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All the Proud Shall Be	By : ladycat Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 5061 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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The good thing about History of Magic is that it offers a
lot of time to think. Professor Binns' voice is soothing after so many years, a
lullaby that most of the students no longer care about resisting. There are
rumors that someone's got a quick-notes quill that dutifully copies every inane
thing goblins and giants ever did, then sells copies to students dismayed to
realize they've actually got homework to finish. Harry's always wanted to buy a
set, but doesn't. For one thing, he doesn't know who sells them. For another,
Hermione would kill him.

Hermione's quill is the only one currently scratching.

It's been a month since term began again, and Harry knows the rumors haven't
stopped yet. Oh, there are no rumors about the horrific occurrence the Daily
Prophet sometimes�and only sometimes�reports. Nor are there any about the
magical community's niggling worry suddenly proving to be very real with Death
Eaters escaped and Voldemort officially returned. No, they talk about him,
of course. How quiet he is. How solemn and somber, as though he's given up on
life. Ron's told him several people are worried he'll do a runner off the
Astronomy tower before too long. Crack under the pressure. Sometimes, Ron gives
him a sidelong look, like he thinks they might be right.

When he does, Harry wants to laugh.

Do they honestly think that all the things Harry's had to deal with over the
last five years�that only now is when it feels real? That only now,
since they're utterly certain and scared, Harry has to step up to the plate?

Harry looks down at his blank parchment for a moment, studying the fine grains
visible against the cream color. They make lines, almost like the books he'd
learned to write his letters in, back during his muggle schooling. Sometimes he
wishes those lines were back�it's hard to keep his hand neat and level,
especially when he's desperate to finish those last few inches of parchment.
Sometimes he wishes he was actually back in muggle school. Would he have
friends by now? Especially with Dudley off at Smeltings and unable to terrorize
everyone into being horrid towards him, he could have actually had friends, by
now. A life. A different life.

The soft whoosh of moving paper attracts his attention. Lavender is
writing notes to Pavarti again, the two of them trying not to giggle and
attract attention. The giggles are strained�they're good at denial, those two,
but the latest reports put Death Eater activity near where Lavender's home is.
She's being brave enough about it, Harry decides with the dispassionate
cynicism of the jaded, forgoing her usual histrionics in favor of attempting to
move on with her life. She isn't entirely successful, though; Harry can see it
in her lips, which are chapped and not covered in their usual layer of sparkly
gloss. Her eyes are red-rimmed almost constantly now, and they dart whenever
she isn't forcing them to focus on something.

Their whispers fade after a moment, Harry's attention wandering. He studies the
students around him, making notes of anything different or odd. He spends a lot
of time watching, now. Watching all of it, really. He watches his classmates,
his friends, his teachers, even the way the ghosts interact with each other.
Back at the beginning of term, Hermione had mentioned how glad she was that
Harry had let go of some of his anger from the previous year, and later, she'd
complimented him on noticing some of the particular transformations Professor
McGonagall was assigning them, that they had the potential to be used for
defensive tactics. She'd been very proud of his deductions.

Now she watches Harry almost as much as Harry watches everyone else. She
understands that this quiet is almost as bad as the anger had been. Worse, in a
way, since the quiet is passive and Harry had never in his life been passive.

But she doesn't watch him in History of Magic. She's too busy trying to take
down her notes without falling asleep like the rest of them.

She doesn't like his quiet, though Harry is coming to really appreciate it. It
puts people off guard, being quiet. He's spent five years teaching people to
expect certain things from him, and now that he's gone and changed they're
often left scrambling to reestablish themselves. Watching them maneuvers is
fascinating, since the tiniest gestures can give a lot away. People start
babbling in his presence just to cover up the disquieting silence, and he
learns loads of interesting things. He's learned that Neville is interested in
Ginny by staying quiet and letting Neville ramble�and more importantly, that
Ginny likes him back. How they'll ever get together, each so certain that the
other doesn't notice them, Harry doesn't know. He isn't going to
interfere�that's something he's promised himself, and he's going to keep this
promise. No more jumping to conclusions, no more reacting instead of thinking.
No more interaction unless there's no other choice.

It makes absolutely perfect sense then, that it's for Draco Malfoy that he
breaks that promise.

