily looked away.  When he looked like that, Potter had Avada
Kadavra eyes.  "All right, all right, calm down," he muttered.  "It's not like I could tell anyone how I
found out this information anyway."
     Potter studied him for a moment, then turned back to the basket.  He seemed to ignore Draco as
he pulled out a bottle of pumpkin juice and a goblet.  He tossed back one goblet hastily before going
for another.
     With each haphazard gulp, Draco's distaste grew.  As Potter went to take another vicious bite out of
his second sandwich, Draco snatched Potter's wrist.  Immediately, Potter's sharp eyes glared into his
own.
     "I know I'm not supposed to comment on your plebeian little life here," Draco interrupted Potter's
incoming tirade, "but for the love of Merlin, can you *at least* allow me to teach you some basic
manners?  It's barbaric!"
     By the flash in those emerald eyes, Draco was expecting a temper tantrum anyway.  No one else
believed the Gryffindor Golden Boy had such a fiery temper.  For some reason, it always seemed
directed at Draco . . . and with no reason!
     Instead of the hot retort Draco expected, Potter nodded shortly and laid the sandwich on the
basket.  " . . . Thank you."
~~~~
     "Bloody hell, Malfoy, *stop that!*"
     "If you insist on eating like an animal, I'll discipline you like one!"
     " . . . Did you grin when you said ‘discipline?' "
     "I have no idea what you're talking about, Potter.  Now sit up straight."
     Draco grinned mischievously as Potter pouted, reluctantly straightening his slender back.  While the
boy would always be short, he would be much taller if he actually sat correctly once in a while. 
Besides, he was having fun!  This was his third night sneaking through Potter's window, magic basket in
hand, attempting to destroy Potter's Muggle teaching and replace it with wizarding manners.  He was
having more fun than he originally thought!  It was like . . . finding a basilisk scale within a barrel of
snake skin ingredients.  Of course, Potter did not see it that way, but Draco did not mind.
     Besides, Draco thought wickedly, admiring the dark-haired wizard's lithe Seeker form, I just like
the idea of . . . disciplining . . . him.
     Potter glanced at him strangely, even as he carefully laid down his goblet of pumpkin juice.  "Why
do you always look at me with that expression?  It's unnerving."
     Draco smiled sweetly.  "No reason."
     Still doubtful, Potter turned back to the basket resting on the bed.  Since Draco did not trust the
shaking desk to hold *his* magic basket, they held their lessons on Potter's bed.  While he still
disapproved of the decrepit mess, it still remained steadier than that hideous four-legged thing.  Cheap
Muggle items.  Potter surprised Draco with how elegantly he crossed his legs on the bed, balancing
gracefully.  Apparently, Potter did not trust the desk, either.  To Draco's initial horror, the bed was
hard enough to balance the goblet, though in the end it made lessons easier.
     "How do you sneak here every night, anyway?" Potter asked.  He did not bother looking at Draco,
instead glaring at his sandwich.  While his appetite was not as bad as it was the first night, he was still
ravenous.  Taking delicate bites of a delicious sandwich did not sit well with him.  "Don't your parents
ever notice you missing?"
     Draco waited until Potter took up the sandwich again before responding.  True, he desperately
wanted his only companion at the moment to learn some manners, but he preferred if the boy did not
starve to death in the attempt.  It would speak badly of his teaching!
     "My parents are usually gone at night," Draco explained.  "If they're not gone attending a function,
my father is working at the Ministry and my mother is socializing, or at the other end of the Manor.  I
can sneak out without my parents even realizing I'm gone."  He lifted his chin proudly.  Three days, and
his father had not caught him yet!  A true Slytherin.
     Potter eyed him for a moment, but did not comment.  A strange look darkening his eyes, Potter
silently returned to his sandwich.  Even with smaller bites and more chewing, it still vanished quickly. 
He sipped his pumpkin juice, his nose slightly wrinkled, before turning back to Draco.
     "What was it like, growing up like that?  I mean, knowing you were a wizard all your life.  Did you
do spells a lot when you were younger?"
     Immediately, Draco opened his mouth to boast of his pure-blood upbringing, but paused.  Wait. 
‘Knowing you were a wizard all your life.'  Gray eyes narrowed.  The banshee, yelling at Potter.  He
had heard her earlier, and some man, shouting at Potter while Draco waited to be let inside.  They had
called him freak.  Draco's face hardened, and Potter blinked in surprise.
     "When did you find out you were a wizard?" Draco asked instead.
     Potter blinked again.  "Excuse me?"
     Insistently, Draco repeated, "When did you find out you were a wizard?"
     Potter stared at Draco for a moment, his lips parted slightly in surprise.  Then he turned to stare at
the basket.  "That's none of your concern, Malfoy."
     Draco smirked, but his eyes still glittered angrily.  "You just asked me about my life.  I can ask you
about yours.  When?"
