Reading Between the Lines by chanond

CZĘŚĆ I

September 10

Harry's gaze was focused completely on his feet as he followed Ron and Hermione into the Great Hall. He was concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other at the moment and as long as he kept his head down and his eyes on the ground, the castle didn't spin out of control quite so violently.

Damn Seamus and his firewhiskey.

Damn his cousin Fergis, too,for sending it to him.

Last night had been a pisser; Harry couldn't remember what on earth could have convinced him to accept Seamus' challenge to match him shot for shot. Blasted Irishman.

It was all Ron's fault, he decided. If he hadn't been busy arm wrestling Dean, Harry wouldn't have been left defenseless when Seamus approached him. Hermione had been fairly useless too, now that he thought about it. Both last night and today. She refused to cast a sobering charm on him before he left the Common Room for bed and to give him some of her pain relieving potion that morning too. She just looked at him with that look she had that said quite plainly he deserved whatever he got.

Hermione didn't approve of drinking. Well, not in excess, anyway. The only time Harry could remember seeing her remotely close to being pissed was at the Burrow over the past summer. She'd over indulged on the elf-made wine that Fred and George sneaked into Ron's room and passed out after two glasses. Fred and George had waggled their eyebrows at Ron and convinced Harry to spend the night in their room in order to leave Ron alone with her.

If he was glad of nothing else, Harry was pleased that McGonagall had somehow caught wind of the goings on in Gryffindor Tower the previous night. She'd barged in, dressed in her usual tartan dressing gown, and wagged a finger in their faces, ordering them all to keep the noise down. If she noticed the bottles of Firewhiskey that littered the Common Room tables, she made no mention of it. Her visit, thankfully, put an end to the drinking contest that Harry had been engaged in with Seamus, who chucked his shot glass into the basket that Hermione left out for the House Elves to clear away.

Harry reached out to catch the door as Ron opened it for Hermione and gestured that Ron should follow her. He let it swing shut behind him and cringed at the deafening sound it made as it closed. He crossed the room, counted the number of steps it took for him to reach the Gryffindor table (the number had gone down considerably since he'd been a first year) and slipped onto the bench between Ron and Neville. Harry was glad that Hermione was sitting on the other side of Ron: he didn't fancy listening to another lecture on the merits of drinking responsibly.

“Sausage, Harry?” Ron asked and Harry looked warily at the overflowing tray and his stomach churned.

“Er, no thanks,” he said and reached for a basket of breakfast rolls instead. He thought something dense would help to soak up the alcohol quite nicely.

“Shootyershelf,” said Ron around a mouthful. “Uthaffwegotismorning?”

Harry looked away; he didn't think he'd be able to keep the roll down if he so much as glanced at Ron at the moment.

“Transfiguration,” he replied. His eyes passed over the jug of pumpkin juice in favor of coffee.

Sweet, sweet nectar, he thought as he poured himself a cup.

“Post owls are here,” said Hermione, and she cleared a spot in front of her to make room for the brown tawny that delivered her Daily Prophet. Ron complained every day that the feathery git landed in his eggs on purpose.

Harry looked up, though he didn't know why. The only two people who would write to him were sitting next to him on the bench. He was therefore more than a little surprised to see Hedwig soaring towards him; he could see a small scroll tied to her leg. She landed and Harry offered her the remains of his roll which she nipped at as he loosened the letter from her leg. Once he'd freed it, she hooted once and scooped the roll in her beak before taking off again.

Harry brushed the crumbs Hedwig had dropped from his lap and unrolled the parchment absently as he watched Hedwig's graceful flight from the Hall. He looked down to read a single sentence, the words written in a very neat hand:

Do you think McGonagall wears plaid knickers?

Harry jerked his head up, and looked behind him furtively after he read the words.

Whose idea of a joke was this? he thought. He craned his neck and searched the tables behind him thinking that if he made eye contact with someone, he'd know who sent it. He didn't meet anyone's eyes, though, and he looked back at the parchment. Harry didn't recognize the handwriting but that wasn't saying much. He'd spent six years copying Hermione's homework and could pick her penmanship out of a line-up, but was sure hers was the exception.

He shrugged and put the scroll into his pocket. He'd show it to Ron when they were safely back in the Common Room; there was no need to risk Professor McGonagall's displeasure two days in a row.

plaid knickers

Harry snickered but, a moment later, wished he hadn't. He didn't know what was worse: the thought of plaid knickers or the thought of McGonagall in them. He had to find a bathroom; it seemed the roll in his stomach was being evicted.

September 11

I do. They're made out of scratchy black wool crosshatched with fat, hideous red and yellow stripes. I bet she has a nasty rash on her arse from January 1 through December 31. Not that I needed that mental image while eating my kippers.

Harry finished the letter with a smirk on his face.

He felt much better having broken down and visited Madam Pomfrey for a hangover cure the night before. She'd not even flinched when he asked for it, much to his surprise. He was of age after all, and he wasn't stupid enough to tell her that he'd been pissed in the Gryffindor Common Room.

He felt only mildly curious as to the identity of the letter writer. To be honest, he was glad to have a correspondent after going so long without receiving anything from anyone to care too much about who it was from. Sirius had been the last person to regularly send him letters at Hogwarts and Harry really missed it. Plus, the letters were funny. The image of McGonagall with an itchy arse made him snort pumpkin juice over his eggs.

September 12

Saturdays were always a cause for celebration, in Harry's opinion. At Hogwarts he had the freedom to have a lie-in if he wanted it but he didn't normally. So trained to be out of bed at the crack of dawn by his life at the Dursleys, it took Harry a few months to get used to the lazy routine of weekends at Hogwarts.

As it was only the second week of term, he was still in Privet Drive mode and woke just as the sunlight started to make its way across the floor of his dormitory. The warm beams hadn't reached the closed curtains of Ron's bed before Harry was on his feet and fetching a towel from the trunk at the foot of his bed. Another welcome reason to be out of bed early on a weekend was the empty showers. Harry looked forward to his Saturday routine: to be in the showers before anyone else for a wank, then down to the Common Room to wait for Hermione and Ron to emerge before they headed to the Hall together for breakfast.

Harry padded into the showers, pointed his wand at the tap to turn it on and removed his glasses. He laid them on top of his towel just out of reach of the water spray. He stepped under the water and bowed his head, rolling his shoulders as the hot water sluiced down his neck and back. He felt the tension that had built up over the week ease. Harry wondered how people, other than Hermione, had made it through their N.E.W.T. year without going insane. Fred and George had seemed to manage it okay, now that he thought about it, but he didn't consider them a particularly fair standard as they'd never actually completed their seventh year.

His morning wank served no purpose other than to relieve some pressure, but it had to be done and he preferred the warm atmosphere of the bathroom to his four-poster. He was quite used to sharing a dormitory with four other boys and even though the curtains round his bed closed, he didn't fancy sleeping on stiff sheets all weekend if he could avoid it. The House Elves wouldn't change the linens again until Wednesday.

By the time he arrived in the Common Room, the sun had risen fully and he found a couple of eager second years already seated in his favorite spot around the fire. Harry took a seat on the squashy sofa to wait for Ron and Hermione so they could head down to breakfast. Once he got there, he hadn't even had time to pour himself some juice before a brown barn owl swooped down and dropped a tightly rolled letter onto the table in front of him.

Good morning, Potter. Did you have a good summer? If you spent it with those horror stories you call relatives, I rather doubt it. You look like shit, to be honest. Tired. Sad.

Harry frowned and looked up. He was a bit taken aback to be reminded of his summer at the Dursleys. Hogwarts was the one place he was able to act as though they didn't exist.

I saw them once, picking you up at the station. Your fat cousin with the piggy eyes; he's so large I imagine he and Hagrid could swap clothes. Your aunt, a shriveled piece of work, her mouth all puckered up in disgust at the sight of you. And your even more enormous uncle. Did he *ever* have a neck? Do you know I got the feeling he wanted to hit you. That your merely standing there made him want to backhand you. Am I right?

Harry had stopped snickering over the comment about Uncle Vernon's neck by the time he finished the letter. How telling was it that a stranger, who didn't even know the Dursleys, could read exactly how they felt about Harry just by seeing them standing around as they waited for him at King's Cross? He folded the letter and slipped it into his bag.

He looked to his left and caught Ron's curious expression. He hadn't told Ron or Hermione about his correspondent when they'd asked. He knew it had to be killing Hermione not to know, but he just put it away without commenting on who it was from.

September 15

My summer was fair to middling. A lot of time spent by myself. A lot of wanking off.

Harry blushed as he read that last and he looked around.

Well, that's one mystery solved, anyway. It's a bloke, he thought as he turned back around to face the Gryffindor table. He'd suspected as much; there were a lot of girls who tried to slip him love letters, though they were usually thwarted by Hermione. She seemed to think it her duty to be the defensive shield around him that the enemy (girls) would need to penetrate in order to reach him. Harry wasn't bothered by this. He was, in fact, quite grateful for it though he'd never let Hermione know that.

September 16

I see you looking around, wondering who is owling you these letters. I have no intention of revealing myself. Call it a random whim. I've often gotten into trouble with my whims, but live by the sword, die by the sword; or, in this case, the quill. I like how a quill feels cupped in my hand, how the feather kisses my chin every now and then.

That's a bit fancy, Harry thought, second-guessing that it really was a boy who was writing to him. He turned the parchment over to see if the lines continued on the other side, but they didn't.

He didn't know anyone who would write something like that. Ron certainly wouldn't.

Harry looked at Ron. He had his Advanced Potion-Making text open in front of him with a heavily inked parchment off to the side. The cornflakes in his bowl were so milk-logged that each flake appeared to be elbowing the next out of the way as they swelled. Ron's mouth was open as he re-read the instructions on brewing Veritaserum. He looked rather gormless, Harry thought, though he didn't blame him. Neither of them had completed their essay on the theories behind the components of Veritaserum, largely in part because they didn't understand them. Ron apparently had decided to combine breakfast with the time he needed before Potions to finish his essay.

No, Ron most definitely wouldn't use the term the feather kisses my chin in reference to his quill. Especially considering that at the moment, Ron's quill looked as though it might break under the pressure he was exerting on it as he scratched out the last few lines of his essay.

September 17

Merlin, Granger can be shrill, can't she? I never gave a thought to how your friends might interpret these silly little letters of mine. To put the record straight: I am not Voldemort. I am not an agent of Voldemort. If you want me to continue writing to you, nod your head.

