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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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Halloween is one of Harry�s favorite holidays. Better than Christmas, because no matter how much he enjoys the gifts and the love of the Weasley�s and Hermione, Halloween is a holiday that�s for wizards. Muggles have, over the years, discovered some of the details�like carving pumpkins�but for the most part, muggles view the holiday as something fairly silly and frivolous.

To wizards, Halloween is a celebration of magic itself. Halloween is when the
best parties are, when people are most festive, even without the promise of
presents. Harry loves this holiday, looking forward to it eagerly every year:
which decorations will be kept from previous years and which new creations will
awe them, the spectacular feast, and the fun of sharing something that Harry
cannot fathom being tainted. It�s as pure a moment as Harry has left and as the
weeks grow colder and darker, Harry hangs onto the promise of Halloween to get
him through his days.

He should have known better.

The hallways are deserted despite the remaining echoes of students running to
classes. He knows Draco is waiting for him�lurking or stalking him, according
to Harry�s friends, and it�s increasingly difficult not to correct them�but
Harry cannot move. �We have to what?�

�I�m very sorry, Harry.� Dumbledore looks sorry, too, his mustache and beard
droopier than usual, the twinkle gone from his eyes. His skin has lost the
pleasantly pink look that had sustained Harry for five years, now almost grey
with weariness and upset. �There is too much significance in the holiday for
Voldemort to overlook it.�

�So I have to go,� Harry repeats dumbly. �And miss the party.�

�I do hope that we may return beforehand. The house elves have promised a
special treat this year.�

It�s a paltry stab at Dumbledore�s usual whimsy, but instead of reassuring
Harry�as it�s clearly designed to�it makes him look up sharply, eyes meeting
Dumbledore�s without any hesitation. It�s the first time he�s done so in weeks
and it hurts. �Don�t,� Harry says, voice flat and hard. �Don�t treat me like
I�m just a sixteen year old boy after telling me I�ve got to do what even you
can�t. Pick one, Professor.�

Dumbledore inclines his head gravely. He�s nothing but an old man, anymore, and
Harry hates that. Not him, still, thankfully�but no one enjoys having
their illusions destroyed, their statues on pedestals come to disappointing
life. Harry at least understands what is happening and knows better than to
blame Dumbledore for it. Or at least reminds himself that he does. But he can�t
help but see how tired Dumbledore is. Being a general agrees with him about as
well as being a soldier agrees with Harry: the same cracks and worn places are
easy enough for Harry to see. It�s enough to keep some kind of solidarity
between them, the only two of the Order who understand just how painful this
will really be. Harry clings to that as he receives his marching orders:

�Please meet me at the front doors, Saturday morning, nine o�clock sharp. And
bring your cloak.�

There are no admonishments to go to class, something Harry is grateful for. He
doesn�t want to go to class. He remembers the first month of school with
desperate longing, when he�d been able to just turn everything off. To lock
himself inside his own mind, floating through his days as an uncaring observer,
allowing life to pull him as it wanted, Harry silent and still. All that
wonderful, mind-saving ability to just let himself go�is gone.

Oh, he�s still not angry the same way he was last year; he knows how futile
that rage is, and how dangerous it can be. But he�s still angry. All the
looks and whispers from the past few weeks have already set him to boiling, and
this�this is the final straw. Even Dumbledore, who knows he is just a stupid
little boy, is trusting him with things Harry can�t fathom.

It makes him furious, anger swirling into a rage that leaves him panting in the
middle of the hallway. His fists clench, digging nails into half-healed scars
until they bleed again. He�s trembling, face flushed and growing damp as he
struggles not to give in to the urge beating against his insides. He wants to
throw things, kick walls, shout and scream�and hurt things. People. Not
just specific people, that at least he could understand. No, Harry just wants
to hurt. It doesn�t matter who�Ron is just as much a target as some random
student that asks him to pass the butter over supper�so long as there�s that
sharp cry of pain, the tang of sweat turning acrid as fear saturates it ...