     Out of the corner of his eye, Potter glared at Draco, but did not answer.  The Muggles had already
went to bed, and without the sound of Potter talking and eating, the house echoed silently.  All Draco
could hear was Potter's breathing, rapid with an unknown emotion.  Draco made no move to fill in the
eerie quiet.  Potter broke first.
     "When Hagrid gave me my Hogwarts letter," Potter admitted softly.  "He had to hand-deliver it,
because the Dursleys refused to let an owl give it to me.  He told me about my family, and
Voldemort,--Draco flinched--
and my background.  He was the one who told me everything, including about my House.  Everything
else I found out at Hogwarts."
     Draco recalled the day he first met the legendary Boy-Who-Lived.  He seemed so lost. . . .
     "Now your end, Malfoy," Potter interrupted his thoughts, his voice abrupt.  "Spill."
     Draco met Potter' flashing eyes.  The Savior of the Wizarding World . . . the guardian of Muggles .
. . the Golden Boy. . . .
     "I was raising knowing first and foremost that the Malfoys were a very prestigious family, and
knowing that the name came with certain responsibilities–" Draco began.
~~~~~
     Patiently, Draco waited outside the broken window, carefully draped in the invisibility cloak.  After
the first week, Potter had decided that it would be safer if he kept the cloak on until after he slipped
inside the house.  Dark or not, someone could still see him.  Instead, he was to knock gently three times
on the window, and Potter would let him into the room.
     Once again, he had caught Potter poring over that photo album.  Draco wavered between curiosity
of the unknown pictures and the nice view he received of Potter's ass as he returned the album to its
home under the floorboard.  A little on the thin side, but even through Potter's baggy clothes, he could
tell it was tight muscle.  Yum.  Times like these made him rejoice over his invisibility cloak.
     The window again creaked oddly as Potter allowed Draco into his room.  Hedwig, from her perch
in her cage, hooted hopefully at the sight of Draco.  He smiled smugly to himself.  Potter's polite
attitude towards him and his supply of owl treats had won the lovely owl over.  The owl nibbled
delicately from his palm as he gently pet her.  Beautiful creature.
     "I would not have expected you to have such good taste in pets, Potter," Draco drawled, glancing
over his shoulder.  Already, Potter sat on the bed, basket open in front of him.  At least he had stopped
diving into it.  "She has better manners than you.  She's a pureblood wizarding owl."
     Potter glanced up from his sandwich.  "I'll tell Hagrid you said that," he replied sweetly.  "He
bought her for me as a birthday gift."
     Draco's jaw dropped in a painfully undignified manner.  Finishing off the treats in Draco's hand,
Hedwig hooted cheerfully in agreement.
     Traitor, Draco grumbled to himself.
     Then his eyes lit up.  "Is that photo album pictures of . . . Hagrid . . . then?" Draco inquired
casually.  Go me! he cheered himself as Potter looked up from his food.  Truly Slytherin!  Turned an
embarrassing moment into an opportunity.  Hedwig hooted wryly as Draco's chest puffed a bit.
     Potter just looked at him.  "He gave it to me," he replied eventually.  "It was an apology of sorts. 
He felt guilty for something, so he gathered it together for me."  Potter stared at the sandwich in his
hands, then gently it on the basket.  He made no move to pick it back up.
   Draco blinked at him. *Not* of that bumbling oaf then.  He made sure not to call the half-giant that
out loud, though.  He had an inescapable fear that Potter would forget he was not supposed to use
magic over the summer, after the *last* time he had called the idiot by that name.
     "What are the pictures, then?" he inquired.  Draco mentally poke Potter with a stick (pokity, pokity,
pokity . . . Ahem!).  Gryffindors
stink at keeping secrets, while Slytherins excelled at uncovering them.  Potter had no chance!  
     Potter glanced sideways at him.  "None of your business, Malfoy," he said simply, returning to his
sandwich.
     Draco blinked.  That hadn't worked at all.
     "Come on, Potter," he wheedled.  "I see no reason why it would be some *secret*–"
     "Super toilet!" Potter interrupted.  Draco shut up.  Why the hell had he ever told him about that
miscast spell, anyway?!?
     With great dignity, Draco turned his back to the lower-class boy.  Hedwig cooed affectionately as
he resumed petting her.
     "What does he know, anyway?" he whispered to her.  "Hasn't he realized what it means to be a
Gryffindor?  That means no secrets for him!"
     Hedwig blinked at him.
~~~~~
   "You know, you can call me Draco."
     "Really?  Now why is that?"
     "Well, I *am* sleeping in your bed."
     "Alone, while *I'm* busy doing homework.  Can you keep your mind out of the gutter for five
minutes, *Malfoy!*"
   " . . . "
   Sigh!
     " . . . "
     " . . . "
   ". . . !"
   Snicker.
     "Grrrrr. . . ."