Harry looked up and around at the numerous occupants of the Hall as had become his custom after finishing one of his mysterious letters.

Nothing, he thought, disappointed. Now he wanted to know who was behind the letters. Harry nodded his head, supposing that that was what the letter write was looking for to ensure that they both wanted the letters to continue.

He frowned, remembering how Hermione's patience with his letters had reached breaking point outside Potions the previous day. He had retrieved the letter from his bag and was re-reading it as they stood in the corridor, waiting for Snape to open the dungeon door and allow them entrance.

Hermione had actually tried to snatch the parchment out of his hand as he went to deposit it back in his bag. Harry nearly had to slap her hand away before she lost control completely and started shrieking at him.

“Who are they from, Harry?” she demanded.

“Lower your voice, Hermione,” he said in a firm tone.

“No. I want to know who's writing to you. You've never kept secrets from me and Ron before.” Her hands flew to her hips and she nodded to Ron.

Ron, who looked as though he'd rather start banging on the dungeon door to demand entrance than get caught up in the argument between Hermione and Harry, said nothing. He looked from Hermione to Harry and back again. Harry wondered whether Ron even knew what Hermione was talking about. Had Ron noticed the letters that were delivered to Harry every morning?

“I don't know who they're from, all right?” Harry said. He wasn't backing down, but he was keen not to let the whole school know that he had a mysterious correspondent. For some reason, this was something he didn't want to share.

“It's not a big deal, Hermione,” he assured her. Over her shoulder, he shot a menacing glare at Malfoy who was staring at them interestedly. Malfoy smirked and rolled his eyes at Harry before he turned his attention back to Pansy Parkinson.

“It could be dangerous, Harry,” said Hermione in an undertone. Harry was glad she had decided to lower her voice even though he was certain that every Gryffindor and Slytherin standing in the corridor had their ears trained on what she was saying.

“It's not dangerous,” he said, laughing. He wondered what Hermione would say if he told her that the most dangerous thing to come of it so far was unwelcome thoughts of McGonagall in tartan knickers. Thoughts that had managed to worm their way into his morning wank yesterday morning, thanks.


September 21

Good. Instead of the owl business, I'll leave your letters in the visor of the armor on the third floor near the Charms classroom.

Brilliant, thought Harry.

He finally had a way to write back to his mystery person and get Hermione off his back about the letters. She hadn't let off her tirade over the potential danger in Harry corresponding with an unknown person (Harry hadn't told her that up to that point, the conversations had been entirely one-sided) and he would be glad to have the constant stream of morning owls come to an end.

He thought about what he wanted to say for most of the day. He feigned note-taking in Binns' History of Magic as he scratched out a few tentative sentences. He'd already planned to sneak away from Hermione and Ron under the Invisibility Cloak so that he could leave his letter in the armor on the third floor. He was tempted to wait under the Cloak in the hopes of discovering the identity of his bloke but had already decided against it. His need to know was outweighed by the sheer enjoyment he was getting out of the correspondence. Besides, he didn't think it was anyone dreadful who was writing to him and, for now, it was enough for Harry to know that someone out there cared enough to send him something - - anything - - while expecting nothing from him in return.

He didn't get a single brainwave about what he should say all day so when he saw his chance to slip away from Hermione and Ron, he ran up the stairs under the pretence of retrieving a book he'd left there. Quickly, he dashed off a few quick questions on a scrap piece of parchment before donning his Invisibility Cloak.

September 22

I never intended for you to respond. It might be wiser if you don't. I'll answer a couple of your questions. I am a seventh-year male. I am not a Gryffindor. I will not tell you which house I am in. I will not tell you whether we are friends or not. It doesn't matter.

I smelled the weather change today. Of all the seasons, I like autumn best, although I am rather passionate about flowers. I think this is a sign I'm courting schizophrenia. My soul revels in the fading of the year, while my senses search for the scent and sight of the new.

Why am I corresponding with you? Because this is our last year, our last opportunity to "speak" to each other. Put it down to my being unbearably shy. And exceptionally curious.

I love to write letters. If you continue to ignore my remonstrations and write to me, you'll find that each time you pick up a quill you'll discover something in yourself. That the quill almost casts a spell. I am so much more honest and creative on paper than in person. Of course, it's also easy to lie on paper. Creativity and lying go hand in hand.

It's a cheap addiction. Parchment and ink cost much less than cigarettes, that's for sure. Financial considerations aside, I'm much less angry on parchment. I think before I write. Unlike my public persona. I frequently say things I later wish I hadn't; more often than not it's displaced anger searching for a target. And there are number of convenient targets.

Have you ever been angry and then hated yourself for it? Or, conversely, been angry and thought, "I had every right to be angry. Fuck off."

Funny you should ask, Harry wrote. I don't think I can remember a time when I didn't feel angry, though I know there was one. I've never felt bad about it -- was I supposed to? Before I came to Hogwarts, I didn't know I was a wizard. Didn't know that I was magical at all; I just thought I was funny. Weird. I used to make things happen when I was frightened or upset. I still do, I haven't completely managed to control it but I'm trying. Everyday, I'm trying.

He hardly noticed the hitch in his breath as he remembered how he used to feel before Hogwarts. He remembered the shrieks from Aunt Petunia when his hair had all grown back that time she'd cut it short, the foul things she used to call him. He remembered the exact sound the lock on his cupboard door would make as she drove it home after shoving him inside.

He shivered.

My Uncle's sister's name is Marge. Marge has this dog named Ripper,he wrote and he went on to tell about the time he'd let his anger get out of control so much that he'd blown Marge up. He told her about how the Ministry had had to locate and puncture her to keep her from floating clear across Surrey.

September 28

I haven't written in a few days because I wondered if perhaps this whole exercise was foolhardy. What could two people possibly say to each other in a year that they haven't already said in six? Then, happily, I got your hysterical letter about blowing up your Aunt Marge. I swear; I could almost see her floating over the Forbidden Forest. Where's a gun when you need it?

I should have been arrested for that, you know. I don't know why I wasn't. Well, that's not completely true. I know why now. I didn't at the time.

I'm glad you don't think it's awful. I remember laughing about it when I told Hermione and Ron. It was funny to see the great fat thing swelling, the buttons bursting off her dress. But then I think about what it must have been like for her. She's foul, no doubt about it, but did she deserve that? The Ministry modified her memory so that she wouldn't remember, but still.

I wish they could do that to mine sometime. There are loads of things I'd rather not remember.

I don't think this is foolhardy. I'm enjoying this, aren't you? You must be. Whoever you are, you've said more to me in the last month than some of my dorm-mates have in six years but if you want to stop just stop.

What makes you so angry?

October 1

What do I get angry about? Far too many things to list. There isn't enough parchment in the whole of Hogsmeade. Primarily it's my family's expectations of me. I imagine you're somewhat in the same position. The wizarding world expects you to save them, more than willing to sacrifice the body and soul of a seventeen-year old boy to Voldemort. Assuming you're successful at it. But these aren't people who love you. They're faceless nobodies. My parents are never satisfied with my achievements. It's never enough. They hold their love hostage.

I don't know what is worse: to mourn for a love that is only the most ephemeral memory or to mourn for a love that is only too real but always out of reach.

Harry chewed on the end of his quill while his mind considered his latest letter.

He didn't quite understand what he meant about “holding their love hostage”; it wasn't something he could relate to. His aunt and uncle didn't love him; there was no doubt about that. He'd long since given up trying to do more or be someone else in the hopes that they would - - could - - love him. But he knew his parents had loved him, the force of his mother's love had been so strong that she'd died to save him. He wished he had a memory of them beyond the one solid image he did have, the one where Voldemort had stepped over his father's body, intent on murdering his mother and him.

Harry dropped the quill onto the table and looked across at Hermione and Ron. Their heads were bent towards each other and he saw Hermione's mouth curve into a smile at whatever words Ron was whispering to her.

He looked away and stretched his fingers in his lap in an effort to stop them from shaking before picking up his quill again.

You're wrong, you know. Not completely, I suppose, but about those faceless nobodies. Not all of them are. Hermione and Ron are good examples of that. I don't think they're in love with me any more than I'm in love with either of them. It's different from what you're talking about, it's different even from what they may have for each other but it's there just the same and it has little to do with whether or not I save them or anybody else. Surely there are people in your life who you care about just because of who they are and not what they can do for you. Even love, maybe? Maybe not. Personally I can't imagine having stronger feelings for anyone than the ones I have for my friends.

October 5

For god's sake, Potter, did you write this while flying on your broom? I actually used a translation charm to decipher it. No excuses. Do not scrawl again. It is rude to expect your correspondents to cast spells on a piece of parchment that looks like it lined the nest of a hippogriff. I am not joking. My letters to you take time. Look at them as a gift. If you can't spend the time it takes to write a decent letter, don't write at all. Do not feel obligated to write. I am not interested in appearances. We must be honest with each other or this whole thing is off.

No, I've never been in love, nor do I wish to be. Love in my world is synonymous with obligation, demands, duty. Yes, I can imagine in your case it's slightly different; you feel a weightlessness, a lack of center. Well, you can have some of my center. Have you read about the Salem witch trials (why is truth so much scarier than fiction?) where they killed wizards and witches by placing a board on their bodies and then piled rocks on top of the board, one by one, eventually crushing them to death? Some days I can barely put one foot in front of the other, the stones are that heavy.

Sorry. I've a lot on my mind these days and I'm not as good with words as you are.

Thank you.

That's ghastly. I'm glad I never pay any attention in Binns' class. The more I learn about Wizarding history the more I wonder if we're worth saving.

Harry paused before finishing his response to his bloke's letter. He'd never heard anyone talk the way this boy did. Well, apart from Dumbledore, anyway. Dumbledore's words were usually vague and mysterious, but these words... Harry's chest hurt as he re-read the last line of the letter; he didn't know what to say to that. It was a feeling he could identify with too well, a feeling that he now had words to describe.

Somehow, they didn't read as though a response was required, so he ignored them.

Have you, or are you now, ever gone out with anyone at school? I have but am not now. I'm sure you know that already seeing as you seem to know so much about me.