Harry remains exactly where he is, shivering. This isn�t the first time he�s
had these rages, although this is the worst of them. He has to get
control over himself, he thinks. The saner part of him grateful that this is a
relatively unused part of the castle. But relatively unused doesn�t mean
�empty� and if anyone comes near him before he gets some control�it�ll be bad,
he knows. Very bad.

He whirls when something touches his shoulder, fists up, face drawn into an
ugly snarl�which immediately melts�and reforms into a feral grin. �Draco.
Sorry.�

�Yes. You really are, aren�t you.�

The drawled words are suffused with contempt. There�s no audience around them,
but Draco�s knowing eyes warn that there are some close by, and they need to
pretend. Or maybe it�s just that he understands Harry needs the mock
argument. Harry still doesn�t know all the twists and turns in Draco�s brain�he
certainly can�t account for the hint of pleased pride in muted grey eyes. He
just knows it�s there and thrills under it.

�Fortunately for you,� Draco continues, �I�m going to offer you a free pass.�

�Yeah?� Harry shoves his anger into the roles they�ve worked on, the moves
they�ve practiced until they�re instinctive. It�s messy, hate and the need to
break spilling over the edges so that Harry has to force himself not to move.
Not yet, anyway�because it may be messy, but it�s working. Draco is a
target Harry can rage it, because Draco understands. And Draco will fight back.
�And why the hell should I take anything from a sycophant like you, Malfoy? �

Draco�s sneer is the picture of scorn, but Harry can see dancing grey eyes
shade towards blue and the way Draco�s body is tense with anticipation.
�Racing,� Draco pronounces. �The pitch is empty, this time of day.�

Harry smirks, and takes the tiniest of steps forward. Draco holds his ground,
but his body still manages to shrink just the tiniest amounts�enough that Harry
feels even more the predator without waving a red flag before his face. Almost,
Harry wants to laugh at how well they mesh together. �You just don�t want
anyone to see when I kick your arse, Malfoy. So what do I get, when I win?�

�When you win, Potter? Your ego is the size of Hagrid�s precious
pumpkins and I�m going to take a great deal of pleasure in cutting it into
itty, squashable bits.�

Harry snarls. �You�ve never beaten me on the pitch, Malfoy, not in six bloody
years of you using every dirty trick you know of.� His grin is feral and dark,
stretching across his face uncomfortably; Harry relishes ever millimeter of it.
�This won�t be any different, you arrogant prat. Now state the sodding terms.�

�Winner chooses a forfeit. Any forfeit.� Draco�s voice is arch and coy,
perfectly comfortable in the face of Harry�s anger. �First race,� Draco says,
�starts now.�

Draco laughs as he wheels, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he dashes
down the hall. For a precious few seconds, Harry remains still. He�s afraid
he�ll try to tackle Draco instead of just race him to the shed�and anyway, it�s
an amazing thing to watch Draco run with happiness lighting his steps. A beautiful
thing. If Harry were in a better frame of mind... but he isn�t, body thrumming
to go, to not let the arrogant git get too far away from him, to give in to the
driving storm underneath his breastbone. So he leans forward and just lets
himself go. Adrenaline adds extra speed as he gives chase, the anger throbbing
in time with his foot-falls as he dodges a stray student and a hissingly
startled Mrs. Norris. Harry ignores all of that, focusing on the fluttering
black robes that fill his vision.

He�s grateful�or at least, part of him is�that Draco�s gotten so very good at
reading Harry�s moods, lately. Harry doesn�t know how, but Draco always appears
right when Harry needs a distraction the most, often brushing Hermione�s and
Ron�s concern off with a well-placed jab that leaves Harry too angry�or too
amused�to continue sulking. If they�re alone, Draco uses words with devastating
accuracy, tearing Harry into little strips before inevitably going for more
physical methods of beguilement. Sometimes that means fighting, or racing.