     "You're growling, Draco."
     "I do not growl!  Pureblood wizards do not–What did you call me?"
     "That doesn't mean you can call me Harry, though."
     "All right, sweetums."
     " . . . Harry's fine."
~~~~~
     "Now can I look at the photo album?"
     "No."
     "Just a peek."
     "No."
     "Well, I suppose it's full of Mudbloods anyway."
     "You're right."
     " . . . Hey!"
     Low whistle.
     Grumble.
~~~~~
     Gingerly, Draco wiggled on the broomstick.  Harry had fallen asleep!  He left him, sitting outside his
window, *right on time,* mind you, while he took a nap.  He could see Harry in there, laying on his
stomach on the narrow bed.  Apparently, the boy had never taken the time to turn on the light, simply
going straight to sleep.  How rude!  He had been knocking for five minutes now!
     Again, Draco knocked, each time knocking harder on the bent glass.  Finally, Harry stirred on the
narrow bed.  Draco had no idea how he slept on that hard thing, nonetheless sleep as deeply as he was
apparently doing!  Draco knocked some more, and Harry successfully roused.  With slow, deliberate
movements, the dark-haired wizard pushed himself into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes.  He
stared at the glass, seeming to forget Draco was invisible.
     Impatiently, Draco slammed on the glass, and Harry started.  "Sorry, Draco," he apologized
casually, easing himself to his feet.  "I fell asleep.  Didn't mean to doze off like that."
     Draco huffed as Harry finally let him into the room.  "It's about time," he growled.  Harry ignored
his grumbling as he went to turn on the light.  "I'm tempted to–"
     Draco fell silent as the room lit up.  He saw why Harry slept on his stomach.  Normally, he would
have enjoyed the sight of the other boy topless, but the angry red glow of his back destroyed that.
     At that moment, Draco would have happily joined You-Know-Who.
     "I have not commented on those Muggles forcing you to do menial labor like a house elf," he
hissed, "but for that behavior to–"
     All the calm faded from Harry's eyes.  "Enough," he cut off.  "It's fine.  Just a light burn."
     Draco glared.  "I'm surprised it doesn't glow in the dark!"
     One sable eyebrow rose.  "On you it would.  My basket, please?"
     Draco snarled, but Harry had already snatched the basket and sat carefully down once more.  Eyes
blazing an angry silver, Draco plopped on the hard mattress beside him.  Malfoy propriety be damned.
     "You are a *wizard!*" he growled.  "Yet you allow them to abuse you, neglect you, and you are
forced to do all the work for those lazy sods.  You are better–"
     "*No, I am not!!*" Harry snapped.  He had opened the basket to grab a sandwich, but now he
slammed it shut.  "You know why they treat me so horribly?  Because they think they are better than
me!  In their minds, Muggles are better than wizards because they are holy and pure, while we delve in
Satan's arts.  All it is is a bloody misunderstanding on both sides!  There are good wizards, there are
bad wizards.  There are good Muggles, there are bad Muggles.  Wizards have magic, Muggles have
technology.  Instead of respecting those differences, both races remain xenophobic!  Not all, but it does
not take many to give the rest a bad name.  You think how they treat me is terrible?  Well, guess what? 
Voldemort–for Merlin's sake, stop flinching!–kills Muggles!  He tortures them, allows his Death Eaters
to rape them, drives them out of their minds, and he kills them!  And that's only if the Dementors do not
get to them first."
     Ignored Draco's stunned face, Harry whipped back to the basket and angrily yanked out a
sandwich.  With a dramatic flourish, he ripped into it.  Draco could not find it in him to yell at him for it.
     There was no point in promoting understanding between wizards and Muggles.  Didn't Harry
understand that?  Wizards were better!  Wizards did not have to destroy the world around them to
survive.  Wizards had magic!  Bloody hell, wizards had *Quidditch!* Muggles were inferior little
creatures who did not know their place, who envied wizards for their superior blood.  That simple.
     Still . . . Draco thought Harry probably did not want to hear that.
     "That's still no excuse for hurting someone in their care," Draco tried.
     Harry glared at him over his half-eaten sandwich.  "I know it isn't, but that's how it is.  I understand
why they act the way they do, and when I am of age, I never have to see them again.  That's enough
for me."  Another vicious bite, and this time, Draco did cringe.
     "All right, all right," Draco relented.  "Just let the sandwich go.  It never did anything to hurt you."
     But the Dursleys did, Draco thought, even as he reminded Harry of the proper way to eat.  I don't
know what we are to each other now, Harry, but that does not change the fact you are a wizard.  No
Muggle treats a wizard like that.  Ever.
     The rest of the night was tense in a way the past two weeks had not been.  All night, Draco could
not help looking at Harry's back.  Something ached inside of him, but he could not figure out what.
~~~~~
     When Draco arrived the next time, he expected the same edge that had permeated the last meeting. 