He folded up the parchment, nodded to Hermione and Ron where they sat snuggled in their favorite armchair by the fire, and strode out of the Common Room. Again, Harry resisted the urge to don the Invisibility Cloak and wait at the suit of armour. His curiosity as to the identity of the person was reaching breaking point. This person had become a friend, as close as a best friend almost, and he was nearly overwhelmed with the desire to put a face and name to the handwriting he was coming to know as well as his own.

October 15
Harry dawdled after his Charms lesson, pretending to repack his bag so that he could ensure that he had privacy when he checked for another letter. It had been nearly two weeks since the last letter and he was concerned that his bloke had decided to stop writing to him. Hermione and Ron went ahead, calling back that they'd meet him in the Hall for lunch, and Harry waited until their footsteps died away before standing on tip-toe so that he could reach a hand into the visor of the suit of armor.

Yes! he thought, as his fingers came into contact with the letter.

Harry concealed the letter tightly in his hand and strode down the corridor. His anxiousness to read the letter was overwhelming even his desire for food so he ducked into the first empty, unlocked classroom he came to and threw himself into a chair. He unfolded the letter and spread it out on top of the desk, holding the top corners flat under his shaking thumbs.

Dating? I suppose you could call it that. Catting around is more like it. I've got a reputation, somewhat deserved, but, fucking hell, I'm a seventeen-year old boy. I think about sex all the time. The ache is so intense, I started smoking last year just so I could put something in my mouth. I spend hours imagining what someone looks like under their robes. What they might feel like under my hands, my mouth. And no, I am not lusting after McGonnagal and her woolen knickers. No matter how many times I wank off, which I do at least twice a day, I'm always thinking about sex. Don't you?

Harry laughed out loud, embarrassed. He couldn't believe that his bloke was writing to him about how many times a day he wanked. He realized that up to that point, he hadn't really associated the person who wrote with such pretty words with a boy who was his own age. A boy who naturally had the same feelings and desires as any other seventeen-year old had.

To have it said like that, so matter-of-factly, was disturbingly arousing and Harry crossed his legs in an effort to curb the inevitable swelling between his legs. He pressed his palm against his burgeoning erection and tried not to think of anything going into his bloke's mouth, not even a cigarette. Not even the image of McGonagall in her knickers was helping, however, and Harry knew that it wasn't going to go away, knew he would have to deal with the problem. He chased the image of McGonagall out of his head and pushed his robes aside.

Harry unbuttoned his trousers and let down the zip. His dick was straining below his boxers when he reached in to stroke it. He worked his hand up and down the shaft in brisk strokes, squeezed the end with a twist of his wrist like he always did. Images of a bloke lying in a four-poster bed not unlike his own danced through his head as he stroked himself. His bloke was topless. He had an arm thrown over his head lazily and he was working his dick just as Harry's hand was busy on his own. His face was in shadow but Harry could just make out the ghost of a smile on pink lips as his hand sped up. Harry mimicked the movement, rolling his hips and thrusting into his hand. He closed his fist around the head of his dick and came with a stifled groan.

Not always, Harry wrote untruthfully after he'd spelled away the come from his fingers. It wasn't entirely untruthful, he supposed. He did think about schoolwork and Voldemort almost as often as he thought about sex.

Only twice? I just wanked for the third time today.

I can't believe I just wrote that. I'm throwing this letter away.

October 18

Three times a day on average. I'm impressed, Potter. Who'd have thought that behind that shuffle and blush lurked a perverted wanker?

Harry ignored the insult. He knew he shouldn't have left his last letter in the armor. He didn't know what had made him admit to the number of times in a day he played with himself, nor why he'd written that he'd done so right before writing a letter to him. It had been a few days before he'd received a response and Harry had wondered if he'd somehow offended the letter writer by what he'd written. Harry wasn't accustomed to baring quite so much of himself to anyone and certainly not to someone whose name he didn't even know.

He was, therefore, more than a little relieved to find a letter in the armor regardless of how short it was. There was a burning question he wanted to ask, but for the life of him he couldn't think how to do it.

Did one just come right out and ask that type of thing? It seemed horribly rude to Harry, and rather like the sort of thing that Luna Lovegood would have no problem blurting out in the middle of a dinner party. Well, Harry wasn't Luna and he didn't have Hermione's skill in diplomacy so he supposed he'd just have to ask in a casual way. Make it seem as though it were a throw-away question of no real importance. It didn't matter how important the answers might become. Ron didn't make a show of it every time he and Hermione had done it, after all. Which Harry was eternally grateful for. He didn't want the details of what his closest friends got up to. He couldn't help but be curious, though. He'd never once had an opportunity to do anything with anyone. It was frustrating. It seemed ages ago that he'd thought that he and Cho surely would, but, well. He was glad they hadn't in any case.

CZĘŚĆ II

October 22

My sexual experience? I debated whether to tell you this, because on the one hand, it might be a little bit of a relief if you turned out to be a righteous homophobic bigot, but if you aren't, then you've gone up several notches in my estimation of you. Which could be problematic.

I am gay.

I've had sex with several girls, and every time it felt good but wrong. A nice way of saying I got off, but what kind of endorsement is that? I'm a teenage boy. I could probably have an orgasm fucking a milk bottle. Anyway, every sexual experience with a girl left me angry and somehow empty and hungry. Not much better than a wank I could have given myself with a broken finger. Why wasn't there more? Was something the matter with me? I'd spend hours with a girl, I'd bring her to orgasm several times, and my orgasm was always ho hum. It was enough to stop me from propositioning McGonnagal, but not much more than that. A hand job, a blow job, even a fuck. It didn't matter. I'd still be horny enough to hump a banister, yet my dick was soft. Horrible.

Salvation came on a Hogsmeade weekend in our sixth year, I was standing outside of Honeydukes waiting for some friends when I saw a young wizard walking down the street. He was about twenty and dressed in the tightest black leather pants you've ever seen. I could tell where the crack of his arse started. Merlin's balls, I wanted him. I wanted to run my hands over that arse, pinch his nipples, lave my tongue over every part of his body. I desired him like I've never desired any girl and I knew. That if he gave me a hand job, a blow job, or let me fuck him that my hunger would be sated. For once. Okay, for a couple of hours, maybe, but I wouldn't feel that white hunger for just a little while.

Can you imagine not wanting?

Harry stared at the words on the page.

For a moment, his eyes were focused completely on the three words that stood out in stark reality. The words might as well have been written in the flashing, neon lights Harry had seen in an electronic shop's window once when the Dursleys had taken him to King's Cross.

I am gay.

His eyes skated down and he felt a flush rise from his chest to his neck as he read the description about what it had been like for his friend to discover that he was gay.

That he liked to look at men.

That he wanted to fuck men.

Harry understood all too well the hunger the letter writer talked about, the raw aching need in his belly that felt as though it could never be soothed.

He folded the letter and put it away in his bag. He knew he would respond but his emotions were too close to the surface to do so right away.

It would be a big risk, he thought, to say half of the things he wanted to say to his bloke.

Harry wondered for a moment at that. Wondered when he'd started thinking of the letter writer as “his bloke”. It was like a title that he'd given to him. It was too close to saying “his boyfriend” or “his lover”, Harry decided, but the habit was ingrained now.

Harry spent the next few days thinking of little else besides the contents of the last letter. He still hadn't responded but knew that he should do so soon. He didn't want his friend to think that he was a “homophobic bigot” after all and he was starting to convince himself that it really was okay to admit certain things. He'd said some things in his own head for a long time; he thought it might do him good to say them to someone else.

The words the boy had written were imprinted on the inside of Harry's lids; he saw them every time he closed his eyes. The letter itself remained hidden in the bottom of his trunk with all the others, tightly folded and stuffed inside the Marauder's Map. It didn't matter; Harry had pored over the letter for so many hours that he didn't need to see it to remember what it said.

The thought that there was someone, anyone, who felt the same way he did buoyed Harry through some rough days. His homework seemed to do nothing but increase both in volume and intensity. He, Hermione, and Ron spent so much time in the library studying that Ron joked about trying to convince Madam Pince to let them bring in camp beds.

Potions and Transfiguration were vying for equal status of Harry's most hated subjects and he thought that if after Hogwarts he never saw a cauldron again it would be too soon. His irritation with the subject altogether was only exacerbated by the continued abuse he took from Snape and Malfoy in Potions class. Snape never failed to miss an opportunity to take points from Gryffindor and Malfoy never seemed to be able to resist smirking at him whenever Snape decided the time was ripe to tell Harry off.

He couldn't shake the oppressive guilt he felt when he put quill to parchment to respond to the latest letter, but the idea of writing another inch about Switching Spells made him want to hex something. Harry felt as though he would implode from the pressure of holding in all the things he wanted to say but couldn't. Not to Hermione and especially not to Ron, anyway.

Harry hadn't thought far ahead enough to consider that someday he would have to tell Ron that it was boys that he fancied and not girls. Ever since Ginny started going out with Dean Thomas, Ron had managed to keep his silence around Harry about his sister but he knew it was only a matter of time before Ron renewed his campaign to get the two of them together.

Half-formed ideas floated into Harry's mind as he toyed with the idea of telling Ron that he was gay - - even though he wasn't entirely certain that he was - - just to get Ron off his back about Ginny the next time the subject came up. He felt queasy just thinking about what Ron might say. Best friends they may be, Harry felt certain that this, on top of every other way that Harry was different, might be more than Ron would want to handle. It was a disquieting thought that Harry did not like to linger over.

I'm sorry it's taking me so long to write back. I've been busy with school work and Quidditch. I wanted to write earlier, but

I expect you think your worst fears are confirmed. They shouldn't be.

I'm not homophobic and I'm not a bigot. That you thought I might be hurts just a little, just so you know.

Keeping sexuality out of it, you must know that I'm the least likely person to be bigoted about anything. Half-blood, remember? A second class citizen based on that alone in the Wizarding world, aren't I? If you ask Malfoy and all the other pure-bloods who are so obsessed with everything being just so, not out of the ordinary at all. Normal, in other words.

Bringing sexuality back into it, all I can say is that I couldn't even think for at least two hours after I read your last. It's probably why I didn't write back right away. I just. I didn't know what to say and I still don't. That's part of the problem.

You have this way of putting into words everything that I'm thinking and feeling. Someone should ask Snape if Legilimency is even possible through parchment.

I see what you're saying about girls. Being with girls, I mean. Whenever I kissed Cho it was weird. Just not right, you know? It didn't help that she was usually crying when we were together, being with her was, well. Awful is the best way to put it. Mortifying. I never felt as though she was with me because she liked me. I think it was only because she couldn't be with him.