The first time he'd seen Malfoy this year was on the train back to Hogwarts.
Harry hadn't forgotten or forgiven Malfoy for the comments he'd made those last
few days of term, but when he saw Malfoy sitting in his compartment all alone,
he couldn't bring himself to say anything. It was Ron who had immediately
bristled, demanding to know where Malfoy's cronies were. Ron had grown very
tall during the summer; doing more and harder chores, as well as his intensive
Quidditch practice had put a significant layer of muscle on his lean frame.
He'd gone from endearing and goofy to large and substantial and he'd confessed
to Harry not two days earlier that he couldn't wait to show Malfoy and his
goons that he wouldn't be so easy to push around anymore.

Malfoy had reacted exactly as expected. He'd sneered and snapped out something
suitably scathing and Harry had dragged Ron away rather than get into a fight
before they'd even reached school. It had all been very normal, or at least, as
normal as anything was with Malfoy, with or without Crabbe and Goyle as an
immovable wall protecting his back.

Except, it hadn't been.

It takes Harry a while to really understand. It's a shock to the system,
thinking things like this. He's spent the last five years of his life not
thinking anything of the kind. Rather the opposite, really, and it takes effort
to yank his thoughts from their familiar patterns and direct them down new,
strange paths. It takes careful watching and convincing before Harry can really
believe that no, it isn't a hallucination. He's really seeing what he thinks
he's seeing. It shouldn't be surprising, not really. A lot of things have
changed during the summer. There's no reason those changes have to be exclusive
to Harry and his friends.

But ... it's Malfoy.

He's still as awful as ever. The stupid pranks, the biting comments, the
utterly sycophantic behavior with teachers who are �marked' as having Death
Eater leanings. At least, everyone else thinks it's the same as always because
Harry hasn't bothered to enlighten anyone to his suspicions yet. Only Hermione
is curious about it, partly because it's in her nature to be compassionate, but
mostly because Malfoy doesn't call her mudblood that often anymore. Oh, when
others are around or there's some status to be won or reputation to be gained,
he's just as despicable as always. But only then.

Harry once watched the two of them interact very civilly in the library, back
during the third week of term, Malfoy looking almost timid as they worked out a
puzzling bit of their potions assignment.

Yet the minute Millicent walked through the door, Malfoy was immediately
sneering and calling Hermione a stuck-up mudblood.

Understandably upset at the sudden attack, Hermione had leveled her own
scathing reply and left the library. Harry, however, had remained. And he'd
seen that sneer fall off as if it'd never been, as soon as Millicent left
again.

Even more important, though, was the moment Draco had finally noticed Harry
tucked away in his corner, so quiet that only the librarian herself would have
noticed him. The first reaction should have been rage. Or disdain. Or
belligerence. Something that reestablished Malfoy's utter superiority over
Harry, in Malfoy's eyes at least. Instead, there had been a moment of tense
anticipation�gray eyes as unreadable as a thunderhead�before Draco nodded,
once, and left the library.

The Draco Malfoy who had spent five years of his life trying to make Harry's
miserable should not have done that.

Then again, the Harry Potter who had loathed Malfoy right back would have used
the opportunity for some kind of gain.

Being a sixth-year at Hogwart's means a great deal of homework. Being a pivotal
member of one of the few successful War Councils currently established�the less
said about Fudge's attempt, the better�swallows up most of the rest of Harry's
free time, and his Gryffindor mates manage to snatch up the remaining crumbs to
talk about and do the kinds of things sixteen year old boys are supposed to
devote their energy towards. He has no interest in the last bit, but Ron and
Seamus, in particular, demand some kind of interaction so Harry can't just slip
off and think about things the way he wants to.

History of Magic, therefore, becomes his haven. His one place to let his mind
turn over the bits and pieces he's collected, trying to put them together
undisturbed and undisrupted.

For the first few weeks, Harry thinks about a lot of different things, much of
it trivial, though some things aren't. Now, though, now Harry has just one
topic to think about, one his mind returns to with increasing fervor.

Harry's decided, as of last week, that Malfoy is acting. His words are empty no
matter how he pretends to hate, his gestures there only to keep up appearances,
his expressions a mask he wears. Harry knows this because he knows what
Malfoy's hate feels like. He remembers the loathing all too well, that feel of
ice and ichor in Malfoy's eyes and the absolute sincerity in his voice. All of
that is missing now, no matter what anyone else might think.

Obviously something has happened. Something drastic enough to make Malfoy
rethink everything he's ever thought about.

Oh, he could be playing a game, of course. Something to throw Harry off, to
make him doubt and mistrust so that the son of Voldemort's most powerful Death
Eater can help pull off some devious plan. But Malfoy really isn't the best
choice for a plan like that: he's too impatient, far too interested in the end
result and the potential gains it offers rather than the careful application of
each step. Harry's often surprised that Malfoy is as good at potions as he is,
since that's a discipline that one has to love for its own sake, not just for
the end results.