However, only Harry's blinding smile greeted him.  Harry held the window open for Draco long enough
for him to slide inside, and then he returned to the bed.  For a moment, Draco stared at him.  Usually,
when he arrived, the younger man seemed weary and frustrated.  This . . . was different.
     Only Harry's swift Seeker reflexes caught the basket before it fell and silenced Draco's shriek as
something small and hairy barreled into the back of his head.  "What the hell–" Draco started, then
paused.  Harry's hand . . . why was he so surprised to feel callouses against his lips?
     "It's just Pig," Harry explained, misinterpreting the surprise in his eyes.  "Ron's owl."  He released
Draco's mouth and snatched the owl in midair.  Draco flexed his jaw, strangely still feeling Harry's
small hand.  He instinctively licked his lips.  Harry grinned at him, not noticing.  "I haven't heard from
him for a while because he was looking for my birthday gift.  He's hinting about it, but he's not telling
me what it is."
     "Your birthday?" Draco echoed, warily eying the energetic owl.  Across the room, Hedwig hooted
in disdain.  He nodded solemnly at her.  Of course Weasley could not buy a normal owl.  He smirked. 
Maybe that was all he could afford.
     He shook his head.  He had more important things to focus on than . . . *Weasley.*
     "It's in two weeks," Harry clarified, releasing the owl.  Pig.  Honestly.  "July 31st.  I'll be
seventeen."
     Harry turned to the basket on his bed, thus not noticing Draco's momentary blanch. Birthday. 
Birthdays meant gifts.  Did he have to get Harry a gift?  He was not even sure they were friends. . . . 
He bought the Slytherins in his year gifts, but . . . this was a totally different situation.  He was not
supposed to be here; Draco was supposed to be at home, safe in his bed.  He was not supposed to be
here with Harry.  He was not supposed to be talking with Harry like this.  He was not supposed to be
*Harry!*  His fists clenched at his sides.
     Harry looked up from his salad and smirked at Draco.  "Don't worry," he drawled.  "I'm not
expecting anything from you.  It would be too difficult to explain, anyway."
     Immediately, Draco's eyes narrowed.  "And why not?"
  Harry's small smile wavered.  "Well . . . why would you get me something anyway?  I mean . . . I
don't think we're really friends, are we?"  For one of the few times Draco had seen over the summer,
Harry's eyes glowed with apprehension.
     "So you didn't think I would buy you anything?" Draco snarled.  "Never even assumed I would do
a generous act for you?  Just assumed the Slytherin would ignore your birthday."
     Harry blinked, overwhelmed.  "Well–"
     "I'm going to buy you something," Draco declared.  "Something that would shame Weasley's gift. 
I'll show you how Malfoys shop."
     Why did he have the terrible feeling he had just tricked *himself* into buying Harry a gift?
     Harry's head bowed at the end of the conversation.  For a moment, Draco wondered if he had
pissed Harry off.  A pissed off wizard usually caused some concern.  A pissed off wizard known as
You-Know-Who's Bane generally caused some . . . slight . . . alarm.
     However, when Harry looked up, no anger flushed his thin face.  Draco thought his emerald eyes
seemed a little shiny, but he didn't comment.  "I just assumed you would feel no need to buy a gift for
me.  The Dursleys don't.  Only–"
     "Don't," Draco interrupted, "compare me to those . . ." he wrinkled his nose " . . .creatures!"  He
raised his chin haughtily.  Imagine!  Comparing those filthy Muggles to himself!  A pureblooded wizard! 
They did not come close to comparing to his refinement and grace.  "Of course I will buy you a
birthday gift.  And I will hear no more about it!"
     Draco ignored Harry's incredulous expression, studying the differences between Hedwig and Pig. 
He refused to consider why he was so adamant about buying Harry a gift.  They weren't friends.  He
was simply being courteous.  That was it.  Harry allowed him a place away from home, where he knew
no one spied on him for his father.  In turn, he gifted Harry with adequate food and drink.  It was simply
a business arrangement.  If he wanted to buy Harry a gift, it remained only a gesture of generosity on his
part.  In the end, they were business partners.  Though, he allowed himself, eyeing Harry's lithe, tight
form, he would not mind if they became "business partners" in other areas as well.  Still!  This remained
sheerly impersonal!
     Harry glanced at him again before delicately filling his pumpkin juice.  "Well, thank you."  He stared
hard at his goblet again.  "Um. . . ."  Was Harry blushing?  Over this?  Was this really that big of a deal
to him?  Harry raised the goblet to take a drink, only to put it down again.  "I. . . ."
     "Calm down, Harry," Draco soothed him.  Of course, anyone would be flustered over receiving a
gift from him.  He should have expected such a reaction.  "Eat.  That's excellent food, freshly prepared
by the best house elves money could buy."
