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The Dove With Razor Claws	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 2335 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
Thank you again for all the reviews! This is the end of The Dove With Razor Claws. Thanks for reading along.
Chapter Five—Stormbreak
            Hermione had kept silent for a long time after Harry had told his friends an edited version of the talk with Dumbledore and the fight with Malfoy, but now, when Ron was proposing getting out a chess game and passing time until the detention, she burst out with, “You can’t keep doing this, Harry!”
            “Of course he can’t,” Ron agreed, and Hermione turned towards him, smiling. Harry had to snicker a little at how fast her smile disappeared when Ron added, “He needs to just beat Malfoy up once and for all. Not keep hesitating around the edges like this. It makes Malfoy think he can get away with this rubbish.”
            “That’s not what I meant, Ron.”
            “No, but it’s what I meant when I told Harry it had to end.” Ron began setting out chess pieces on the board, and nodded to Harry over them. “You’re going to do that, right, mate? Pound him so hard in the detention that he won’t come after you again?”
            Harry shut his eyes. He was trying to decide how he was going to end this. The pain when Malfoy had attacked him. The satisfaction of hitting him in the nose. Malfoy’s wide, panicked eyes when Harry had lured him close enough in Slughorn’s office to kiss him.
            The shameful burning in his own belly.
            “Mate?”
            Harry shuddered a little and opened his eyes, to find Hermione watching him with the same look of disapproval and Ron with the same expectant look. They didn’t know anything about what was going on in his head, Harry thought. They didn’t know he was actually attracted to Malfoy—or worried about being attracted. They thought he was the same person as before.
            Harry sat up. He was sick of this, he thought. Of fighting and running away and having Malfoy come back and try to do the same thing. He was going to end it, but not because of Dumbledore and what he had said about having regrets. Harry wouldn’t have regrets if only Malfoy was smart enough to not keep trying to sneak up on him.
            It would be worth it, if he could make Malfoy back off once and for all. Then he wouldn’t have to keep trying to fight him.
            “I am,” he said. “And it’s going to be more like Ron’s way than your way, Hermione.”
            Ignoring her despairing “Harry!”, he concentrated on the chess game with Ron. Maybe he could pick up some lessons in strategy that would help him when he was dealing with Malfoy.
            Of course he lost, because with Ron he always did, but he went to bed with the satisfaction still drumming in his head like Dudley’s footsteps down the stairs above the cupboard. He had made his decision, and Malfoy wouldn’t be able to escape it.
*
            Draco wondered why in the world he had been called here. It was lunch, he should have been in the Great Hall, and yet he stood in front of Snape’s desk with the professor staring at him as if he was a potion that kept blowing up despite the addition of a calming agent.
            Draco was expecting some kind of scolding for fighting Potter last night, but it seemed Snape was determined to do nothing but stare. And stare. And stare.
            Draco finally cracked. “What do you want, sir?” he burst out.
            Snape sat back and rubbed one finger down his nose. It was a nose Draco had sometimes envied him, because he knew Snape’s delicate sense of smell was one reason he was such a good Potions master and could tell in an instant if a wrong ingredient had entered a draught. But at the moment, all Draco could really think of was how like a hawk’s beak Snape’s nose was.
            “I want you to consider what you’re doing,” Snape said at last. “Strategy is one thing, wild flailing another.”
            “And I want you to explain what you’re talking about,” Draco snapped, ignoring the flare of dangerous light in Snape’s eyes. “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m trying to get back at Potter.”
            “For what?” Snape whispered, and stood up, stalking around the desk.
            Draco backed up, unnerved, before he could stop himself. Snape wasn’t supposed to do that. He wasn’t supposed to take Potter’s side. He was supposed to agree that Potter was insufferable and it was the duty of any good Slytherin to eliminate his pride if they could.
            But with his Head of House looming over him this way, Draco couldn’t come up with a single thing to say.
            Snape watched him with his head on one side for a moment, and then struck, unforgiving. “You want to get him back for making a fool of you? For not taking your hand in friendship your first year? For any of a number of other childish insults that a true Slytherin would have found a way to work past?”
            That stung. Draco straightened and said, “I didn’t see you ignoring him, sir, even when it would have been more diplomatic to do so.”
            Snape scoffed a little and said, “You may see that I have learned my lesson.” And it was true that Snape was snapping less at Potter in class, now that Draco thought of it. “You would be wise to do the same.” Snape turned towards his desk again.
            “None of this would have happened if he hadn’t smashed his mouth against mine,” Draco called at Snape’s back. “If he hadn’t tried to cast his stupid web spell.”
            Snape spun around, his body low and parallel to the floor, so unnerving that Draco hopped back before he could help himself. “And if you had not tried to clip the bristles from his broom,” Snape whispered in turn. “Remember that, Draco. Always remember that.”