Does that make any sense? I liked her a lot, I thought. She was fairly fit and we had a good time when we went flying on the pitch together, but it just never felt right. Is that a reason to go out with someone? Because they have a nice arse that looks good on a broom? The same can be said for loads of people, not all of them girls. I can think of one or two blokes who are just as fit that I wouldn't mind snogging, truth be told.

When he finished writing, Harry blew on the ink to help it dry. He just wanted to fold the letter and deliver it to the suit of armor as soon as possible, terrified that someone might read it over his shoulder. Whatever he might say to his bloke, he knew he wasn't ready to deal with the mutterings and looks he would receive if the whole school found out that he was, or thought he was, gay.

October 26

So you're not a homophobic bigot.

And you think you might be gay, too.

I'm a little shocked, but you always surprise me. Which is a nice way of saying I'm constantly underestimating you.

Kissing that Chang bint was mortifying? You mustn't look at it like that. Utter cow. How dare she use you as some pathetic Diggory substitute. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Do not make any decisions vis a vis your sexual preference. Being a Gryffindor, you are, no doubt, looking for true love. Harry, sometimes you just need a good fuck. I suggest you try both girls and boys to determine exactly what way you swing. You might be a switch hitter. When Zabini graduates he'll probably head a new Ministry: Head of Bisexual Relations.

Harry gnawed at his bottom lip. He wasn't as unnerved at the thought of Blaise Zabini being with girls and boys as much as he was about how his bloke would know such a thing. Had he been one of the boys Zabini had been with? This thought did not sit well with Harry. He was not usually a jealous person but this person who had inserted himself into Harry's life entirely of his own accord, had come to mean a lot to him. Harry looked at him as a friend or - perhaps more. He didn't want to think of him snogging or shagging someone else and certainly not someone like Zabini.

He responded to the letter with an almost casual indifference. Gently berating the letter writer for the unkind words about Cho for, whatever she was, she was still a person who Harry had cared about at one time. He wasn't fussed one way or another about her now, but Harry didn't like to speak badly about anyone if he could help it.

October 30

No, I was not being nice about Chang. I am not a nice person. You would do well to remember that. First of all, that Diggory was such a total bore. Not that he deserved to be AK'd...but really. A grindylow has more personality than he did. For her to assume you'd willy-nilly step into his mundane shoes and be her boyfriend…you, who are anything but mundane. I cannot write another sentence about this. It's just too ridiculous. She could have asked for comfort, and since "noble" is your middle name, you'd have donated a shoulder for her to cry on for the next ten years and not expect a single snog in return. But no. She expected you to exorcise Diggory's ghost. How cowardly. How stupid of her. Even in death we should have our dignity. She did both of you a disservice.

See you at the party.

PS. I hope my ghost has dignity, otherwise, what's the point?

You don't like Cho, I get it. Just stop going on about it, alright? It's not her fault that he died. Not her fault that she didn't know how to deal with it, either. You might have noticed that sympathy for the victims of this war is a little short these days. I watched him die and no one tried to, what did you call it - “exorcise Diggory's ghost” for me, did they? Leave off about her, please.

The party was fun. I wish I'd worn a costume but I suppose I didn't need to. Seamus and Dean thought going Polyjuiced as Harry Potter would be a laugh. Were you there?

November 3

Yes, I was there. I go to school here. Remember? I had a good laugh when Lavender Brown's costume was hexed off. And it wasn't Parkinson who uncharmed her costume, it was Granger. I saw her do it. Brown was chatting up Weasley over in a corner of the room, and Granger, in a jealous hissy fit (how very Slytherin of her), zapped her one. Of course, it sort of backfired because then Weasley got an eye full of Brown's luscious tits…oh well, the course of true love never ran smooth.

I forget sometimes.

Well, not really. It's almost like having a conversation with my conscience as it rarely agrees with me either.

No way did Hermione hex Lavender! I'll have to ask her about that. Sometimes I think Hermione spends too much time obeying the rules that when she thinks of rebelling a little, it all goes pear-shaped.

I'm only a little sorry to have missed the view of Lavender's tits. I'd somehow gotten the impression that something like that wouldn't interest you.

Do you still do, you know, stuff with girls then? Don't they know that you're gay?

November 7

Yes, I still fuck girls. For appearance's sake. And no, I'm not officially "out." My father would kill me.

Whose wouldn't, thought Harry, though he had no basis for his opinion. He liked to think that his own father would be open minded but he didn't really know and honestly? When he thought about it, the father that he had seen in Snape's pensieve two years ago didn't look like someone who would be terribly accepting of having a son who was gay.

His bloke still messed about with girls. The thought sat about as well with Harry as did the thought that he and Voldemort could just kiss and make up someday. He didn't want his bloke to fuck anybody. That got him thinking about the type of girls his bloke might fuck. In his mind's eye, he combed the House tables for the seventh-year girls he thought that a gay boy might like to shag. He immediately eliminated anyone from Gryffindor -- all those girls were giggling idiots as far as he was concerned, with the exception of Hermione. Hufflepuff boasted a little better -- Susan Bones was fairly curvy, as was Hannah Abbott.

Harry frowned, wondering why he could appreciate their attributes but could feel nothing by way of desire for either of them. The Ravenclaw table didn't offer much since Cho had left school. Padma Patil was alright now that he thought about it. She had a slight build and practically no chest.

Oh my god, you really are gay, you idiot.

November 9

The stones are heavy today, Harry. One more and I think I will die. I can barely breathe.

It's killing me to hear you talk like that. Why won't you agree to meet me? It's not going to turn out as awful as you seem to think. You know more about me than Ron does at the moment. It isn't fair that I can't say the same about you. I might even be able to help, you know. If only you'd let me try.

Today was another pisser. Fucking Snape. I'm so fucking sick of how unfair he is to me. Like it's all my fault that my father hated him when they were kids. They were KIDS, for fuck's sake. Why can't he get over it? Snape, I mean. It's been nearly twenty years but the bastard still acts as though it were yesterday. And it's not even my fault. I didn't ever do anything to the greasy git. I can't wait until we're out of school if only to get the fuck away from him. Do you know that if that bitch Umbridge was still here, I'd rather have a month's worth of detentions with her than a single one with Snape. That's how much I hate him. I'd rather slice my hand open with a quill than spend any more time with him than I have to. What does that say?

November 12

Snape was dreadfully unfair to you today? Snape is dreadfully unfair to you every day. Stop whining. You'll get your NEWTS in potions, Granger will take top marks. As usual. Weasley will be in the rear. Somewhere. As usual. I refuse to discuss classroom politics with you. Too boring. Do you really want me to start cataloguing all the rules you've broken for which you never once got reprimanded? Indeed, if I remember correctly, you received extra house points for various and sundry hijinx. A discussion better left unwritten.

Harry didn't want to dignify this letter with a reply. In fact, he was half tempted to throw the letter away completely, thinking uncomfortably of how Malfoy and his gang of Slytherin cronies must whine about how unfair it was that Harry got so much attention. If only they knew that he'd rather it weren't that way. If only they could open their eyes and see past the ignorance of their pureblood pride.

He paced up and down the charms corridor, his bloke's letter clutched tightly in his hand.

What he wouldn't give to sit them down and tell them all about how great it had been to grow up Harry Potter. Hed tell them all about my fabulous life before he came to Hogwarts. How Dudley used to beat him up every day, how he lived in a cupboard under the stairs until coming to Hogwarts, how he had been starved and how for the first ten years of his life, he believed that his parents had died in a car crash, because that's what his aunt and uncle told him. Would his friend think he was just whining then?

Harry stopped when he reached the far end of the corridor, rested his back against the wall and leaned forward. He supported himself with clenched fists against thighs and took a few deep breaths, willing himself to calm down. When his breathing returned to normal, he slid down the wall to sit on his arse. The coolness of the stone floor seeped through his robes but felt almost pleasant on the back of his thighs.

He smoothed the crumpled letter on the floor and continued reading after folding the parchment so that the first half of the letter was not visible.

Let's talk about sex. Whom do you fancy? I think that Finch-Fletchley has lovely legs, Finnigan looks like he's hung (do tell do tell!), and I could never, in a million years, imagine shagging Weasley. The thought of red pubic hair! No fucking way. Oh, you possess a rather nice arse. Quite nice. Your shoulders filled out over the summer. Are you brown all over? You also have sexy hands.

Harry laughed, tempted to write an instant reply to disabuse his bloke of the notion that Seamus had a big one when Harry knew that nothing could be further from the truth. He thought better of it though, thinking that he owed Seamus a bit more respect so he decided to wait until the next letter to kill Seamus' reputation as King Dick.

He frowned at the thought of Ron's pubic hair. Not that Harry had never seen it because he had. He could just honestly say that never, not once in his life, had he had a single sexual thought about Ron. Not one. He didn't think it had anything to do with the red hair, though, because he thought Fred and George were both nice to look at. Charlie was alright and Bill was the stuff of wet dreams but Ron? It was almost as though Harry didn't see Ron as a sexual being at all. Which was perfectly fine with him as well because that was Hermione's business, not his.

Justin? Hm, Harry thought and decided that he didn't really fancy brunets. Not in men, anyway. He might be okay with a red-head or three, but a brunet would probably remind him too much of Cho and anyway, he was a brunet. He didn't want to shag anyone who looked just like him.

Do I? No one's ever said. Thank you. I did a lot of work outside over the summer. My uncle likes to ensure that his is the best lawn in the neighborhood. I don't mind it, it gets me out of the house and Dudley - - that's my cousin - - is too afraid to come near me so I get to be on my own even if it is just to weed the begonias.

Am I brown all over? No. I'm quite pale below the robes actually.

I bet you've got a nice arse. I can see it now, all fit and firm in your trousers. I'm certain you've got all eyes on you when you walk down the corridors. But I don't know for sure, do I?

Have you fucked many boys? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I'm just curious. You needn't ask me the same question; I know you know the answer. I haven't ever fucked a girl, either. I'm not sure I'd like to.

November 15

Do I have a nice arse? I haven't had any complaints.