     Harry smiled slightly.  Then his eyes hardened.  He replaced the goblet on the basket and stood. 
Draco blinked, then blinked again as Harry kneeled beside the bed.  He picked up the floorboard and
snatched the mysterious photo album from its hiding place.  Harry settled on the floor and looked
expectantly at Draco.
     "That's my mom," Harry explained, pointing at the first picture in the book.  "Everyone says I have
her eyes."
     Draco stared silently at him.  Without a word, he sat beside Harry.  Draco pointed at the baby in
the redhead's arms.
     "Yeah, that's me," Harry confirmed.  "Everyone says I look like my dad, but–"
~~~~~~
     For his whole life, espionage and secrets ruled Draco Malfoy's life.  He knew it and accepted it
from an early age.  Being the son of a Death Eater, he knew when to speak and when to hide.  When
he went to Harry's each night, they both knew that they should not be so genial towards each other.  In
silent acceptance, they agreed not to bring up You-Know-You, Death Eaters, or the prestige of being
the Boy-Who-Lived.  Each morning and afternoon, he hid his nightly affairs from his parents, never
letting on he visited their worst enemy every night.  Drenched in such a Slytherin atmosphere, where
keeping secrets constantly remained a must and discovering the secrets of others was a handy and often
necessary tool, surely it should be easy to find Harry Potter a good birthday present without anyone
knowing.
     Right?
     Two weeks later, this hypothesis remained unproved.
     Draco scoured wizarding magazines, Diagon Alley, even Knockturn Alley searching for the perfect
gift for Harry.  He could not allow Weasley to upstage him!  With the other Slytherins in his class, a
simple Dark Arts book sufficed.  However, Draco doubted Harry would be pleased with a book
containing the arts of his enemies.  On the other hand, Harry definitely contained a strong Slytherin
streak.  Perhaps he would enjoy such a powerful weapon.  Maybe not.  Damn Slytherin-ish Gryffindors
anyway!  If Harry displayed only the characteristics of one house, his gift would have been wrapped by
the end of the first day.  But nooooo!  Draco's second thought had been more stylish clothes,
emphasizing Harry's brilliant emerald eyes, dark hair, and slim build.  However, Harry remained
surprisingly sensitive concerning what he feared was "charity," and Draco planned on leaving Harry's
house in one piece.  Jewelry?  Quidditch?  Food?  What the hell did one buy the Boy-Who-Refused-
to-Die?  For a while, he had been tempted to buy a robe in Knockturn Alley covered in miniature
targets, but then he decided that was too close to the topics they were struggling to avoid.
     Maybe those boxers with the targets then . . . maybe Harry would even model for him . . . True
Slytherin!!!
     Well, maybe he would wait for that.  Harry was a lowly Gryffindor, after all, with no sense of style
and wit . . . and with a rather infamous temper and a quick wand. . . .
     Draco hastily switched his mind to other possible gifts.
~~~~~
     "So . . . you really like Herbology then, eh?"
     "Draco.  It's for homework."
     "We had Herbology homework?"
     "Yes.  Perhaps the Slytherins did not get it.  An essay on the characteristics of a Whomping Willow
and why specific plants are usually found around it?"
     " . . . Dammit!"
~~~~~
     "So . . . you really like Potions then, neh?"
     " . . . "
     " . . . "
   "Yes, Draco, I have a secret passion for Potions."
     Glow.
     Sigh.
     Blink.
     Waiting.
     "Hey!"
     Snicker.
~~~~~
     "So . . . you really like–"
     "HOMEWORK!!!"
     "Well!  There's no need to be rude about it!"
~~~~~
     Two days.  Two more bloody days left, and Draco had yet to find that bloody git a gift!  He could
not get him clothes (though that one emerald silk shirt would have gone wonderfully with his eyes),
anything relating to the dark arts was out of the question, Harry would good enough at Quidditch
(though he would *never* tell him that*) without any more books or guides. . . .  His cunning attempts
at finding out any of Harry's interests had been remarkably foiled. . . .  Why the bloody hell did he have
to be so difficult?!?
     At least, Draco mused, glancing out of the corner of his eye, his mother seemed thrilled at the
constant shopping.  Narcissa eagerly helped him out in choosing possible gifts.  He doubted she would
be so eager if she knew for whom he was shopping.  Yet another reason to keep it a secret.  Narcissa
believed he was finally settling down with some lucky young wizard/witch, and who was he to deny
otherwise?
     He was not settling down.  He wasn't!  He was as wild and free as he was at the beginning of the
summer.
     Yeah.
     Narcissa dragged him into another shop–in a fully dignified manner, of course–and Draco allowed
himself to be distracted from his thoughts.
     Harry just had a nice ass, that was all.
~~~~~
     " . . . "
     Wary blink.
     Stare.
     Scoot.
     Thoughtful tapping.
     Scoot.
     Pensive glare.