            He stalked off to the back of his office. Draco decided that meant he was dismissed, but still backed cautiously to the door, his eyes on Snape, in case the professor decided that Draco wasn’t dismissed and he was being disrespectful.
            But no call like that came from Snape’s mouth. Draco found himself standing in the corridor again, fuming as his plans fell in ruins around him.
            Snape wanted Draco to leave Potter alone? Didn’t he see how impossible that was, when everyone else was ignoring Draco and his father was in prison and it was all Potter’s fault? If Potter hadn’t defeated the Dark Lord, then everything would have been fine, and Father would be free, and the Malfoys would be an honored family again, the way they should be.
            Draco clenched his hands into fists. The only way to fulfill his goals, avenge his father, and do what Snape suggested was to make Potter leave him alone permanently.
            And Draco thought the detention tonight would be his best chance.
*
            “Welcome to your detention, boys.”
            Harry glared at Dumbledore as he stepped into the Defense classroom. Malfoy was already waiting there, and so was Dumbledore, and no one else. Was Dumbledore going to supervise the detention, then?
            But the Headmaster gave a small nod and chuckle as though he had read Harry’s thoughts and been amused by the idea. “You’ll have a particular guardian as you begin working through your differences,” he said, and waved his wand. A string of sparkling green lights unwound from the tip and towards the ceiling. Harry stared, not recognizing the spell. It clustered near the top of the window that looked out into the lake. “Hogwarts itself will be watching you.”
            Malfoy was the first one to find his voice, which embarrassed Harry. He ought to have asked the question before bloody Malfoy could. “It’s a spell to give the school sentience?”
            “It has that already,” said Dumbledore cheerily. “Though not in the way we do, I suppose you could say. More like the life of a great tree, directed towards the roots and the sunlight more than what creatures live on it… But.” He clapped his hands briskly. “This is only asking it to pay more attention to you for a while.”
            Harry stared around. He had expected to find dirty cauldrons, buckets of washing water, quills and parchment set for them to write lines—he rubbed the back of his right hand in memory—something. Instead, the classroom was empty except for a pair of chairs in the middle of it, and no desks at all.
            “Sir?” he asked, turning around to stare at Dumbledore.
            “Thank you for reminding me, Harry,” said Dumbledore, and performed a complicated little maneuver with his wand. Harry’s wand flew out of his robe pocket and into Dumbledore’s grasp before Harry could even think of stopping it. The only comfort was that he saw the same thing happening with Malfoy’s wand. “Now. You can’t use magic against each other, and Hogwarts will stop you if you get violent.”
            “How?” Malfoy demanded in a snotty voice that made Harry long to punch him. Couldn’t some of the adults, at least, see how very punchable Malfoy was?
            “I’m not sure you want to see,” said Dumbledore, and his eyes glinted from behind his glasses. Malfoy fell silent.
            Dumbledore turned to Harry and shook his head a little. “I expect you to come out of this room with your differences resolved. The method you choose of resolving them makes no difference to me.” His voice was suddenly stern. “You can agree to ignore each other for the rest of the year. You can become friendly. You can discuss some of the forces driving your fights.” This time, his gaze rested unmistakably on Harry, who flushed in anger. Why did Dumbledore think it was all his fault when Malfoy had got hard, too? “Or you can talk about your childhoods and find common ground there. But these fights endanger you, the school, and the safety of other students if you start dueling each other in the corridors.”
            “I wouldn’t have done anything if he—” Harry began.
            “It wasn’t like I cast the web spell, Potter!”
            “I see it is time for me to withdraw,” said Dumbledore, and stepped out the door of the classroom with a faster movement than an old man should have been able to use.
            Harry nearly ran towards the door and hammered on it as it shut, but he saw the stones swell slightly along the sides, and knew Dumbledore or maybe Hogwarts wouldn’t let it open. He turned towards Malfoy instead, and let fly.
            “If you hadn’t pounced on me last night, we wouldn’t be here!”
            Malfoy had the nerve to swell up like a frog. “That’s stupid! Dumbledore assigned us the detention before then, remember?”
            “But he wouldn’t think there was anything to settle if you didn’t keep fighting me!” Harry’s hands closed into fists. He wanted to hit Malfoy. He wanted it so badly. But he was also a little worried about what Hogwarts might do to stop him. “If you could just leave me alone and go back to your fatherless existence—”
            Malfoy did rush him then, with a snarl. Harry got ready to grab his arm and trip him as he went by, something they’d practiced in the DA last year, but instead, the stones opened up beneath Malfoy and dropped him neatly into a small pit. Then they closed again around his waist, leaving him hanging and writhing there.