No, Harry's pretty sure that if there is some kind of game going on,
it's nothing Malfoy's aware of. Or maybe it's that Malfoy isn't playing with
him, Harry. Something has made Malfoy change almost as fundamentally as Harry's
changed�he can see it every time he looks at Malfoy, whether or not he's
wearing his sneering mask. There's something quietly desperate about him, a
kind of muffled screaming that makes Harry's stomach twist. It reminds him of
the small animals Dudley used to torture, the way they'd look when they were
cornered and knew it.

It doesn't take a leap of genius to figure out what's the mostly likely thing
cornering Malfoy. Why, though, that takes more information than Harry
has to try and piece together.

Behind him, Dean starts muttering under his breath. It's not a loud sound, but
since it's almost time for class to end, it shoves him out of his
contemplation. Bugger. Sighing, Harry stares at the random lines he's drawn
onto his parchment, wrestling with his thoughts in a way that's become all too
familiar. He's made himself a promise. No more interactions�particularly uninvited
interactions�unless someone's life is at stake. Unless he has no choice. Malfoy's
life is not at stake, no matter how brittle he's started looking in the past
week, and Harry certainly has a choice. He isn't going to get involved. There's
no reason for him to get involved!

Absolutely none.

And when Malfoy makes a big production at lunch about how he's got to go to
lake and fetch something for the absent Snape, Harry has no reason to mutter
something to Hermione and follow.

He wishes �no reason' would actually stop him.

Malfoy's already at the edge of the lake by the time Harry catches sight of
him. There's a healthy distance between them, enough that Malfoy probably
isn't going to notice he's being followed, though Harry isn't sure. He isn't
sure Malfoy won't notice�and he isn't sure he doesn't want to be
noticed. Heading towards a hillock that looks like it might offer him some
screening, Harry studies Malfoy. He knows that boys aren't supposed to be
interested in things like clothes or even aware that different sets of them
exist, but Harry's become very good at picking things up from someone's attire.
Malfoy is always immaculate, attention to his appearance going far beyond
fussy, the way Pavarti is, and into obsession. Malfoy has to look good.
He must always sit up straight, his posture perfect, his robes pristine, every
gesture controlled. There's a practiced feel to his movements that he never
loses except when he's flying�and sometimes not even then. It's as if he's
spent his whole life containing himself, moving his body into patterns he's
been taught, instead of where his limbs take him.

That's all gone, now. Malfoy is slumped, head down so that his straight blond
hair falls into his eyes. The hem of his robes are ragged near his left leg, as
if he'd torn them and not immediately had it fixed, and Harry remembers that there'd
been a spot of something on Malfoy's tie before he left the great hall.

All of these things are tiny, insignificant details that Harry's pretty sure no
one else would have cared about, even if they'd noticed. To Harry, though,
after several weeks of compulsively watching Malfoy, these are incredibly
significant.

Significant enough that Harry slips from his hiding place without really
thinking about it, falling into step beside Malfoy.

"I'm looking for a weed. You'll help. I can't remember the name, just that
it has purple edges and white flowers when it's blooming, and it should be
blooming around now."

It's not �hello, how are you', but it's not �get away from me, Potty', either,
so Harry thinks that this is a good thing. "Okay. It's supposed to be by
the lake?"

Malfoy nods. He's careful not to look anywhere near Harry, but his body has
angled slightly to his right anyway. "Yes. Professor Snape says that it
comes out the most in autumn, when it's humid, but not actually raining."

That certainly describes this particular September day, the air thick with wet
not yet condensed into droplets. It's cool, too, and Harry is glad his robes
are layered and that Mrs. Weasley took him shopping over the summer. His jumper
is very warm.

Malfoy, he notices, is shivering slightly. His hands are clenched into loose
fists and there is something white over the first knuckle�a scar, maybe? It
doesn't look new, but Harry's pretty sure it wasn't there last term. He has a
sudden urge to take Malfoy's hands between his own and rub them warm to see if
they'll pink up or stay that pale, almost albino color; he ignores it.

"I don't see any here," Harry says after searching for a while. To be
honest, he's not looking very closely but Malfoy�surprisingly�is looking hard
enough that Harry doesn't feel guilty. Well, much. And just why is Malfoy doing
as he's told, anyway, when there are lackeys about to do the work for him?