     Thump!
     "You're awfully clumsy, aren't you, Harry?"
     "Stop looking at me like that!"
     "Like what?"
     "Like that!"
     Blink.
     Glare.
     "So . . . do you like leather?"
     Gape.
     "OW!  What?  It was an honest question!"
~~~~~
     Above all else, Draco prided himself as a Malfoy, from a long, aristocratic, pureblood family.  At all
times, a Malfoy maintained his pride, calm, and propriety.  Because of such noble lineage, Draco
remained secure in the fact that he could remain cool in all situations.
     Thus Draco knew his wild fretting, insomnia, shaking hands, and lack of appetite were caused by a
mild anxiety rather than a full-blown panic attack.
     At midnight tonight, Harry would celebrate his birthday, and Draco had yet to find him an
appropriate gift.  Draco ignored his mother's obvious amusement as they left yet another store in
Knockturn Alley.  He knew the Weasel already had a gift for Harry, and he bet the Mudblood did, too. 
He could not let those two beat him!  And he had promised Harry a birthday gift.  A Malfoy never
broke his promise.  Fuck the idea of "generosity" and keeping it "impersonal."  Now this was purely
personal.  Fuck "business partners" and all that shit.  By tonight Draco would have the perfect birthday
present for the stubborn Gryffindor, even if it killed them both.
     Narcissa smiled indulgently as Draco dragged her into another shop–fuck "in a dignified manner,"
too!  Later tonight, after this damned present was bought, he would show Harry how aristocratic and
proud he could be.  Right now, that present topped his list of priorities.
     "He . . . must be someone really special, to warrant this much attention?" Narcissa commented
softly as Draco growled, finding nothing in that particular shop.
     "He's unique," Draco growled.  By his tone, "unique" and "special" were two very different things.
     Narcissa simply smiled.  Draco never noticed the smug glint in her pale eyes.  "Then perhaps I may
suggest something?"
     Pausing in his frantic perusal of the shop, Draco glanced nervously at his mother.  Why did he have
the awful feeling he had accidentally let something slip?
     "What do you have in mind?" Draco asked cautiously.  Bloody hell, how did his mother always do
that?  Always knowing exactly when he wanted to hide something!
~~~~~
  Draco's right eye twitched oddly as he forced his broom alongside Harry's window, angrily tapping
the glass.  Finally, he had the perfect gift for Harry.  After days and days, he finally had the chance to
recover his famous Malfoy poise and pureblood dignity, and what happened?  It rained!  All the way
from Malfoy Manor to Privet Drive, it rained, soaking through the invisibility cloak, chilling him to the
bone, and MESSING UP HIS HAIR!  Never, never again would he exert this much effort for anyone! 
Terrible stress looking for a birthday gift his mother held all along (as soon as he returned to the Manor,
Draco planned on looking for wrinkles and available potion therapy), and he had to fly through a
wretched storm to arrive at the boy's home.  If Potter was anything less than perfectly ecstatic and
hopelessly grateful, Draco would–
  Hey.  Where was Harry?
  Impatiently, Draco glanced at the window, tapping once again.  The lights were off, as they had
only been off once before.  This time, however, Harry could not plead "sunburn."  The sun had not
shown all day!
  Draco peeked inside the window, the lights from the street aiding him.  Nope, not lying on his
stomach this time, although Harry did look like he was sleeping on the pathetic bed.  He narrowed his
eyes, looking harder.  Well, if Draco was forced to sleep on such an uncomfortable mattress, he would
be tossing and turning, too–
  A chill wind swept through, and Draco froze.  No.  Those filthy little Muggles did not . . . they
would not *dare*. . .
  ‘Like they hadn't dared to nearly starve him,' an insidious little voice whispered.  ‘Like they had not
dared to force him to work as their house elf?'  Memory of Harry's glowing red back flashed through
his mind, and a desperation and hatred burned within him like he had never known before.  Pushing
back the hatred for a moment, Draco pounded on the glass.
  "Potter!" he snarled.  "Open up!  I didn't come all this way for nothing.  Potter!  Open your
damned eyes!"
  Within the dimly lit room, the slender figure only rolled restlessly onto his back.  Harry made no
signs of rising.
  "Dammit!" Draco cursed, even as thoughts tumbled wildly over themselves in his head.  The
weather had been cold and wet ever since he awoke.  The Muggles probably had Harry working his
usual schedule.  That would mean he had been outside most of the day.
  Draco pushed away his growing rage, slamming his fist against the glass.  "You bloody git!" he
hollered, uncaring of any possible pedestrians or the people in the surrounding houses.  "Open this
thrice-damned window now!"  For the life of him, Draco could not figure out how something could be
damned three times, but that curse worked spectacularly for Professor Snape, so Draco decided he
could give it a try.  Judging by the sudden stillness on the bed, Harry certainly recognized it.  Draco
cringed, hoping he hadn't killed Harry with shock.  Would be a terrible way for the famous Boy-Who-
Lived to die.