Yes, I've fucked quite a few boys. Blaise is an excellent fuck; his cock is the size of Wales. No, I'm not exaggerating. Extremely enthusiastic (if a bit loud) and always willing. Do not let him top you or you won't be able to ride your broom for a week. I might as well confess; we had a brief but torrid affair. He's the best of both worlds: an aggressive bottom. Which is the way I like them. Sometimes I wonder if I ever fucked a truly aggressive girl that I'd play both sides of the fence. Strike that. I'm an unrepentant shirt-lifter. I forgot about Pansy. A male top with a female body.

Stay away from Terry Boot; he's twisted. Likes it rough and like to give it rough.

If you follow my advice and experiment with the fairer sex, Lavender Brown really does have nice tits (if you like that sort of thing), and she'll pretty much fuck anything with two legs and no spots. You don't have any spots that I can see so you'd be in like, well, Harry.

I'm going to start charging you for advice, Potter.

Terry's alright. A little annoying sometimes, maybe it's just a Ravenclaw thing.

Ha! No, I don't have any spots that I know of, but I'm not certain we're talking about the same thing. That's twice now you've mentioned Lavender's tits. I don't think you're as unrepentant as you let on.

Oh, and about Seamus...

Harry was grinning by the time he finished the letter. He folded it up and heaved himself up off the floor. His bones were aching and he was ready for bed. Between attending lessons, the towering pile of homework, and Quidditch practice, he barely had time to fit in writing his letters as well. He wouldn't give it up for anything at this point, though. Now that the connection was formed, Harry had begun to rely on it. With Ron and Hermione growing closer every day, Harry could see that there would shortly come a time where he'd have no one physical to talk to at all. Not that this person was a physical presence in his life, but the words on the page were almost as comforting as Ron's reassuring bulk at his side.

More still as the letters sometimes led to a hard-on too, something that had never once happened when he and Ron were together. Harry dropped the letter into the visor and hurried off in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. He had this image of Zabini and a cock the size of a small country that was making his own hard as a rock.

“Puffskeins,” he muttered when he approached the Fat Lady. The portrait swung open and Harry walked swiftly through the Common Room, intent on reaching his dormitory and his four-poster before anyone noticed how tented his trousers were. Once he reached the stairs, Harry paused and pressed the flat of his palm against his groin. He really hoped the dormitory was empty when he got there.

November 20

Finnigan has a dick the size of a gherkin! What a fucking shame. I was under the sad delusion that all Irish were hung like horses. Is he any good at giving blow jobs? Nature abhors a vacuum.

How would I know?

November 26

You know, Harry, if you ask Finnigan to give you a blow job, we'd both benefit from your experience: (1) you'd get your dick in someone's mouth—I firmly believe that blow jobs are impossible to screw up, even Longbottom could give a decent head; and (2) I'd get to read about it in detail. Lick. By. Lick.

After the last letter, Harry hadn't been able to look Neville or Seamus in the eye. He couldn't rid his head of the image of either one on his knees before him with his cock in their mouth. He didn't fancy Seamus or Neville for that matter, but Harry supposed there was something to be said for the power of suggestion.

He enjoyed winter at Hogwarts. The snow was beautiful lit by nothing but moonlight. He liked to sit in the window in his dormitory high up in Gryffindor Tower as the first snow fell.

“Harry?” Ron's voice croaked from his bed. “You alright?”

Harry turned from the window to look at Ron and nodded. “Just can't sleep. You know how it is.”

Ron yawned and half-heartedly propped himself up on an elbow. His eyes were drooping closed. “Bad dream?”

Harry shook his head. “M'alright, Ron. Really.”

“H'ok,” Ron said around another yawn and he fell back. His mouth was open and he was asleep within seconds.

He hadn't lied to Ron exactly, he really couldn't sleep. It would have been nice to be able to talk to him about what was keeping him up, though. Ron was his best friend but Harry knew that even if he wasn't snoring loud enough to wake the dead, Harry wouldn't be able to talk to him about this. It might have made him laugh that the one person he could talk to was someone whom he had never met, but it didn't. It only made him sad.

I'm not going to let Seamus give me a blow job! I wouldn't tell you about it even if I did, anyway. You're a perv.

We're planning an inter-house snowball fight this weekend. Interested? Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw will play the winner. Slytherin has got the pitch booked all weekend again so none of us can practice.

I meant to ask you something in my last letter but didn't. You'll think I'm stupid and I'm almost too embarrassed to ask but there isn't anyone else. You're all I've got in this. You said something about `not letting Zabini top because I wouldn't be able to ride my broom for a week'? What did that mean?

December 1

You have no need to be embarrassed. Your innocence is actually quite charming and not just a little sexy. When men fuck men, one person is dominant. The top. The person who puts his dick up your arse. This is the person in power. The person getting the dick up his arse is subservient. Or, in sex slang, the dom and sub. Why? Because nature really didn't really intend for dicks to be thrust up arseholes. This sounds like buggering someone is painful, and that the person on the bottom is screaming for mercy. Not true. All I can say is that if I knew I'd never have sex with a man again, I'd kill myself. It's all about trust. The bottom trusting the top not to ram his dick into you. Timing, a decent rim job, and generous helpings of lube also have a lot to do with it. I'm not sure what you'd be: a top or a bottom. You are a very trusting person, too trusting, actually, but you do have an edge to you. No one watching you on your broom would ever take you for a bottom.

Interesting.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting to hear about Zabini but it certainly wasn't that. Harry got so turned on just by the description alone that he had to run to the bathroom just to wank, which caused him to miss the first ten minutes of Charms lesson because he had to finish reading the letter after he'd come. He was glad he had, because his dick was half-hard again by the time he reached the end.

Fuck! Don't do that to a me again! I'm a lightweight when it comes to this stuff, you should know that. I've got detention with Flitwick thanks to you.

Now that I've completely embarrassed myself by admitting to knowing next to nothing when it comes to sex, why not go for broke? What's a rim job, what's the lube for and what the fuck does it matter who `tops' or `bottoms'? All things created equal, why can't they just fuck? That's what I'd do, anyway.

By the way, no matter what you say, being buggered sounds fairly painful to me.

December 2

A rim job? When someone sticks their tongue up your arse. Basically, you snog someone's rectum. And before you shriek and drop this parchment in utter disgust, I will tell you that when someone does it to you, you'll be shrieking and it won't be in disgust. It will be more like, "Oh fuck, don't stop! Don't stop!" Trust me on this one.

Lube? Something to ease the way. There are a couple of charms one can use to prepare another person's arse for an eager dick, but I like the Muggle way best. Call me old-fashioned. Rim job first, then the person doing the fucking usually coats their fingers and dick in lube (any substance that is oily) and then sticks first one, then two, then three fingers up the fuckee's arse--or four fingers if you're stupid enough to bottom for Zabini--to ease open the muscles for the fucker. Once the fuckee is loose enough, or frankly begging hard enough, fucker eases dick into fuckee. Then the fun really starts.

Why does one person have to be the top and the other the bottom? Why can't they just fuck? Be equals? I don't know, I think it has to do with us essentially being pack animals; someone is always the top dog, so to speak. You might actually be the one person who upends that whole notion.

For your wanking pleasure. Suck on one of your own fingers, stick it gently, and I mean gently, up your arse, and bring it in and out while you jerk off.

CZĘŚĆ III

Harry swore as he left Charms. Two fucking days in a row. He'd been told off for being late two days in a row.

Checking the armor before class was clearly a bad idea; he was having a job of hiding what he was doing from Hermione anyway. She was bound to hint that perhaps Harry should see Madam Pomfrey if his stomach kept bothering him to the point that he had to run to the bathroom right as class started two days in a row.

Good tip, thanks. One finger felt great but two was brilliant!

December 3

You used two fingers? Perverted wanker. I knew you'd like it. What self-respecting faggot wouldn't?

Do you prefer to top or bottom? I think I'd try both but might prefer to top. I'm not sure why, the fingers in my arse were okay but a dick is a lot bigger than my fingers, isn't it? Most dicks are, anyway; I suppose I'd be okay if I let Seamus fuck me. (Don't ever tell him I said that.)

Are you good in bed? I bet you are.

December 5

Am I good in bed? I don't know how to answer that question. I've fucked Zabini, and he was in hog heaven the whole time. Boot fucked me, and he would probably say I was hung up and a lousy lay.

Am I a top? Yes. I'm a definite top; however, recent events have led me to wonder if that's always the case. I'm beginning to wonder if I just haven't found my top. I do know that it isn't Boot!

Let me tell you what I'd do to you if you were my partner. Hypothetically, of course, and I am only using your name as an example.

Assume we're lying down on someone's bed. Yours or mine. I like creature comforts. The shag against a door is all fine and good every now and then, but for our first encounter, I prefer that we focus on each other, not on the splinters digging into our arses.

We are clothed and nervous. Even me. Our hands are shaking. Merlin's balls, we want each other that much. First, I run my hands over your face, tracing the line of your jaw and cheek bone, the curve of your mouth with a gentle forefinger. I remove your glasses. You shake your head because you feel too vulnerable when you can't see. I understand this. I place them on the bedside table. I take your hand in mine and let you feel where they are. I whisper, "They're right next to you on the nightstand. It's okay." Your shoulders relax and you whisper "okay" back to me.

Propped up on one elbow, I look at you for a minute. You really are quite beautiful, Harry. When I feel your shoulders tensing up again, wondering what I am doing (have you thought of charming your eyes so that you can see all the time, you silly git), I lean down and kiss the side of your mouth. Not as a tease, but as a question. "Do you want me to kiss you again?" You respond favorably (i.e., moaning, hissing, something along those lines). I lick your bottom lip with my tongue. Again, another question. Do you want my tongue in your mouth? Let's assume you agree to this, manifested by some tangible physical reaction (like grinding your groin into mine). Then we explore each other's mouths with our tongues. It starts off slowly, perhaps a little tentatively, because you're shy and unsure, and I don't want to scare you off; however, because you're a randy bugger, you ramp up the intensity of the kiss fairly quickly, and I follow suit. All hell breaks loose. We begin to bruise each other's mouths in a futile attempt to get "more." More remains elusive even as we lick, suck, and inhale each other.

We break away because both of us are panting so heavily, and we are frightened (yes, me, too) about just *how* intense that kiss was.