"Professor Snape said to start by the lake, but that it could be anywhere
between here or the edge of the forest." Malfoy hesitates�Harry can feel
it, the air trembling around them both�and darts a glance out of the corner of
his eye. If Harry hadn't been looking, he's certain he would have missed it,
since Malfoy's pivot towards the forest comes instantly afterwards. But he did
see it. He knows he did. It takes Harry a full second to restart his body and
catch up, and by then, Malfoy is speaking again. "Professor Snape said
that ... I can trust you."

There's something so incredibly worn down in Malfoy's voice that Harry doesn't
bother with the surprised spluttering. He's not surprised. "You can,"
he says instead, because it's true. For all he's gone quiet and thoughtful,
he's still a Gryffindor.

Malfoy's eyes move, again so fast that Harry almost misses it, then focuses on
the ground before them and nods. "He says I should talk to you. He's
not�he doesn't like mentoring very much." A hint of humor, as deprecating
as Harry remembers but with a thread of affection that's stunning to hear,
colors Malfoy's words: "He doesn't really like children at all. He's a
good teacher, and better still at maintaining order, but give him something
worse than a romance gone rotten and he stammers more than Longbottom."

Harry can picture that very easily and snickers. He doesn't like Snape.
He probably never will and he knows how mutual it is, but this past summer he's
finally learned to respect Snape, for both what his is and what he does. That's
helped some of the animosity between them to ease�though Harry is amused to
learn just how much Snape respects him, in turn. He wouldn't have sent Malfoy
to him, otherwise. "I think Professor McGonagall does better that way, but
not by much."

The forest looms before them now, shadows chasing each other at their heels. As
they walk, Malfoy moves closer and closer to Harry. Not close enough to
accidentally touch, but if Harry were to swing his arm a little, he could.
Harry thinks about edging away, putting more distance between them, but
doesn't. He had forgotten that he's got a good two or three inches on Malfoy's
height, now�finally�and that amuses him. It looks almost like ...

The soft, wet sound of Malfoy swallowing distracts Harry. Malfoy's throat is
very pale, the Adam's apple creating odd shadows over the fragile skin.
"You've been staring at me, Potter. Every chance you get."

"You're pretty." Harry has no idea where those words come
from, but the way they make Malfoy start and swing around to look at him for
the first time are worth it. He stops, waiting for Malfoy to do something, then
shrugs. "And I stare at just about everybody now."

The barest memory of Malfoy's customary smirk passes over his lips. "I
noticed. But you, ah." The remembered confidence vanishes again, too weak
to be sustained, and Malfoy bits his lip. It makes him look absurdly young and
innocent�Harry isn't sure if he's either. All he knows is that this Malfoy is
without masks and sincere. "But it's me you watch the most. It's me
you�see."

See? Harry doesn't know what he sees, not really, because seeing implies
more action, more giving of himself, than he wants. He just watches, sitting in
the background, passively observing life as it tumbles around him. He isn't�he
doesn't�

Malfoy's eyes aren't meeting his.

That makes Harry pause. He prides himself on his new observational skills,
doesn't he? It's an effort, but he stops automatically reacting, instantly
defensive, and looks. Sees the way Malfoy's body is tense, pointed chin
thrust out slightly. Malfoy's voice is level, but Harry thinks there was maybe
a note of challenge�no, of pleading? Turning that over in his mind,
Harry studies the down-turned face, long lashes hiding the normally direct gaze
that Harry realizes then that he almost misses.

If this is a challenge, it's a kind that Malfoy's never directed at him before.

"Yeah," Harry says eventually. "I see."

Nodding, Malfoy lets the faint hints of aggression slip from his body. He's
almost slumping now, posture ruined into the kind of slouch that only a
depressed Neville can truly achieve, and he's still angled towards Harry
instead of away. Well, he is for a moment, anyway, before he drops down in
between two roots at the bottom of a tree, wound so that the perfect niche for
sitting is created. He glances up at Harry and then pointedly shifts over until
there's enough space for another boy.

If those boys don't mind touching.

Harry is out of his depth right now, but that usually goads him into daring. He
considers other options only briefly before sitting next to Malfoy, thighs and
shoulders touching. "Malfoy?"

"Don't ... don't call me that." The shudder is severe, jerky enough
that there's no way that it's faked. "Draco. My name is Draco. I'd say it
was a pleasure, but I suppose it's a bit late for that."

"Okay. Draco." Harry offers a lopsided smile. "That sounds
really weird, you know."

"Don't expect me to call you �Harry' now. I can't get out of the habit of
insulting you."