  Then Harry stirred faintly, and Draco sighed with relief as the dark head lifted off the worn pillow. 
"Hmm?"  Even listening closely, Draco could barely make out the interrogative murmur.
  "Open the window, Harry," Draco demanded.  "It doesn't open from the outside!"  He gave the
broken window a harsh shove for good measure.  It creaked loudly but didn't visibly move.
  "Draco?" Harry mumbled.  "Where are you?  I can't see you."
  Draco nearly fell off his broom in his panic.  As he frantically attempted to figure out how the fever
could have infected Harry's eyes so quickly, a strong gust of wind almost tore his cloak from his
shoulders.          
  "Oh, right," he mumbled to himself, hoping Harry was too sick to noticed his embarrassed flush. 
Malfoys do not blush!  Especially not for dumb mistakes they should not have made in the first place! 
Ducking his head slightly, Draco tore off the cloak and slipped it into the magic basket.  He felt his
fingers brush against Harry's birthday gift and cringed inwardly.
  "Yeah," he breathed.  "Happy birthday, Harry."
  Shaking off the dark mood, Draco called, "Right where I always am, you bloody git.  Now open
the damned window!"
  "Is it really that late?" Harry murmured drowsily.  "That's strange.  I'm not hungry. . . ."
  Draco clenched his fists tightly around his broom.  "Open the window," he repeated insistently. 
Inspiration struck, and he added, "It's cold out here, Harry."
  Nothing spurned on the noble Gryffindor as much as another's discomfort, and as a proud
Slytherin, Draco had no problem taking advantage of it.  Shivering visibly, Harry slowly eased himself
to his feet and stumbled to the window.  His aristocratic hands shook and slid over the battered
window frame, but after an endless moment, Harry pulled the window open.  Draco slid inside the
window with a grace and speed he never knew he possessed. His precious broom, invisibility cloak,
and magic basket hit the ground loudly, but he did not care.  Draco scooped Harry's slender, trembling
body into his arms, angry with how easily he could carry the other teenager.  Heat radiated through
Harry's large clothes.
  Harry relaxed against him, not noticing the other boy's tension.  Instead, he laughed weakly.  "I
never knew you swung this way, Draco," he slurred.
  Draco clutched him close before laying him on the bed.  "Everyone swings your way, Harry," he
murmured softly, kneeling beside him.  ‘Including me,' Draco admitted at last to himself.  He closed his
eyes.  Any last hopes of this being a simple summer fling flew out of the broken window.  This was no
business arrangement.  Bloody hell, why did his mother always have to be right?
  Harry smiled sleepily, still trembling.  His face was flushed a bright crimson, and his eyes seemed
dazed.  Harry normally was no great beauty, especially not compared to what Draco was used to,
especially not now, limp and sweaty and sickly, yet Draco could not look away anyway.  Against his
will, he fingered Harry's red cheek.  The ill boy curled into the light touch like a kitten.
  "I'm sorry that I'm such horrible company today," Harry mumbled.  "I haven't felt well all day. 
Aunt Petunia made me cover all her lawn ornaments and gardens before the storm grew too bad, and
she wouldn't let me back inside until I dried on the porch.  I haven't felt right since."
  Draco ground his teeth together but forced himself to keep his cool.  Carefully, he laid a hand on
Harry's forehead.  The skin on his palm burned at the light touch.  Harry needed help.  Now.
  Fuck.
  "Your family won't help you," Draco whispered, more to himself than the boy on the bed.  "And I
can't take you anywhere.  A Death Eater's son . . . seen with the Boy-Who-Lived.  They would
probably Avada Kadavra me first and ask questions later.  But what else to do?" 
  A weak clasp on Draco's right hand silenced him, and he met Harry's fever brightened eyes.  The
boy smiled reassuringly.  "I'll be okay," he whispered.  "It's not that bad."
  Draco had a sudden flashback of Harry saying practically the same thing about his burned back. 
Yet another lie, whether unconscious defense of his abusers or himself Draco would never know.  He
was willing to bet his whole inheritance that the Weasel and the Mudblood was used to this song and
dance.  It pained Draco to think of it, but perhaps they would have recognized the danger signs sooner. 
They would have kept a much closer eye on Harry than he–
  Draco's face lit up.  "Harry," he asked urgently.  "When do you get the . . . Weasley's present? 
When does his owl come?"
  Harry's eyes were drooping shut.  "Right . . . on my birthday," he murmured sleepily.
  Rolling his eyes, Draco sighed exasperatedly and ran his free hand through his hair.  It flew up in
damp, blond spikes, but he couldn't find it within him to waste time worrying about it now.  "Oh, yeah,
that was clear," he grumbled.  "Can you be more specific?"