            Harry laughed. He bent over holding his stomach, it was so funny. Malfoy glared at him.
            “I saw your face,” he whispered. “It could have been you here as easily as me. You wanted to hit me.”
            “But I didn’t.” Harry sat down on one of the chairs, swinging his legs. Now that he thought about it, obeying Dumbledore might be more fun than disobeying him after all, especially if it made Malfoy react like that. “What do you think we ought to do? I think ignoring each other would be best.”
*
            Draco felt as though every part of him was on fire. His cheeks were the worst, but it had spread to other parts of him, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and tear the smile from Potter’s smugly laughing face.
            He couldn’t, though. He only had one arm above the level of the stone floor. The other was trapped down at his side, and he had no idea when Hogwarts would consent to release him.
            “I’m not going to ignore you,” he said. “You have to pay for what you said about my father.”
            Potter sighed and cupped his chin in his hand, staring ahead in a way that reminded Draco of his mother and the way she would deal with some boring dinner guest. It only increased the temptation to launch himself at Potter the moment he was free. “Yes, yes, Malfoy. And you have to pay for what you did to me during the past fortnight.” He cast Draco a glance that at least made Draco smile. It burned, too. No, Potter wasn’t going to leave him alone. “But I think you did.”
            Draco laughed. “No, you don’t. It’s not as though you’re any better about controlling yourself, Wonder Boy, or we wouldn’t be here.”
            “IF you could bloody well let it go.” Potter sat up and pointed one finger at him. “Did you think you were being funny?”
            “Well, yes,” said Draco, and rolled his eyes. Honestly, did Potter think that anyone would go around making a joke they didn’t find funny? Draco was almost more offended for what that said about a Slytherin’s sense of humor than any other stupid thing Potter had said to him.
            “You thought it was funny to imply I wasn’t normal?”
            Draco opened his mouth and blinked a bit. “I thought it was funny that you kissed me,” he said. “Your enemy.”
            Potter stood, and now he was the one who was stalking towards Draco. Draco had just started to get nervous about his prospects for defending himself when a neat little hole opened up under Potter’s ankle. Potter staggered down, and the floor snapped shut around his foot, too. Draco snickered.
            Potter seemed to have decided Hogwarts wasn’t worth paying attention to. “Being gay isn’t normal,” he whispered harshly.
            Draco just stared at him, blinking. “Why not?” he finally asked, when he had sought for a reason in his mind and found none. He had never heard anyone tell him gay wizards weren’t normal. They were just sort of there. There weren’t enough of them to make a fuss about. As long as they didn’t have the sort of scandalous affairs that would get anyone in trouble in Draco’s parents’ world, Draco didn’t think he would ever hear anyone mention their names disapprovingly.
            “Is this some crazy Muggle thing?” he added, when Potter stared at him with his breath puffing out and his face going some darker color than red.
*
            He made fun of you once before. He’s probably making fun of you now.
            Harry had to doubt it, though. The blankness on Malfoy’s face was too real. And the stone floor was easing around Malfoy now, drawing back and letting him scramble up. Malfoy swatted some dust from his robes and gave Harry a single haughty glance.
            Harry tugged instinctively on his trapped foot. It stayed right where it was. He grimaced and shook his head, standing taller so that he could look Malfoy in the eye if he came over.
            But Malfoy stayed right where he was, his gaze fastened on Harry. “Well?” he added. “Is it some crazy Muggle thing?”
            “You could stand to say Muggle with a little less disdain,” Harry told him.
            Malfoy snorted. “As if you would believe me if I did. But I’m interested in this. Why are you so convinced that it’s not normal?” He folded his arms.
            “Are you saying that you’re gay, then?” Harry didn’t want to have this conversation, and not just because he’d already had it with Dumbledore. Besides, Malfoy being gay would make his teasing make sense.
            “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”
            Harry snorted loud enough that Malfoy flinched back. Harry hoped he’d got some bogies on the git. “You must have thought about it. Your parents have probably arranged some marriage for you, right?”
            Malfoy tensed up so fast that he reminded Harry of some of Mrs. Figg’s cats when they got stepped on. “As if that would hold,” Malfoy said, biting off every word, “now that my father is in prison and no respectable family will associate with us.”
            Harry hadn’t thought of that, but he didn’t think it had to really concern him, either. “That was what he deserved, to be in prison. He’s a Death Eater, Malfoy.”
            “He was under the Imperius Curse—”
            Harry snorted again. And Hogwarts finally released the hold on his foot, and let Harry limp over to one of the chairs. He sat down and glared at Malfoy, who glared back, but didn’t move towards him.