Mostly, though, it means kissing. Lots, and lots of kissing. Whenever they can
spare a moment, sometimes Draco manufacturing them, if they haven�t
found the time otherwise. Harry never complains: Draco tastes like moonlight
and ocean and he can never, ever get enough of it.

It�s no surprise when Harry realizes he wants to do more than just beat
Draco. He wants to shove him up against that wall and channel his aggression
into something else besides. Something full of soft skin and gasping, aching
cries...

Sunlight slaps into his face, Draco�s body thirty yards ahead reminding him
that there is a race to win. When the Quidditch shed is in sight, Harry angles
himself towards the slightly muddier edges of the path they run down, purposefully
skidding and using the slide to gain a few precious moments. He�s level with
Draco now, both of them grinning as they give each other fiercely determined
looks. Harry knows that calling the two of them competitive is similar to
calling Hermione �smart�, and he�s grateful that they can still be
competitive without endangering their new relationship. He never feels
disappointment or upset when Draco wins�and he does, as often as Harry
does�just determination to do better the next time.

He doesn�t know what Draco thinks about their competitions, oddly. There�s too
much fierceness for Harry to tell what�s really going on in Draco�s mind.

Draco reaches the shed first, slamming the doors open as he grabs them to slow
his momentum. �Ha! First race to me,� Draco gloats, yanking one of the school
brooms off its peg and waving it at Harry�s face as Harry windmills to a stop.
�I suppose you�ll want best two out of three?�

�You said racing brooms, Draco.�

�Actually, I just said racing. You assumed.� Draco grins, tossing him
the broom he�d lifted off before taking one of his own. �School brooms, this
time. I don�t want another argument about who�s broom is better.�

�Because my Firebolt clearly is,� Harry immediately responds, hoping his grin
isn�t quite so savage. His chest is heaving from exertion, vision full of black
spots, but he doesn�t think he�s nearly as angry as he was before. Or at least,
he�s less likely to want to hurt something now and Harry�s very grateful
to realize that.

�Rubbish. My Nimbus can do circles around your inferior Firebolt, Potter.�
Who�s broom is better is an argument that started after their very first race,
spilling off the pitch and into their detention, stopping only when Professor
Snape shouted at them loudly enough that he woke half of Slytherin. Harry grins
at the memory, then dives out of the shed first, kicking off and hovering in
the air before Draco finishes closing the door. He needs this. �First one to
the goal and back,� he shouts and leans forward against his broom.

Wind howls around him, tearing at his robes, snatching gleefully at his glasses
and messing his hair even more than usual. He never feels as free as he does
when he�s on a broom, loosed from earthly concerns to go wherever he points the
shining handle. Even with the old, clunky school brooms that have a distressing
habit of sputtering or jerking suddenly, Harry has total confidence in his
skills. There�s nothing he can�t face when he�s in the air, nothing unexpected
that he can�t compensate for. The broom beneath him is an extension of his
body, controlled with instinctive need. Flying is intoxicating, the one pure
pleasure he has left�made even more intense by knowing that Draco is matching
him twist for turn for dive for feint, laughing as gleefully as he is.

It�s perfect, or as much as Harry ever wants. The only dance he knows he�ll
ever truly enjoy with the only partner who�s ever been able to come close to
challenging him this way. They curve around the goal posts, far closer than any
watcher would find comfortable, but that�s okay too. There are no professors to
watch and yell at him�not since after McGonagall�s chat with Madam Hooch�and
for a few hours, they can do the things neither of them ever did as children:
play.

They race three times�Draco wins only once, bringing their score, he claims, to
even�but they�re too busy darting around, teasing each other with words and
games, to try for a tie-breaker. As the shadows grows longer, Harry finally
relaxes into that place he can only reach with Draco�s aid, the place where he
doesn�t care. Not about what is happening, or might happen. He�s far too
busy grinning as Draco tries a feint that nearly ends up dumping him from his
broom, and then mock-glaring as he checks Draco�s body over for injuries.