Harry nods, because there isn't anything else to say. Malfoy�Draco�is sitting
next to him, leaning against a surprisingly comfortable tree, and warning him
that he will not be calling Harry by his given name, for fear of blowing his
cover. After being told by Snape to talk to Harry, which means that Dumbledore
knows and�several things click into place with a suddenness that leaves Harry
feeling very stupid.

"You met him, of course," he says softly.

Mal�Draco�shudders again, clasping his hands together in his lap until the
knuckles turn white. "You should be saying �I told you so'. Or otherwise
rubbing my nose in it."

"Nah. Ron'll do that for both of us, when you finally tell him." It's
oblique reassurance, but since Draco isn't leaping to his feet and tossing
hexes to keep Harry quiet, he figures it works. "Er. That is, I'm assuming
you aren't playing double-agent?"

"No. Oh, no." Draco's laugh is bitter, his finger's tightening around
each other even more until his knuckles are almost creaking. He stiffens when
Harry reaches out and touches him, but submits easily as his hands are taken
and kneaded, fingers going limp again Harry's. "No, after careful
consideration I've decided that spying is beneath me. My... reaction
convinced me of that, long before Snape tried his hand."

"Right, then." Harry's mind is racing. He's discovered that he is a
good thinker when he stops being a prat, and the answer comes easily enough.
"When's your birthday?"

"Early January." Draco seems to be made of layers of tension because
as Harry rubs and then starts absently massaging Draco's hands, he can feel yet
more stress leave the body beside him. Draco's almost leaning on him now, too
lost in his own thoughts to realize it. Harry's very surprised to discover he
likes it. "I'm supposed to go home for Christmas and not return."

Draco's fingers�so easy for him to be �Draco', all of a sudden�are long and
bony. The heavy ring on his middle finger slips whenever Harry touches it, just
a little too big. That seems fitting, oddly. The tips of his fingers are
callused from playing Quidditch, as are the palms. There are several scars on
his right hand, though none on his left. One feels like a knife wound and Harry
hates that he thinks he knows what that feels like. The Dursley's had set him
to chopping long before his body was coordinated enough to handle the large
knife Aunt Petunia had insisted he use. Harry traces over each wandering path,
Draco's left hand resting on his thigh, waiting its turn.

"You aren't, of course," he says, following blue veins under very
fragile skin. Draco shivers as his inner wrist is examined but makes no
objections. "Snape likes you, and Dumbledore would never turn you
away."

"Snape says he'll find an excuse to keep me here over the holidays,"
Draco agrees. "And if he can't, Dumbledore will hide me away until after
I'm seventeen. They can't legally touch me, then."

Harry smiles, because he understands just how futile that thin, legal
protection is. Voldemort plays by no one's rules, while Dumbledore is hampered
by trying to be at least mostly legal. But he has no doubts that, push to
shove, Dumbledore will do whatever is necessary to protect Draco.

Harry's no longer quite so enamored with Dumbledore. He still cares for him
greatly and trusts him to lead the Order�but Harry doesn't do blind faith
anymore. Not for anyone. Thinking about that always makes him bitter and a
little sad, remembering why he's purposefully distanced himself from the
adults he used to trust implicitly. He doesn't like to, so he looks down at the
hand resting in his own. Draco's right hand is placed in his lap, the left
picked up for the same treatment. There aren't any scars on this one, and the
calluses are smaller, the skin softer. There's another ring, the metal twisting
in a delicate circle as it rests snugly against Draco's skin, which smells
faintly of the potion they'd been making in class yesterday with their
substitute, Professor Decant.

"I'm not going to tell you what happened," Draco announces suddenly.
"Maybe not ever."

Harry lays his palm flat against Draco's, weaving their fingers together. His
skin�not as dark as some�is very brown against Draco's pallor, each digit
slightly thicker and larger. The nails aren't quite as well taken care of, but
Harry can see ragged tips where a nail's been bitten nearly to the quick. At
least he doesn't do that, he thinks. Around them, the light is dying. They're
missing classes and probably worrying their friends�well, Harry's friends�sick,
but he knows no one will come looking for him until after suppertime.
Dumbledore allows him this much freedom, if he uses it sparingly. "Did I
ask you to tell me?"

There's something arch about his voice. The tone is assured and even
amused and nothing like how Harry's voice should sound like. But it
makes Draco look at him again, eyes far too close and far too wide, his body
limp against Harry's, and it makes Draco's voice go breathy: "No. You
didn't."

"Well, then. Nothing to worry about."
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All the Proud Shall Be