            “Fine,” said Malfoy. “Let’s say that I never really believed the excuse. But now? What choice do you think he had, Potter? Father said you were at the Dark Lord’s resurrection.” Malfoy’s voice fell. “Do you think he was going to let my father go? Even if he’d tried to run, the Dark Lord would have made sure he slaughtered Mother and me in retaliation.”
            Harry hadn’t thought of that, either. It made him uncomfortable, and he hit out, the way he mostly had since Sirius’s death. “He could still have done something other than fighting for him and coming after me in the Ministry. Become a spy or something. Snape did that, you know.”
            Malfoy cocked his head. “Snape is good at Occlumency. Not everyone is. My father, for instance.”
            Harry shook his head. “You’re making excuses for a man who tortured and murdered people. I don’t want to listen to you.” He turned around and looked at the door, wondering what Hogwarts would count as “resolving their differences.” If he made the decision to ignore Malfoy for the rest of his life, would the school sense that and let him out?
            “And what if I said the same thing to you?”
            Harry turned around and stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
            “Professor Snape did that.” Malfoy’s head was proudly lifted, which infuriated Harry again. He should have been crawling, but here he was, acting like he had a right to some kind of pride. Harry stayed still, though, knowing what would happen if he charged Malfoy. “Tortured and killed people. Even if you say that he did it as part of his cover, he still did it. And I say that Father only went along with it this time because he knows what would have happened to Mother and me if he didn’t.”
            Harry was silent. He only knew Snape had been a spy because Dumbledore had told him so. Dumbledore had never said what was involved in that. Harry hadn’t particularly cared to ask.
            “And what about when Professor Snape was first a Death Eater?” Malfoy went on, in the same kind of relentless way he had flirted with Harry. “You have to be willing to get the Dark Mark. Was he only pretending then?”
            “I have no idea. I wasn’t alive.”
            “And neither was I when my father was in the first war.” Malfoy folded his arms and turned away. “It wasn’t something he discussed with me. So I have no idea what his motivations were.”
            Harry just stared at him, and wanted to shout that it wasn’t the same, that Snape had paid for his mistakes and Malfoy’s father never would. But he didn’t think he could change Malfoy’s mind that way.
            And now that he thought about it, he didn’t know what Snape had done when he was in disguise as a Death Eater. He hadn’t really wanted or cared to ask. Of course, he had still been thinking more about Sirius and the end of the war than what Dumbledore had told him about Snape.
            “So what are we going to do about getting out of here?” Malfoy finally asked, when some minutes had passed in silence and both of them had continued to sit there.
            Harry looked hopefully towards the door, but it was still sealed. He sighed. He suspected Dumbledore would say that, even if they respected each other a little more, they still hadn’t come to any agreement.
            “Look,” he said. “How about this. We could ask Dumbledore to cast a spell that would let Hogwarts punish us when one of us was about to attack the other. The way that it’s doing in this room.”
            Malfoy turned and looked at him incredulously. “And what about when we’re outside the school? At Quidditch practice, or in a game? Or when you go for one of your wanders through the Forbidden Forest that apparently happen yearly?”
            “That’s not—” Harry began, furious again.
            Malfoy shook his head, looking so smug that Harry once again wanted to strangle him. He only managed to restrain himself because he knew that Hogwarts would punish him if he didn’t. “See what I mean, Potter? I say one thing that isn’t even that insulting, and you start raging again?”
            Harry sat back down and pressed his wrists against his forehead. His chest felt like it was on fire. He wanted to breathe out all the fire on Malfoy and watch his face fucking melt.
            What happened to me? I used to be able to control myself better than this.
            But Harry knew. Sirius happened, and finding out that Dumbledore had been behind sending him to the Dursleys, and the end of the war—he couldn’t even be happy about that with the Death Eaters hanging around—and then Malfoy.
            A slow, new idea grew in Harry, as he sat there. He couldn’t bring Sirius back, or change anything about the way Voldemort died and that he had been a Horcrux. But the fiercest moment of satisfaction he had felt since the end of the war, perhaps the only one, was when he had forced Dumbledore to admit he’d done something wrong in sending Harry to Privet Drive and Harry could stay somewhere else this summer. When he’d solved one of those problems that made him feel horrible.
            He had thought he’d solved the problem with Malfoy, but they were here, so he hadn’t. And the fiery feeling in his chest made him feel more horrible, not less.
            He lifted his head and stared at Malfoy. Malfoy looked back at him, face wary and fingers clenched as if he still had his wand.
            “Look,” said Harry. “If we’re—if we’re going to talk about this, you can’t insult me, all right? Not my friends, either. And you can’t say anything about my godfather. Or Gryffindor House.”
            “And you can’t say anything about my father, or Slytherin, or my friends,” Malfoy specified at once.