Harry loves to do this, especially. He�s not fond of the surge of worry
and fear�but feeling Draco go utterly limp while Harry runs his hands wherever
he wants, Draco�s head lowered meekly as he�s lectured about hurting himself...
It makes Harry�s belly tighten and his mouth go dry. Sometimes he thinks Draco
tries the more death-defying moves just so Harry will touch him like
that�though Draco is careful to never repeat a move Harry�s expressly
forbidden.

The bell for supper comes as a shock to both of them. �Blast!� Draco says. �We
need to have one final race.�

A low, rumbling sound immediately follows the pronouncement.

Harry laughs, grateful that he can do so without the feeling of ground glass
tearing his throat. �Your stomach says we better not!� he teases. Draco is far
skinnier than Harry has ever imagined and reacts to missing meals very poorly.
And loudly.

�One more race, and we�ll still have time for supper,� Draco wheedles. He
circles around Harry, pouting as much as his pointed face allows�it�s surprisingly
effective, but then, Harry knows that he�s biased. �Pleeeeease?�

�You�re very pretty when you pretend to beg like that.� They�re so close that
their knees bump together and Harry can�t resist leaning forward for a short,
sweet kiss. Draco submits, as he always does, eagerly turning his face up and
opening his mouth so that Harry can touch and taste as he wills.

It occurs to Harry, sometimes, that Draco has never once initiated their
kisses. He asks, with touches, or subtle movements of his body that indicate
his willingness, or sometimes even verbally demands it�but it�s always Harry
who makes the first move. The arrangement strikes Harry as being off somehow,
but he never stops to wonder about it for long. He knows Draco enjoys this as
much as he does, and that�s all that really matters to him.

Draco�s cheeks are pink when they separate, and not because of the wind that
still puckishly taunts them. �From here to the end of the pitch, a straight
shot. C�mon, Potter. Surely you can�t stand to be tied with me.�

Actually, Harry thinks a tie is the perfect way to end their afternoon, but his
response is cut off by a shout from the stands. �Harry! Hey, Harry! Where�ve
you been?�

Ron. And, as Harry looks down, Seamus and Zacharias Smith. It�s a very odd
threesome as Harry knows that neither Gryffindor likes Smith very much�most
Gryffindor�s don�t, not after last year�s D.A. classes. Harry wants ask Draco
about it, since he understands people and their interactions far better than
Harry ever will, but Draco�s already brushing his fingers against Harry�s in
silent apology and shooting off towards the shed to put his broom away.

�What on earth were you doing with him?� Ron demands as soon as Harry
comes to a hover near them. �I mean, I know McGonagall said that you were to be
left alone, but why does he get special privileges, too?�

Ron�s jealousy of Harry changed over the summer, resentment and relief mixing
fairly evenly until they canceled each other out. Harry is extremely grateful
for that, but it doesn�t stop Ron from being jealous of other people and
how they relate to Harry�and Draco�s always been a very sore spot. Harry�s
convinced Draco to stop targeting Ron unless he really needs the kind of
explosion Ron�s so good at, but the two of them do not like each other
and Harry has no illusions of them ever declaring bosom friendship, for his
sake or any other.

Harry�s bad mood returns, a headache forming at the base of his skull that
leaves him irritable and waspish . He wishes he could find Draco and beg
another massage. Or just find Draco, period. At least he doesn�t feel like
hurting anything any longer, and relief keeps him from snapping. Well, snapping
too much. �Who says he isn�t going to get into trouble?�

�Not if Snape catches him, he won�t,� Zacharias predicts darkly. �What were you
doing out here with him? And why�d you disappear like that, anyway? I thought
you were going to help me with Charms today.�

�Sorry,� Harry winces. He hates sharing advanced charms with Hufflepuffs,
because Flitwick believes that having students teach other students is a good
way to really learn. Harry�s partner is inevitably Zacharias. Probably because
Zacharias survives by the skin of his teeth and Harry is actually pretty good
at charms. �Something came up.�

Three faces immediately look grave. �Not another attack?� Seamus asks.