I must taste behind your ear. I move on top of you and lave, kiss, and suck your ear, your neck, your collarbone, all the while grinding my erection against yours in lovely little circular motions. I run my hands under your ratty tee shirt (will you buy yourself some decent clothes?) to pinch your nipples while I eat your neck. I saw you in the shower once. Your nipples are gorgeous. Are they sensitive? I hope so. Let's assume yes. You begin to moan into my kiss because my fingers are doing very wicked things to your nipples. I bend down and begin to do even more wicked things to your nipples with my mouth. While caressing one nipple with a thumb, I caress the other with my tongue. I bite down gently and pull. You arch up into me, oh, Harry, your dick is so hard against mine; I can't stand it. I move back up to your mouth to kiss you again. I didn't think it was possible to kiss someone like this, but we tear at each other's mouths. You grab my arse with both hands and pull me against you. Hard. Christ. I roll us on our sides and gently cup your erection with my palm and close my hand around it. I can feel the heat of you through your trousers. I begin to massage your dick. You're so excited a wet spot seeps through the fabric. You call my name and whisper, "please, oh please." Are you aware you're saying these things? I unbutton and unzip your trousers. You bat my hands away, and with your own hands you scramble to pull down your trousers and pants. I wrap my hand around your dick. I whimper. You feel like no one else, Harry. You feel so fucking good. With one hand massaging your balls, my other begins pumping you in a slow steady motion, with a nice little twist at the end. I watch your face. You begin to fuck my hand, up the pace. Now I know what you'll look like when you fuck someone, because you are a top, Harry, no doubt in my mind. Another time we'll take it slow, but not this first time. You're desperate. You begin to pump faster. I cannot take my eyes off of your face. When you come, I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life. Your joy, the fact that it was me, my hand, my mouth, that brought you to this place. Me.

I think it a colossal mistake to send this letter. I know I will rue it.

You bastard. Didn't I tell you not to do that shit to me? Hermione thinks I've got dysentery, for fuck's sake.

Yes. YES. I want to meet you, to touch you. I want to do all that and more. You know who I am, you know where to find me if you want to. Tell me you want to. Please.

I could find out who you are very easily, you know. I've been tempted to but I've refrained because you've said that you don't want me know your true identity. Why not? It's been long enough, don't you think? I don't care if you turn out to be the Giant Squid. I know you already even if I can't pick you out of a line-up.

It's funny, I've probably passed you in the Charms corridor a dozen times as you drop off your letters or pick up mine. Or do you do it when you know I won't happen by? When I'm at Quidditch practice, maybe?

I've got to go. I've got to read that letter again and I really need to remember to buy some lube. Do they sell it in Hogsmeade, do you think?

December 9

I should trust my instincts. I apologize. I'm not trying to seduce you. In fact, let me reiterate: it would be a fatal mistake if we met. It would *not* be like the previous letter at all, I can assure you. I'd prefer it if we do not discuss our sex lives again. Since you do not yet have a sex life, we shall stop discussing mine.

Yes, I do pick up and drop off letters when I know you're busy. Why are you so insistent that we meet? Expose ourselves. Isn't this enough? To have no expectations, no pre-conceived notion of the writer, the writer only defined by what he writes on the page. I find this enormously liberating. Aren't you enjoying this? I am.

Harry crumpled up the letter and flicked it across the bedspread. He watched it as it bounced to the edge of the bed, teetered between mattress and frame as though it wanted to fall to the floor but rolled back on the bed just in time.

Fucking bastard, he thought. I'm sure you find it enormously liberating; you've got all the anonymity. It's me who's exposed like an open fucking book.

He didn't want to respond to this last letter purely out of spite, but knew he would. He couldn't understand how his bloke could craft such a detailed description of what it would be like to fuck him and then refuse, absolutely, to make it happen?

What kind of person does that sort of thing?

Harry wanted more than anything to go to the Charms corridor under his Invisibility Cloak. He wanted to wait all night and day until someone showed up to retrieve his letter.

In the end, he decided that he couldn't do it. It wouldn't be right. He picked up his quill and began to scratch out a reply. He walked to the Charms corridor to place it in the armor. When he returned to the Tower, he crawled into his bed and charmed his bed curtains closed. He retrieved the letter that his bloke had written to read it again, by the time he got to the part about the kiss, his right hand had closed around his dick and he began to stroke.

Harry fell asleep wishing he'd had a name to cry out as he came.

December 10

Yes, I'm selfish. Yes, I know who you are, but you do not know who I am. In rebuttal, however, I say to you that we are equal. I have no expectations of you beyond your written page. I'm more honest with you than I've been with anyone in my entire life. This isn't a stretch for you, as you are, by nature, an honest person. Perhaps the reality is that I need this cloak of secrecy and you don't. Can you accept that?

I am not a little surprised that you have yet to figure out my identity. It seems fairly obvious to me. After giving it some thought, I've concluded that either (a) you're an utter moron, or (b) your perception of the letter writer is completely antithetical to your perception of the real person. The latter I suspect.

In light of this spectacular disconnect, I doubt I'll ever reveal my identity. Probably a blessing for both of us. If my insistence at anonymity becomes onerous and you wish to stop writing, just say so. It isn't fair. I agree. I am not a fair person. All I can say in my own defense is that the person on this page is someone no one else has had the privilege to meet.

Fuck you. I'm not a moron and I'm a fairly good judge of character besides. If I wasn't, I'd have stopped reading after the second letter. You're not honest with me, you're just selective in what you say. Don't think that I don't know the difference.

Harry paused for a moment, marshalling his thoughts into something less violent. Less angry. He could almost appreciate where the letter writer was coming from; it hadn't been Harry who'd initiated this correspondence, after all. Maybe his bloke, this person, had just needed an outlet: someone to talk to who wouldn't judge or make fun. Well Harry could certainly understand that, couldn't he?

I'm sorry. That's rubbish of me. I should start a new parchment but I won't.

What will you do after school? It's nearly done, you know. I don't know what I'm going to do. Well, everyone knows what I'm going to do but I mean after that. If I survive, I always thought that I'd want to be an Auror. I'm not sure now. There are a lot of other things I'd like to do. Travel. I've never left Britain. I want to see the ocean, I think I'd like it. I can see myself flying across the Channel on a dark moonless night so the Muggles couldn't see me.

December 15

Thank you.

What do I want to do after school? That is as much out of my hands as it is yours. All I want to do is survive this war, although I am not convinced that the survivors will be the lucky ones. Aren't you ever furious that you never were allowed to be a boy? If I were you, I'd probably be institutionalized in St. Mungo's by now. First, parked at those nasty relatives of yours after your parents were murdered, then saddling you with saving the wizarding world single-handedly when you were just a child. A CHILD!

While you are the ultimate poster boy for sacrifice, we've all dedicated most of our souls to this impending battle. There isn't a child here at Hogwarts that doesn't talk about "Before the war," "During the war," "After the war." The war is our yardstick, our measure. For everything.

You and I have morphed into men over the summer. Our bodies have betrayed us. But I don't feel like a man, nor did I ever feel like a child. Ever. I don't think you did either.

Not that I realized this until recently.

While walking through Muggle London this summer, I fell in behind the most annoying Muggle brood. There must have been twenty in this family. Oh all right, five of them. The parents were being extraordinarily silly, making faces, sticking out their tongues, and telling jokes where the beginning of every joke began with "Knock, knock." I kid you not. It was completely inexplicable. Amazingly, the children were amused by all this, giggling for what seems like hours after every joke. My first thought was if either of my parents were to ever display such lack of gravitas, I'd owl St. Mungo's immediately and confine them to a padded room without a second thought. My second, however, was how much I hated those Muggle children for having the nerve to be so carefree. Have you ever felt carefree? I almost hexed them I was so jealous.

I stood outside of the Leaky Cauldron, watching this family walk away from me, the sound of their laughter fainter with each step they took, and I wondered if I was the only seventeen-year old who woke up in the morning chronologically seventeen but who felt like seventy. And then I realized you might know what it was like.

Our generation's childhoods were considered a given gift to Dumbledore and Voldemort. They killed off one generation and then had to wait for their offspring to grow up. How impatient they must have been! But they couldn't even see fit to let us be children. Our allegiance was demanded at our first breath. They feasted on our youth to keep the war alive. And now we are men. Ripe for killing. Are you holding on to a sliver of your soul just for yourself, Harry? Something to have after this is over? Something to share? With someone?

I don't know what that means. I haven't thought about anything but killing Voldemort for two years now. Until this year and these letters with you, I've had nothing of myself to give to anyone or anything that might get in the way of the one goal: killing Voldemort. What am I going to have when that's finished? Someone as wise as you once said that I must hurt so much that I feel I will bleed to death because of it.

It's not true. Some days I don't feel as though I'm capable of feeling anything but there are days when I feel like I'm unstoppable. Invincible. I've got a part to play and whether I chose it or not, it's mine and I'm going to do it, full stop.

There are days that I understand what you mean about the stones, though. I wake up and when I look in the mirror, I see someone who looks like a person I used to know. The eyes staring back at me are blank and lifeless. I feel thankful that they're still green and not yet scarlet. Forget I said that.

You're mistaken about one thing. Dumbledore. He didn't kill off anybody. He's done what he can to protect me, always. He might die doing it and I have no blame to place on him. He didn't ask for his role any more than I asked for mine. Leave off about him, too.

What are you doing for Christmas? I've been asked to come home with someone, but I thought that maybe if you wanted to ... nevermind. Are you going home or staying at Hogwarts?

December 18

I am not wise. I am bitter.

You didn't answer me about Christmas.

December 20

Yes, I'm going home for Christmas. You are going to the Weasleys, I assume. I love Christmas. And not for what you think. Although I do admit that I am something of a present whore. But that's not all. My parents, whose relationship is probably worthy of study at St. Mungo's, really try during the holidays. They throw an enormous New Year's Eve party, the details of which are only thing in the entire fucking universe they don't fight about. They actually act like they love each other, chatting about what to serve, what party favors to hand out, what color scheme they should have this year. These discussions are endless and go on far into the night for a solid week. And it's really quite funny, because the party is the same every year. No detail changes. Not one thing. But it's like discussing the details ad nauseam makes them remember a time when they didn't fight, when they actually talked to each other instead of at each other, and we all get to pretend for a week or two that this is the way it is, instead of the way it was.

I always get a ton of very cool clothes. Which I love. Which I look very good in. In fact, I look like a fucking stud.

Happy Christmas, Harry. I hope you have a nice holiday.

Happy Christmas to you, too.

I'll

Would you wa

Hope you have a nice holiday.