            What friends? Harry badly wanted to say. I haven’t noticed that you had any since we came back to school.
            But that was exactly the sort of confrontation he was trying to avoid. He swallowed. “Okay.”
            “Okay,” Malfoy echoed, and moved towards him. Harry shifted his weight on the chair, but all Malfoy did was sit down on the other one and look at him expectantly.
            Harry sat up. I can do this. I’m a bloody hero of the wizarding world, and Dumbledore trusts me. As he should. He should have told me the truth about the Horcruxes and the prophecy a long time ago. I could have dealt with it. Not when he sprang it on me all of a sudden, but like this.
            And I can deal with this.
*
            Draco wondered what the hell was going on behind Potter’s eyes. The way his forehead was furrowed, he looked like he was planning murder again. Draco shifted his feet defensively, ready to stand up and run the other way if Potter looked like getting up.
            Yeah, Hogwarts would probably trap him again if he tried something, but this close, he might be able to punch Draco before that happened.
            On the other hand, Draco was tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being afraid. He had wanted to have a normal year when he came back to Hogwarts, and it was obvious that he wouldn’t get that if he kept fighting.
            Potter finally looked at him and then asked, “All right. Why did you keep teasing me when you had to know that I didn’t mean to kiss you?”
            “Because I wanted to tease you,” Draco mumbled. “And you looked horrified.” It really had been nothing more than that, although he knew that his parents would have been horrified themselves at such an admission. You never gave away information like that. And you never admitted to exercising such sadistic impulses, if that was what you were doing. That gave them a license to destroy you.
            With Potter, though, it might be different. He might listen to Draco instead of despising him the way a Slytherin opponent would for a confession like that. Maybe.
            “Why did you want to tease me if you don’t think being gay is weird, though?”
            Draco shook his head. “Why do you keep coming back to that? I would have teased a girl the same way, if we were enemies and she’d accidentally kissed me and looked horrified about it. It was just a weakness I could focus on.”
            Potter stared at him, a mottled flush creeping up his cheeks. “I don’t think you’re a very nice person, Malfoy,” he said clearly.
            Draco winced and writhed, embarrassed as he had never been when he was receiving praise from his Housemates for some successful irritation of Potter or Weasley. “No,” he said. ”But I wasn’t—I wasn’t raised to be nice to Gryffindors.”
            Potter rolled his eyes. “Blame it all on your parents, why don’t you.”
            “Well, you seem to have decided that kissing boys is weird and horrible,” Draco shot back. “Based on the way you were raised.” He doubted it could be anything else, and because of all the mistakes Potter had made when he was in the wizarding world, and the common knowledge he lacked, Draco really didn’t think he’d spent any time among proper people before the age of eleven.
            “It—I want to have a wife and family,” Potter said, carefully.
            “Fine.” Draco didn’t see the point of this. “Just because you kissed me three times doesn’t mean you can’t have a wife and family.”
            Potter stared at him again. “If I’m gay, it doesn’t.”
            “Then you’ll have a husband and a family.” Draco still didn’t see the point of this, and he thought it was about time he said so, while being careful to hold to the terms of the agreement they had so far. “Really, Potter, what the bloody hell are you going on about? If you want a wife, you can have one. If you don’t want to have one, then you don’t need to date me, either. Do you think that because you probably kissed a girl already, she’s the one you have to marry?”
            Potter’s face turned as red as a phoenix. Draco sat, and waited. And waited some more, while Potter squirmed and looked around as though he hoped Hogwarts would trap him and take him away this time.
            Finally, he mumbled, “The—the way I felt when I kissed a boy was different.”
            Draco nodded. “All right. Then maybe you’re gay or you like boys better. Or you need to go kiss others so you know.” It was weird to sit here talking about this, but then, Potter’s scruples were weird. “Really, Potter, what in the world is happening in that head of yours?”
*
            Harry put his head in his hands.
            What is happening? I don’t know.
            He had thought he would be teased. He had been sure that was why Malfoy had teased him, because he’d reacted to another boy that way. And then when Malfoy had fled after Harry forced him to confront how he felt about the kiss, Harry had thought it was for the same reason.
            But the way Malfoy had looked at him blankly and shaken his head as if he couldn’t imagine running away for that reason, or teasing Harry for that reason…
            Harry shuddered.
            Was it really all a mistake? Did I think he was teasing me and taunting me about the wrong thing?
            It seemed so. Of course, Malfoy could have been lying, but Harry had to admit that even Ron hadn’t seemed to act as though Harry was horrible or abnormal for kissing a boy. It was Malfoy that Ron couldn’t believe he might be attracted to.