  But Harry's heavy emerald eyes focused on his clock.  His lips quirked in a small smile.  "Sixteen. 
I survived till sixteen.  I bet I can hit seventeen, damn Voldemort and the Dursleys both."
  Harry's slurred voice frightened Draco more than the uncharacteristic words did.  His fever was
rising.  What the hell was he supposed to do?!  He had no idea how to treat sick people!  He didn't
even know what to do with *himself* when he was sick.  He was rich!  He wasn't supposed to know!
  "Harry–" Draco began, wondering how to subtly ask the sick boy if the fever was driving him
insane, but a pale blur silenced him.  Several owls flew through the window and flittered over Harry's
bed.  Hedwig and the flying rat each carried gifts tied to their legs.  While the winged rodent flew wildly
around the room, Hedwig hovered over her master's head.  She knew something was wrong.  Draco's
eyes narrowed.
  "Hedwig," Draco said softly.  "How do you feel about delivering a message to the Weasleys for
me?"
     Harry's owl hooted distractedly at him, fluttering over his master.  Why wasn't he answering her? 
He always answered her before, with a soft smile and a tender stroke over her feathers.  What was
wrong with him?
  "He's sick, Hedwig," Draco told her urgently, hoping the owl was as smart as he originally
assumed.  Otherwise, he would feel very dumb having a conversation with an owl.  "He needs help. 
You must get the Weasleys for me."
  Apparently, she understood him fine.  Hedwig hooted a short affirmative, nipping Harry's ear and
flying to Draco.  The pale boy freed her from her packages.  "Wait a moment," he murmured, not sure
to whom he was talking.  After a quick glance at the flushed boy on the bed, Draco searched for a quill. 
Harry's homework still rested on the desk, and within moments, a hasty note found itself fastened to
Hedwig's leg.
  "Give this to Ronald Weasley," Draco ordered.  "Don't take no for an answer.  Quickly!"
     Hedwig hooted authoritatively before flying back out the window.  Draco watched her go. 
Then he closed his eyes and turned around.  There was work to be done before help arrived.
~~~~~~
     "Hedwig, go away," Ron Weasley groaned, batting the snow owl away.  "Harry's message can
wait until morning."
     The red-haired wizard tried to go back to sleep, but Hedwig kept pecking frantically at him. 
Ron groaned and swatted at her, but Hedwig only hooted louder in his ear.  Ron growled.  "How did
you get into my bedroom, anyway?"
     Hedwig screeched in his ear.  Exasperated, Ron finally sat up.  "I get Harry a nice birthday gift,
and he sics his owl on me.  Is he trying to tell me he didn't like it?"
     Hedwig simply screeched again, and sighing, Ron snatched the letter off her leg.  As he read it,
his eyes widened in horror.
     //Harry is violently ill.  His family will not help him.  You must come to his home quickly!//
     The note was not signed.
     "Mum!" Ron shrieked, leaping off the bed.  Hedwig flew over his head.  "Dad!  Mum!  Help!"
~~~~~~
     The Dursley home was still connected to the Floo Network.  The household was awakened by
Arthur, Fred, and George Weasley.  Ignoring the Dursleys' wild shouts and for once not pausing for
pranks, the trio whisked Harry and his things back through the fireplace.  No one noticed the extra gift. 
Harry stayed with the Weasleys for the rest of the summer.  When asked about the mysterious note,
Harry would demurely deny knowledge of the sender.  When the school year started again, everything
was back to normal.
     Almost.
~~~~~~
     "You came."
     "Of course I did.  You're usually the late one."
     "Oh, don't start.  I get enough of that from--"
     "Uh-huh.  No talk of the outside world in here, remember?"
     A low laugh.  "Yes, I remember."
     A small pause.  "Do you really think this could work?  Can we really hope?"
     "Of course.  There's always hope.  We'll make it work, I promise you."
     "Heh.  Always the optimist."
     "I try."
     A soft laugh, quickly muffled.  An aristocratic hand arose, burying itself in pale hair.  A gold and
emerald ring glinted from the light tresses, casting a soft glow in the dark room.  Neither occupant
noticed, too deeply immersed in their kiss.
     //"Harry, Harry, wake up.  Listen to me, because you must know this now.  The Weasleys are
coming.  They'll help you.  But they cannot know I was here.   Get that look off your face.  There's no
choice in the matter.  My father and associates can never know I'm friends with the Boy-Who-Lived. 
It would be deadly for us both.  I refuse to bring any more danger to you.  In public, we must remain
enemies.  In private . . . the world is yours."  A parting of lips, a mere brushing of tongues.  A single
moment, lasting forever but still too short.  "If you don't remember that when you get better, I'm going
to kick your bloody arse.  I must go now.  I'll owl you as soon as I can.  Get well soon, you hear me,
you git...The gods damn you, Potter.  It seems like you have yet another protector."//