January 4
Thank you for the gloves, they came in handy over the break. Ron's Mum decided that she wanted a snow village in the garden and we spent most of Christmas day building snowmen. Personally I think she just wanted the lot of us out of the kitchen, but it was fun anyway.

Happy New Year. How was the party? As good as you were expecting? I hope so. I liked hearing you talk about your family. It's nice to think that you can get along with them for the short time you have together when you're not at school.

There's only one Christmas I can remember having had with real family and I don't mean the Dursleys, they don't count. The Christmas of fifth year I spent at my godfather's house. It was brilliant.

I like being with Ron's family too, though.

I am glad you liked the gloves. Your hands looked cold the other day.

Happy New Year, Harry.

I missed you.

January 5
Thanks. I missed you, too, but feel weird saying it.

What are your plans for the new year? Did you make any serious resolutions? I made one, but I'm not going to tell you what it is.

He folded up the parchment in his usual manner. Left to right, top to bottom and then diagonally so that it made a small triangle. He stood up, snatched his goblet from the table and gulped down the rest of his pumpkin juice. He nodded briefly to Hermione and Ron before striding across the Hall. He glanced once toward the Slytherin table as had become habit ever since learning that his bloke had shagged Zabini.

He made brief eye contact with Zabini but looked away almost at once, a familiar heat rising across his cheeks and in his trousers. Harry practically ran out of the Great Hall and up the stairs to get to the Charms corridor. He stuffed his letter in the visor, and then ducked into the bathroom.

January 6

What a horrible way to start the New Year. Do not even consider shagging Finch-Fletchley. Possibly the worst lay I've ever had. What was I thinking? A Hufflepuff!

What the fuck? thought Harry as he read the letter. He fucked Justin?

Harry felt white hot anger rise in his chest, a jealous monster was clawing to get out. He wasn't allowed to do that. He certainly wasn't supposed to be telling Harry about it, either. Hadn't he said that there would be no more talk about sex?

Harry ignored the heated looks he was getting from Hermione and Ron across the Common Room and picked up his quill.

Three new sheets of parchment later, and he managed to write out a response without dozens of holes in the paper where he'd pressed that the quill too hard that it had poked right through. Harry left to deliver his letter, dodging through one of his short-cuts to avoid encountering any Prefects who might be making their rounds.

So you're not a Hufflepuff, then. You're doing quite the job of exposing yourself, aren't you? You've already told me that you're not a Gryffindor. Now I know that you're not a Hufflepuff either. Interesting. And you're a bloke in my year. This narrows it down considerably.

I'm onto you, you know. You can't hide forever. There's only one -- okay maybe two -- blokes who I know you aren't so it's only a matter of time before I call you out.

I thought you said no more talk about sex.

When he reached the Charms corridor, Harry was momentarily taken aback to discover that it wasn't empty. Lavender Brown was there, lingering just outside Flitwick's classroom. He didn't remember seeing Lavender in the Common Room earlier and as it was well past ten o'clock, Harry couldn't figure out why she would be hanging around in the corridor.

He smiled at her and his eyes dropped unconsciously to her chest. He was thinking of what the letter writer had said about how she'd fuck anyone. His anger over learning that his bloke had slept with Justin leapt in his chest again and he had the mometary urge to approach Lavender, just to see what might happen.

“Hi,” he said as she turned to him. Her eyes widened when she saw that it was him, as though she'd been expecting someone else.

“Er,” he stammered. He felt sure he was blushing again and more than he had when he'd locked gazes with Zabini the day before. Lavender's brow crinkled a bit and she toyed with her fringe in apparent embarrassment. He stepped forward hesitantly, racking his brain for what to say. Just as he opened his mouth, he saw her gaze shift to something just over his shoulder and a smile creeped across her face.

He turned around and scowled. Malfoy was approaching from the other end of the corridor. Harry's blood started to boil instantly. So that must be why Lavender was skulking around the corridor after hours. She was meeting Malfoy.

Harry rolled his eyes, threw a sneer at Malfoy and stalked off past Lavender. He wasn't going to be able to leave his letter now, not with Lavender and that utter fuck Malfoy hanging about. He ducked into a passageway and took off for the owlery. He'd just have to wait until they left before depositing his letter into the visor.

Hedwig flew down to greet him as he entered the owlery. He stroked her head, seething about being thwarted by Malfoy. He fished a quill from his robes and opened the letter he still clutched in his hand.

January 7

Yes, I slipped up there. Twice. (a) Discussing my sex life; and (b) the Hufflepuff thing. But honestly, do you think the writer of these letters is a Hufflepuff? Possibly the most insulting thing you could ever write to me.

So we've whittled down my identity to two houses: Ravenclaw or Slytherin. I'm certainly intelligent enough to be a Ravenclaw--and certainly devious enough to be a Slytherin.

Malfoy was chatting up Brown so you couldn't move in? This is the infamous Harry Potter, youngest seeker in a century, ceding to Draco Malfoy? Although I must admit, he's formidable competition in the fucking department.

Be honest. Who would you want to fuck? A Ravenclaw (a) who will make sure that there is at least a couch to bend over; (b) who will have two tubes of lube in the case of any eventuality; and (c) post-coitus will explain in excruciating detail why you had such a good time. Or. Or. The Slytherin (a) who could care less where you fuck as long as it's right now; (b) who if no lube is available will rim you until you beg; and (c) whose only comment will be, "If we don't shag right now, I'll rip your balls off."

I rest my case.

Don't be so hard on Mr. Malfoy. He wouldn't make you search for a couch while you were suffering from a crippling case of blue balls.

Don't tell me, you've fucked Malfoy too? He's a bastard. I bet he fucks you dry without so much as a thank you after.

You don't seem able to resist talking about your sex life. Like rubbing it in, do you?

I suppose it's just as well that he moved in. I didn't know what to say to Lavender anyway. Does one just walk up to someone and ask for a shag? Who would say yes to that? It seems fairly pathetic to me.

January 10

I can't seem to get away from discussing my sex life. Or should I say, you can't. No, he's not the world's most perfect bastard in bed as he is in every other aspect of his life. In fact, I think I can honestly say that you would be most surprised should you ever, horror of horrors, find yourself in his (or him in your) bed. He is an extremely considerate lover and, although I think he would vehemently deny this, rather playful. You would have a good time. Trust me. And he has an incredible body. Don't take my word for it; ask Zabini or Brown.

Harry rolled his eyes as he read the letter.

Anyone would think you're in love with him. You won't convince me that he's not a fucking nasty git who should have been drowned at birth, so stop trying. I bet his mother wishes she'd offed him while he was still in his pram. I wish she had, would have saved us all a world of trouble.

January 14

Color me surprised. You hate Malfoy. Yes, I agree he's a…what did you write…"A fucking nasty git who should have been drowned at birth." Yes, he is often nasty, and most of his fury is directed at you and your friends. It would be impossible to deny that. Although I would point out that based on the fact that Dumbledore made him Head Boy, he's not as horrible or as limited as you are determined to believe. Perhaps you are a convenient target.

A convenient target? Why am I a target for him?

What the fuck are you on about? I never did anything to him but he's like Snape; he hates me because my name is Harry Potter and that's all. He doesn't know anything about me.

Harry walked away from the armor in a fit of rage. His temper always seemed so close to boiling point these days but this conversation about Malfoy was threatening to make it spill over. He felt betrayed. To hear him defending Malfoy was almost too much to take.

January 16

Why are you a target? I don't know. Ask him. He might be more sympathetic to you than you would think. His birthright has left him with no more choice than yours did.

I'm not going to ask him anything. Sympathetic? Right, because after six fucking years he's going to realize that he's been completely wrong about me and we're going to kiss and make up? Don't make me laugh. Or puke, rather, which is what I'd do if I had to kiss the git.

That reminds me. Did you say something to him? About me, I mean. In Potions today, we were in the store cupboard and there was a thing. Well, I mean, he was standing in front of the toadspawn that I needed and when I told him to move out of the way he didn't say anything.

Didn't even sneer in that way he does. He just reached behind him to grab the jar and handed it to me. It was unnerving.

But then we went back to our table (I think Snape fucking gets off on pairing us together in Potions, as if he wants to see what might happen) and he was right back to normal. I didn't get a second punch in before the overgrown bat glided over (the man isn't normal, does he even have feet?) and dragged us out of the dungeon by our ears.

January 20

Malfoy was actually nice to you in Potions today? For all of thirty seconds? Let me guess. He said something polite. Being completely overwhelmed by Malfoy appearing to be remotely human, you knocked over the potion that the two of you had been working on. He responded by calling you an oaf, the two of you got into a fist-fight, and Snape ended up giving both of you detention.

Fuck off. He called me a lummox as I'm sure you know, not an oaf.

You seem to know enough about it. If I didn't know better, I'd guess that you were there. Are you Ernie? I know you're not Goyle or Crabbe. They aren't in Potions and anyway, I'll be forced to gouge out my own eyes if you turn out to be one of Malfoy's cronies. Would explain why you know so much about him.

January 21

Okay, so he called you a lummox not an oaf. Detention as horrible as usual? How's the eye?

CZĘŚĆ IV

It's alright, thanks. Hermione fixed it up with this cream she got off of Fred and George.

Harry didn't finish this letter right away. Hermione had made him promise to meet her and Ron in the library to work on their Defence Against the Dark Arts project. The assignment was intended to help them prepare for N.E.W.T.s. They'd been instructed to pair up in groups of twos or threes and come up with a strategy for how they would defend themselves in a large scale attack. Hermione was in charge of Logistics, Ron Supplies and Harry the Arsenal of Defensive Magic. It would all be extremely fascinating if Harry didn't have the sneaking suspicion that the volley of Defensive spells he was lining up was going to be used as an actual battle plan. They were to present their strategy before the entire class at the end of May, just before they took exams.

Harry found himself jealously guarding the more telling details of their project; he was more than a little afraid that the Slytherins in the class would be drinking in every word that he uttered with plans to share the information with their parents. Nearly every one of whom Harry knew to be a Voldemort supporter, if not a Death Eater to boot.

As the term wore on and he found himself approaching ever nearer to the end of the school year, Harry's sense of foreboding increased. The excitement to be out of school seemed infectious in the attitudes of his fellow year-mates, but Harry could not catch it. He was looking forward to his own brand of excitement once the term was over and none of it was happy. The one thing Harry looked forward to was the letters he received from his bloke.