            Harry, sitting there, realized he couldn’t even remember how he had started believing it was horrible to be gay. Sometimes Vernon or Petunia would talk about gay people in disgusted tones, but no more disgusted than they used to talk about people from other countries or people who weren’t white. And they had even sounded less excitable than they got about “freaks.”
            Am I just worrying about this because the Dursleys raised me?
            That was horrible. Harry had been sitting here for years congratulating himself on escaping from all the negative consequences of that kind of upbringing. He didn’t have a problem with magic, even though they had tried to make him have one. He didn’t have a problem with Dean or the other black people he knew at Hogwarts. He hadn’t thought that it was strange to have people from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons here during the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
            But he had to wonder, now, if he was less enlightened than he’d thought he was. More like the Dursleys than he thought he was.
            I refuse to be like them. I’m not going to be like them no matter what happens.
            Harry sat up with a gasp and shook his head. When he looked down, his hands were trembling, locked into fists in front of him. He slowly opened them and turned to look at Malfoy.
            Malfoy only sat and watched Harry with a cautious expression that suggested he thought Harry was going mental. Harry could understand that.
            It didn’t make him like Malfoy any better. Not…really. He still thought Malfoy was a pretty horrible person for taunting Ron and Hermione and going through all those plans just because he wanted to humiliate Harry.
            But it made him think differently about everything Malfoy had done in the past fortnight. Maybe it could be easier to find a truce after the war than before it.
            “Listen,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I have to know something else. What did you—why did you kiss me last night? In the fight outside Dumbledore’s office.”
            “I know very well when that was, Potter.” Malfoy had gone to a stiff sitting posture again, and kept his eyes carefully away from Harry’s. “And I did it because it was the only way I could think of to get you to stop hitting me.”
            “Why, though? You could have hit me, too.”
            “Because kissing me upset you so much,” Malfoy said bluntly, turning to face him. “I have to admit I don’t understand why, but it did. So that was why I did it.”
            Harry blinked. Malfoy spoke about it like it was a tactic in battle, nothing more. The way that Harry would have tried to stay near adults so Dudley couldn’t bully him or run away before he could get started.
            A way to win.
            That made a different kind of anger start stirring in Harry, though. “So you felt nothing,” he said.
            Malfoy’s face darkened. “I bloody well felt your fists slamming into my stomach, if that’s what you mean.”
            “That’s not what I meant,” Harry insisted. He stood up, but didn’t walk towards Malfoy, still wary of Hogwarts misunderstanding his intentions. “When I kissed you. You just felt anger and desperation to get me to stop and nothing else?”
            Malfoy sat frozen on his chair. Harry folded his arms. “Come on, I’ve been honest and you’ve been honest so far,” he said. “Or are you going to be the one to tell Dumbledore that you can’t change your mind about anything?”
*
            Just because you might be gay doesn’t mean I am.
            But Draco knew, as much as he had felt Potter’s hardness against his own, that Potter had felt the exact same thing from Draco against his stomach last night.
            Draco wished he could be away from that room. He wished he could do something other than sit there and wait for Potter to speak. But it became more and more obvious, as minutes passed, that Potter wasn’t going to speak. It was up to Draco, if he ever wanted to get out of this stupid room.
            He cleared his throat with enough harshness that Potter jumped. Draco was meanly glad to see that. He went on, slowly, “I felt something else. It was—I don’t know, Potter, I don’t know what to call it.” His anger broke out, and he stood up and paced away from Potter, staring at the walls and trying to figure out what exactly he was supposed to say to get himself out of this situation. “Is that what you wanted to hear? That I can’t give you any answers because I’m just as fucked up in the head as you are?”
            Potter shifted restlessly behind him. Draco was savoring the unusual sensation of freedom that had overcome him when he said the word “fucked,” and he went on with a little more confidence. “I think that I just wanted to win over you. That’s why I cast that spell at your broom, you know.”
            “I knew you had something to do with that!”
            Draco nearly swung around and snapped back, but he managed to clench his teeth and hold what he would have said in. Do you want to get out of here in a reasonable amount of time? he asked himself. Then go along with what he’s saying, for now at least. “Fine. I did. And then—I was teasing you because it affected you, the way I said. And then you forced that kiss on me, and I forced the one on you.” Draco could be fair, his father had taught him, when it served some purpose. “I’m not sure if I’m gay or not. But I felt something.”
            He peeked over his shoulder. He had thought the door might have swung open, but no such luck; it was still firmly shut. Draco sighed in aggravation and studied Potter. Was he going to listen to Draco and let him go?
            Apparently not. Potter was sitting bolt upright with his eyes fixed on Draco’s and a slightly dazed expression on his face. Then he stood up all the way.
            Draco folded his arms. “Remember what Hogwarts will do to you if you try to hit me.” It came out strained and high, and this time, he flushed in pure embarrassment, without the anger.