�No. Just bad news.� He can�t stand to see the speculation in their eyes or the
way they look at him as if he is the sun just waiting to rise. Even Ron, who
bloody well knows better. �Needed to get away for a while, that�s all. Who�d
you get paired up with, Zach?�

�Never mind that,� Ron tells him impatiently. �What was Malfoy doing here?�

It�s not an attack on Draco. Harry knows that�but he still bristles
defensively, his voice growing sharp and cold. �No idea. He was already flying
when I got here.� The lies come easily now. Both of them are practiced enough
to build on what the other says with few cues; Harry wishes Draco were still
here to help build the story he wants nothing more than to vehemently deny.

�And our Harry can�t resist a challenge when Malfoy�s about.� Happy, affable
Seamus is always good at deflecting tensions, slinging an arm around Harry�s
shoulder as he dismounts from his broom and starts walking back to the shed.
�What was it this time, hey? Mid-air wrestling?�

Harry spares a single thought to worry what they might or might not have seen,
then ignores it. He can�t do anything about it and worrying will only make him
more nervous. �Racing. He thinks that I�m cheating just because I�m a better
flyer than he is.�

�Ah, so that�s why you were on school brooms! The little snot.� Seamus grins,
proud of his deduction and gives Harry a one-armed hug around the neck. �And
you beat him, didn�t you?�

�Course I did. Twice, even.� His face hurts when he grins, throat closing so
it�s an effort to make himself speak. �Git challenged me to best two out of
three. Like that�d help him.�

�You won twice, so that means he won once.� Zacharias takes the broom from
Harry when they reach the shed, shelving it neatly. Zacharias is a strange
person. He likes to spend time with Harry as much as he possibly can, often
turning up at odd moments with a greeting that isn�t quite casual enough to be
truly cheerful, tagging along despite the cold fronts drifting his way. It�s
all very much like Peter Pettigrew, which is why Harry is trying to smile, to
be nice and not say something awful, when Zacharias says, �He cheated, didn�t
he?�

The accusation is so unexpected that Harry reacts without thinking. �D�Malfoy
really can fly,� he snaps, choking back the phrase you land-bound
arse, �and no one�s so bloody good they can�t be beaten, not even�.�

Not even the Great Harry Potter, whom Harry has yet to meet and really
doesn�t want to, he thinks. He doesn�t say it, though. Three astonished faces
are staring at him, and Harry doesn�t want that astonishment to turn into
something else.

So he takes a deep breath, walking into the thin sunshine and forcing his mouth
into a smirk. �Anyway, I let him win. I like seeing him think he�s got a chance
before I show him who�s really the best flyer at Hogwarts.�

�And beyond!� Seamus crows. Arm once again around Harry�s shoulders, he steers
them into the Great Hall where dinner is just about to start.

Harry intends to grab a little food and sneak back to his room, but Seamus
isn�t letting him go. So he sits, and curses the fact that Seamus is
left-handed and can eat while gripping Harry�s arm. The few times Seamus is
forced to let him go, Hermione is there, chattering about today�s lessons and
all the things Harry has to know, glaring so strongly whenever Harry tries to
twitch away that he gives up. If she and Seamus are distracted, then it�s
Neville who demands Harry�s attention with quiet, earnest questions: about the
curses they just learned, or something that�s happened that morning. Harry has
to answer Neville, compelled by a curious mixture of pity and jealousy and true
fondness that he hasn�t been able to shake all term. He knows Neville doesn�t
understand why Harry acts so differently, but apparently Neville�s not above
using it to get what he wants. After him is Ginny, grabbing onto his arm when
Harry finally gets sick of it all, holding him the way she never would have
back when she had a crush on him, talking so quickly that individual words are
impossible to understand.