            “I’m not going to hit you,” Potter whispered. “I just want to try something.”
            He was coming closer. Draco tensed, but reminded himself, again, that the floor had trapped both of them when they were going to be violent. This wasn’t a punishment that would hurt Draco while ignoring Dumbledore’s favorite student, the way Draco had thought it might be at first.
            Potter came to a stop in front of him, and stared into his eyes. Draco stared back, and told himself that the stupid fluttering in his stomach came from nothing except the kind of tension that always happened when someone was close. It didn’t have anything to do with boy or girl or Gryffindor or Slytherin. Draco would have been just as wary of Greg or Pansy standing there, especially now.
            Potter reached out with one hand. He kept checking Draco’s eyes while he did it, so Draco didn’t think he was doing it for any sinister reason. But Draco remained tense even when Potter had touched his face without punching him, because he was turning Draco’s face towards him.
            And Draco could think of only one thing that was going to happen once his head was turned.
            “No,” he blurted out, tucking his chin into his shoulder and keeping his eyes turned to the wall.
            Potter paused, then pulled his hand back. “All right,” he said, his voice as blank as the wall. “Then I suppose we only need to make an agreement about how we’ll treat each other after this, and tell Dumbledore. And maybe the walls, too, so that the room will let us out,” he added, and Draco heard him turning around.
            Draco faced him again, mouth open. Potter didn’t look at him. He was already walking towards one of the chairs, and although it was always hard to tell something about someone’s expression from the back of their head, Draco thought he would look pretty stoic and accepting.
            “So that’s it?” Draco’s voice went high.
            Potter turned back to him, blinking. “Well, yeah. I reckon so. We just need to think about what we’ll say, and—”
            “Not that.” Draco waved his hand at the room, then at his lips. He knew he might sound ridiculous, but no more ridiculous than Potter with his Muggle notions, and anyway, he couldn’t have stopped himself now for a hundred Galleons. “You’re just giving up on kissing me after all that?”
*
            Harry stared with his mouth open. He might look utterly gormless, but better gormless than inconsistent, he thought, with a renewed surge of ferocity.
            “You told me to stop,” he said, speaking very slowly so Malfoy could get a word in edgewise if he wanted to protest. Malfoy didn’t protest, but he did glare. “So I did. If we’re really going to have a truce, then I’m not going to force a kiss on you when you don’t want it! That’s what I did when we were enemies!”
            “But you just gave up,” Malfoy continued, in a grave voice that suddenly turned into the high one again. “And now you’re standing there with your arms folded as it doesn’t even matter to you.” He moved a step closer, his eyes narrow, and he scanned Harry as if his toes would give a better answer than his hair. “It doesn’t matter to you, does it?”
            Harry let out a loud sigh. “You’re the one who doesn’t make sense. You said you didn’t want me to. And you’re probably not gay, even if I am, so I stopped. And you told me that I ought to go and kiss other boys, so that’s what I should do.” Harry winced at the thought of it. He didn’t know if he was any good at kisses that didn’t involve crying or punching. But he would try to be.
            Malfoy looked even more pissed than before, which made Harry start getting angry again in return. “But I expected you to protest,” Malfoy continued to rant. “Not just stand there and then walk away the first chance you got!”
            Harry shook his head slowly. “You’re a wonder, Malfoy, did you know that?”
            “Say I’m a wonderful kisser, then.” Malfoy was still red, but he sounded calmer. Harry stared at him askance, then shook his head again.
            “I can’t say that, because all our kisses were in the middle of fighting, and how am I supposed to know?”
            “You could know if you kissed a girl before this.” Malfoy moved closer. There was a look in his eye that frankly worried Harry.
            “That wasn’t very good at the time. She was crying—”
            “Harry Potter, skilled kisser,” Malfoy said, and his voice wasn’t cruel, but it was mocking enough that Harry bristled.
            “I don’t know, I might be!” Harry jutted his jaw out and glared at Malfoy. “Just because you think I might be a bad one…”
            “I think you’re not willing to defend your reputation,” Malfoy breathed, and he looked again at Harry’s toes as if they might tell him something, then ran an insulting gaze up his face to his mouth. “Do you think I believe you when you tell me that you just don’t have a lot of experience? You’re the Savior. People are falling over themselves to date you.”
            “That’s not—”
            “Maybe not boys,” Malfoy continued thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s one reason you don’t know if you’re gay, because you’ve held yourself back from experimenting with them.”
            “I never even thought of it until you cast that stupid spell!” Harry exclaimed. It was hard not to shout.
            “Ah, yes,” said Malfoy, and nodded. “Held back by the attitudes of your Muggle family. Right?”