Any movement Harry makes is matched and bested by whichever Gryffindor is
closest, pinning him back into his seat. The barrage of questions and demanded
answers is constant, hands far too familiar on his body to actually pull
him back the one time he makes a physical break for it. Food is shoveled onto
his plate until it�s nearly overflowing. Even Lavender joins in long enough to
frown and mention that he hasn�t been eating well, lately, and he�ll finish
every bit of food on his plate or she�ll hex him to the table. She sounds
exactly like Mrs. Weasley and Harry finds himself immediately loading up a
fork, surprised when his shepherd�s pie doesn�t curdle in his stomach, the way
he�d expected it to.

Harry waits for the anger to surface again, prompting him to do something mean
and hurtful just so he can stomp back to his dorm�but it never happens. He can
feel it simmering inside him, waiting, but not affecting him. There�s too much
genuine concern tempered with affection on the faces of his friends for him to
be angry... and really, it feels good to be focused on like this, even though
Hermione looks fierce enough to make an eagle whimper with jealousy.

He�s not sure what�s happened today, particularly, for them to act like this.
Oh, he was angry and upset, but that�s becoming less unusual as the weeks go
by. Whatever the reason, as Harry�s affectionately bullied and taunted into
finally relaxing, he can�t really mind it, much. It�s nice. It�s normal,
just relaxing with his friends, and he hasn�t had that in a while.

He can�t help glancing over at Draco as dessert appears, everyone distracted
just long enough as they search for their preferred dishes. Draco meets his
gaze. He�s sneering, of course, mouthing out promises of retribution the next
time they meet�but his eyes are a soft kitten-grey, full of a contented
pleasure. Draco knows what Harry�s mates are doing, of course. He probably figured
it out back on the pitch, ages before Harry did�but there�s no trace of
anything but approval for his housemates� actions. Well, approval and maybe a
little bit of jealousy. He seems to be throwing Seamus, who doesn�t let go of
Harry for long, diamond hard glares that fairly scream of possessiveness.

Not that anyone besides Harry is going to know it for what it is, of course.

When Harry�s favorite type of custard is plunked down in front of him, the
entire bowl with its contents untouched, Harry smiles without reservation.

A short, whispered conversation to Harry�s left results in Seamus switching
seats with Ron so that Harry is sandwiched between him and Hermione. �It�s
really no fair,� Hermione says plainly, though very quietly. The art of private
conversations while in public is a skill all boarding school students learn
quickly. �You being part of the Order without us, I mean. You know all sorts of
things that we don�t.�

Harry�s rage resurfaces in a flash of red, infuriated to think that she means
she wants to risk her life and her academic career the way he is, that
she wants to be forced into things she isn�t ready for�but her gaze is sad and
Ron�s hand is large and heavy against his forearm, and Harry reminds himself
that he�s being an idiot.

Of course they want to know what�s going on; they�re young and inquisitive and
they�ve both been involved since the very beginning. Pushing them away now is
insulting, and anyway, that�s not what Hermione is talking about. She doesn�t
want to know because she is being inquisitive, like this elaborate school
problem. She wants to know because she�s his friend. Because ...

Harry flushes, ducking his head as the real reason occurs to him. He�s ashamed
that he even for a moment considered she meant that. It�s unworthy of
her and Ron, and awful of him.

He bites his lip, looking down at his plate. �I�m sorry.�

�No, you aren�t,� Ron says, his grin lopsided and charming. He starts attacking
his treacle again, adding, �But that�s okay. We forgive you.�

�Will you please let us help?� Hermione continues. It�s obvious they�ve planned
this, or at least discussed it, and it leaves Harry feeling very queer to
realize they have the same kinds of discussions that he and Draco have. Harry
is not the collective student body of Hogwarts, and he doesn�t need the kind of
games he and Draco play, part manipulation, part confrontation. He knows
what�s going on, so he doesn�t need it.

Except, maybe he does.