            His eyes gleamed a challenge, and Harry leaned forwards and answered it before he thought about what he was doing. At least he wasn’t punching Malfoy in the stomach or throwing him on the ground this time.
            Malfoy gasped as Harry’s tongue found its way past his lips, then grunted. Harry immediately tried to pull back, but Malfoy, contrary idiot that he was, had his hands on Harry’s hips, and he was leaning on him now, making Harry sway. There was nothing behind him to hold onto, except the chair. He tried to grab hold of it, and they both fell to the floor with a crash.
            Harry worried for a moment that it would be like their fights had been, but Malfoy was reaching for him eagerly, and Harry didn’t feel Hogwarts trying to trap them. He gave in to the urge to run his hands up and down Malfoy’s sides the way Malfoy was doing with him, finding unexpected ticklish spots that made Malfoy leap and gasp again. Then he found the slender ridges of his ribs, and traced those, hesitantly.
            He wondered if a girl’s would feel different, more exciting. Once again, he didn’t really know.
            But his head was whirling, and his doubts melting away under the determined kiss Malfoy was giving him. His tongue was thicker and warmer than Harry remembered it, probing into Harry’s mouth at every other second, and then darting out again and touching his lips. Harry thought vaguely that this kiss was wet, too, and maybe he would always describe kisses that way, but the important thing, the important thing, was that he could feel his head whirling around and the feel of his stomach dropping all the way down to his toes.
            And the kiss, well, the kiss was good, too.
            They finally pulled back, and Malfoy lay there, panting, and looked up at him. Harry looked back. He wondered what he was supposed to say. Malfoy was the one who had found most of the words in this little meeting.
            “Well,” said Malfoy, expansively, at last.
            It seemed he wasn’t going to find them, either. Harry reached out and hesitantly took Malfoy’s hand. Malfoy jumped as if that had honestly shocked him, but didn’t try to pull back.
            There was a small click. Looking over his shoulder, Harry saw the door was open.
            He sat up, but didn’t pull his hand free. Malfoy followed him, his gaze questioning, looking Harry up and down again until Harry didn’t know his next move.
            Harry took a deep breath and nodded. “I think we’re going to try to be friends. And try—kissing. I don’t know if we’re ready for dating yet.”
            There. He had found some words. It was up to Malfoy to react to them.
*

            What, ashamed of me?
            But Draco held back the taunt. It was surprisingly easy, given everything else that had passed between them.
            Potter was unsure. Draco could see that much. There was none of the arrogant confidence that Draco found so off-putting. And Draco had to admit that he wasn’t ready to walk down the streets of Hogsmeade holding hands, either.
            But he was ready to see where this led. If he and Potter could stop teasing each other and take some emotion out in kisses instead of fighting, it was worth it.
            “We’ll do that,” he said. “Try.”
            Potter nodded firmly, eyes on his. Then he reached out and touched Draco on the cheek, one sweeping movement, before he ran to the door.
            “I still don’t know if I’m gay,” he tossed over his shoulder.
            “I don’t know if I am, either,” Draco said, and smiled wryly at the startled look Potter gave him, before the determined one came back.
            “Then we’ll find out together,” Potter said, and marched off down the corridor.
            Draco sat slowly back. His mind went to his father—for the first time in months, without anger and bitterness. He was remembering something his father had said one day when talking to him about marriage, about what Draco could expect from it and the kind of marriage that his mother and father had.
            “You should beware of love, rather than desiring it,” Father had said, looking out the window instead of at Draco. “You know that a dove is its symbol?”
            Draco had nodded, looking up at his father, wondering what was coming next.
            “Well,” said Father. “In the case of any emotion stronger than desire, that dove often has razor claws. Remember it.”
            Draco hadn’t been able to bear the thought of one dream falling apart, though. He had taken a deep breath, and asked, “Is that what you did with Mother? Decide not to love her?”
            Father was silent long enough that Draco had cringed, expecting to be punished for his insolence. But instead, Father had taken a breath, and another, and touched Draco’s shoulder.
            “No,” he’d said. “I could bear the claws.”
            Draco closed his eyes now. Who knew if he and Potter would even have something long-lasting, never mind marriage.
            But he thought he could bear those claws, too, if the dove turned out to have them.
            The End.
*
starr: Yes, although Harry wouldn’t have put it that way to himself at first, it was mostly the Dursleys’ fault.
moodysavage: It does have its funny side! Although Draco would reply that it’s Harry who keeps escalating things.
SP777: Draco keeps thinking he should win. Which he shouldn’t, but at least it worked out better for him here than in the books.
Anon: I didn’t think I could get them all the way to a sexual relationship in a one-shot story, but I do think this story lands them in a good resting place.
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The Dove With Razor Claws