Hermione takes his hand, curling her fingers against his. �I know there are
things you can�t tell us, and we�re, well not happy about it, but we
understand and we want to help, Harry. We want to help you.�

The memory of Draco�s voice instantly rises up: �I just hate that I can�t do
anything to help you!�

Harry�s anger is gone, now. It can�t stand up to friends he pushes away again
and again�who keep coming back to him. Friends who don�t expect the
world from him. Who just want Harry. Heat pricks his eyes and Harry shoves his
glasses up his nose roughly. �I�m sorry,� he repeats. �I don�t want to act like
this.�

�We get that, mate. But you�re hurting yourself most by ignoring us.� Ron�s
clearly been coached by Hermione, but he�s not just repeating what she�s told
him by rote. Ron believes this, or he wouldn�t be able to say it with
such conviction. �You don�t have give us details, but you could maybe let us
know something�s up instead of running off to brood and getting yourself all
worked up, yeah? Or going to pick fights with Malfoy.�

�What?� Oh, hell. He freezes, torn between the overwhelming desire to stop
lying. To tell them everything and how important Draco is to Harry�but he
can�t. He can�t do that until after January, when Draco is legal and supposedly
safe. It�s too many months away. �I don�t��

Ron�s snort ruffles his napkin. �Please, Harry. Every time you�re upset you
always go after Malfoy like he�s the bloody snitch.�

�Or he goes after you,� Hermione mutters, but quietly enough that Harry�s not
sure he hears her correctly. �Ron�s right, Harry,� she says, raising her voice
and distracting him with her earnest expression. �You really need to stop
fighting with Malfoy. It only gives you more detentions with him and that�s the
last thing you need right now. And Harry, please remember to talk to us? Even
if it�s just to say how horrible all of this is.�

Ron taps his chin thoughtfully. He�s focused on the table, but there�s a glint
of humor tugging along Ron�s facile mouth. �Or maybe,� he says deliberately,
�it�s the way Goyle goes after the last piece of toast in the mornings. He
nearly shreds it, you know, before he grabs the butter knife, and it�s pulp by
the time he finally eats it. Or maybe Hermione after the last copy of a book
needed for homework. Or��

�All right,� Harry laughs. He�s not happy, really, but between Draco
this afternoon and his friends this evening, he�s feeling almost good. Better,
at least, which counts for a lot. �All right, I get it. No more hiding when I�m
upset, okay? Or at least not much.�

Hermione�s nod is prim. �Good. I don�t like having to blackmail Professor
McGonagall.�

Harry�s jaw drops. �You what?�

�Well, you�d run off,� she shrugs, her tiny little smile extremely pleased,
�and I was worried you�d get in trouble.�

Even Ron looks slightly amazed. �I didn�t know you blackmailed her into
talking to us, Hermione, wow! What�d you�� Hermione gives him a look and
he instantly sighs heavily. Nothing gets past that look, as Harry and Ron well
know. �Oh, all right,� Ron says. �Anyway, Harry�up for some wizard�s chess
after dinner?�

�After you two finish your homework!�

Ron grimaces, but doesn�t miss a beat. �Right, I mean, after we�re done with
our homework?�

Harry laughs again, and can�t remember the last time he�s laughed quite this
much. �Sure. But how about exploding snap, instead? Neville, you got a new
set�wanna let us try it out?�

Drawing the other Gryffindors into the conversation works and Harry lets them
organize his evening with a smile. It�s loud and boisterous and half of him
misses the quiet of his solitary-but-for-Draco existence, while the rest of him
rejoices at the lack of strain or tension as he interacts with the others.
There�s no hidden need for the Boy Savior. Just Harry, Gryffindor sixth year.
It�s been so easy to lock himself into a world where only Draco understands
him, because Draco really does understand him best. But that doesn�t mean his
friends are clueless idiots, either. As bottles of butterbeer are handed out,
one game of exploding snap turning into many more, Harry lets go. For a
precious evening, he forgets about what�s to come and realizes that he can
be soldier and boy also, so long as he has friends like these to help him.

That thought and the remembered softness in Draco�s eyes become talismans to
help him sleep at night and keep him going as it grows ever closer to
Halloween.
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All the Proud Shall Be