January 22

You're afraid? We're all afraid. You must never think that you're alone. I am here.

Oh, go to fucking hell, alright?

Do you know what's waiting for me? Do you? I'm a marked man. There's a price on my head that half the wizarding world is dying to collect. I'm seventeen years old and chances are very good that that's as old as I'll ever get.

Don't fucking tell me that you're here. You're somewhere, that's for sure, but it's not `here'. You sit there, wherever you are, and you write pretty words on a page telling me that I'm not alone but you'll do fuck all to prove it, right?

Just stop it, alright? It's not fair. If you want to `be here' for me then you'd be here for me now in the way that I want you to be. That's not scrawled on a fucking piece of parchment for me to wank to at night. I'm going to die without ever having been kissed properly. Never having been held like a lover might. Never having been `the fucker' or `the fuckee' as you call it.

It's not easy being on the side of right, you know. The end looks pretty fucking scary no matter who says they're `here' for me.

January 23

The side of right? Console yourself with that notion when you are standing next Granger's grave or Weasley's grave. Or both their graves. Do you honestly believe that Death Eaters don't love their children? They believe that their cause is as "right" as you do. It's not all about power. Come on, you're not that stupid.

Why do I believe there is no "right"? Because each "side" will be digging graves. Each "side" will be burying their children, their husbands, their wives, their friends. I hope to christ your notion that it was *right* comforts you when you smell freshly turned earth from newly dug graves.

I'm sorry for getting so upset. I can tell that you're not much better off and I don't know what to say.

We're going to have to agree to disagree on this matter.

January 26

Yes, I am upset. We've never known what life is like without Dumbledore and Voldemort pitted against each other for hegemony of the wizarding world. It is almost impossible to imagine my future without this conflict defining the perimeter of my entire experience.

My birthday is soon. I've read over my letters to you. I sound so old.

When the stones are just too fucking heavy, when I feel I only have one breath left in me, I picture myself in Rome, sitting on the edge of the Trevi Fountain. It is a beastly hot day, and I have one foot in the water. I am reading a novel, an iced espresso is sitting on the stone ledge next to my leg. My knee is resting against another. A hand absentmindedly caresses my thigh.

And I can breathe again.

Is it my hand on your leg? I think it is.

January 28

I will say this. I do believe that you will win. Not because you are right or that Dumbledore is right, but because you are more powerful than you know. Than Voldemort. Dumbledore knows this. I know it. I know it because I, too, am a very powerful wizard, much more so than anyone gives me credit for. I pick up your letters, and your magic caresses my fingers. It answers my own. It calls to me. Every time I get a letter from you, I press it to my face and it's like you're kissing me.

Harry lifted the letter to his own face and inhaled the familiar musky scent his bloke's letters always had. He wiped his face after and ran his hand across his thigh to dry the tears that had come away.

Sometimes I wonder if it even matters who will win. Whatever happens is going to tear this world apart, isn't it? Who will be left to pick up the pieces?

That's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me. Besides that I have a nice arse, anyway. I'd rather it was my lips kissing you but I suppose I'll have to settle for my parchment for now, won't I?

Why won't you meet me? Hasn't this gone on long enough? Are you satisfied now that I'm not going to hex you on sight? I told you I don't care if you're the Giant Squid. Fuck, at this point I don't care if you turn out to be Hagrid. Wait. Okay, maybe a little but I would learn to snog on stilts.

January 29

Please ignore previous letter.

Nice try. It doesn't work that way.

Dumbledore's allowing us to have a ball on Valentine's Day, did you know? Do you want to go?

February 5

Am I going to the Valentine's Day Ball? Yes, I will be there. Who are you going with?

Harry took his time in responding. He'd been so nervous waiting for a response that he hadn't realized that he was really expecting the letter writer to say yes. He'd honestly thought that perhaps he was taking his time with a reply because he was genuinely considering going to the ball with Harry.

It had not been easy to muster the courage to ask. Writing the words on parchment was the easy part. Coming to terms with the fact that if he, Harry Potter, were to show up to the ball - - on Valentine's Day, no less - - with a boy, it would cause a scandal. He'd be admitting to the entire school that he fancied boys. That he was gay.

It was a calculated risk and he'd spent many wakeful hours lying in his four-poster running through every scenario for how it would turn out. He saw in his mind's eye Ron's furious face, Ginny's dejected one, and Hermione's initial disapproval. Harry was willing to do it, though. Willing to do whatever it took to meet this person face-to-face. He spent little time thinking of anything else. The urge to do what he'd been thinking about for months was nearly overwhelming him.

No one. I wouldn't know how to ask anyone, anyway. Too shy.

I might not even go.

February 7

I do not want to hear that "too shy" bullshit. Ask someone, you twit.

It's not bullshit. I, well, I did ask someone. He said no. Actually that's not true. He didn't answer me at all which is pretty much the same as no, isn't it?

It's you, you know. I asked you after you told me to ignore that letter, don't you remember? But you didn't say anything about it.

I can't take it anymore. I want to meet you, how many times do I have to tell you that I don't care who you are?

February 8

No, we cannot meet. You would regret it. You must trust me on this. I cannot believe you still don't know who I am.

Harry puzzled over this. In truth, he thought for sure that he knew the true identity of the letter writer, but had been avoiding acknowledging it. He wanted his bloke to want him to know and he hadn't thought that they were there yet. From what this last letter was saying, though, it seemed that maybe they were. That maybe he really was waiting for Harry to call him out, waiting for Harry to approach him in the light of day and not on parchment.

It was curious, he thought. For so many months he'd come to associate “his bloke” with someone wholly unconnected with him. He didn't see him in the faces he passed in the corridors or in the other boys he shared lessons with. He didn't really have much in the way of an impression for what he looked like, either. Up until now, it really hadn't mattered. To hear his bloke tell it, Harry was an absolute nutter not to have figured it out already.

Later that night, Harry decided to make the first move. He waited until nearly all his classmates had left the Astronomy Tower before calling out, “Zabini!”

Zabini wheeled around and looked at Harry appreciatively. Harry watched him mutter something to Malfoy and Parkinson before he acknowledged Harry. All three turned to look at him and Harry noticed with great pleasure that Malfoy's lip curled as he grabbed hold of Parkinson's elbow and guided her down the stairs.

“Potter,” said Zabini. He was walking towards Harry with a predatory look on his face.

Harry gulped, and he could feel his face burning with embarrassment.

No going back now, he told himself.

“Er, I wondered if we could have a word?”

“One or several?” Zabini asked. Harry watched as his lips curved into a salacious grin. “Or we could not talk at all. Much more fun that way, don't you think?”

Harry backed up as Zabini stalked toward him. It was only when his back hit the cold stone wall of the Tower that he started to think better of his plan. This just didn't seem right, he thought. His bloke wouldn't be as aggressive as this, would he? Wouldn't move in for the kill without so much as a `shall we shag now' would he?

Zabini pressed his body against Harry's and leaned in close. Harry could feel his breath on his cheek. He turned his head just as Zabini lowered his; he felt Zabini's lips skate across his cheek and land on his ear.

Harry gasped. This is worse than kissing Cho. He squirmed when he felt a firm hand press into his belly and jumped when he felt that same hand slide into his robes and caress his half-hard dick.

He slipped out from Zabini's body and winced as his back scraped against the hard stone of the Astronomy Tower's wall.

“This was a mistake,” said Harry as he gathered his bag from the floor below his telescope. He clutched his bag to his chest and said, “Sorry.” He ran down the stairs; Zabini's cackle was ringing in his ears until he got back to the Common Room.

Harry threw himself in bed, ripped open his robes and thrust his hand below his trousers. He didn't even bother to undo his belt or flies. His dick was hard enough to puncture steel and he brought himself off in less than a minute. He thought of how it had been to feel Zabini's rising cock against his thighs, and he bit the side of his hand as he came.

When he calmed down, he thought that though he hadn't seen it, his bloke had to be right: Zabini's cock really did have to be the size of Wales. He climbed out of his bed and reached into his bag for parchment and quill.

February 9

So Zabini propositioned you? Before or after you accused him being the letter writer? Are you sure it was a real proposition? You're rather naive about these matters. But in a good way.

I didn't get a chance to ask him if he was you or not, thank you very much. It was mortifying; like being attacked by the Giant squid!

He had his hand on my dick, I'm fairly fucking sure it was a genuine proposition. I'm not as naïve as you seem to think.

It did feel fantastic. I very nearly didn't make it back to the Tower before I had to toss off.

February 10

Good one, Potter. Yes, a hand to the crotch qualifies as a proposition. I can't believe you turned him down.

What do you mean you can't believe I turned him down? Why not? I thought he was you! I thought that if I just, if I just approached him - - I mean you - - that you'd stop hiding and just. I don't know, just admit it and we could -- well, we could talk and stuff.

You know what I mean. I didn't know he was going to do that, what he did, and yes. Alright, it felt good. It felt excellent if you want to know the truth but I didn't want to do that. Not with him, anyway. I want to do it with

I don't want to do that with him.

Do you still feel as though I'm kissing you with every letter? I'd like to know what it's like to do it for real, you know.

February 11

I told you to ignore that letter.

And I told you that it doesn't work like that. You don't get to take it back. Ha ha.

See you at the ball. Or not, I suppose. You'll see me probably. I asked someone after all, just as a friend. Luna's good for a laugh. Do you know her? Anyway, Happy Valentine's Day. Hope yours is a good one.

February 15

I want to apologize profusely for last night. It was unforgivable of me. Not embracing you. Hexing you.

I was having a cigarette in the shadow of the tower, and I saw you sitting there in the dark. The gay tinkle of the music from the Great Hall seemed almost obscene against the dejected sloop of your shoulders. I could tell something was terribly wrong and then as I neared you, I heard you crying. I regret doing the immobility hex on you, but how else was I to comfort you? I do not regret holding you. My mother used to hum that exact lullaby in my ear when I was small. It always made me feel safe and loved. Did you feel safe and loved?

Yes.

Thank you, but you didn't have to. Your date must have missed your company. Sorry, but I wasn't having a great time. I had hoped that -- well, nevermind.

Thanks again. You smelled really nice.

February 16

Good.

Harry didn't have time to check the armor for a letter for the next few days. He had his team practicing for their next Quidditch game. The match was against Slytherin and Harry was determined to pummel Malfoy one last time.

The day of the match dawned without a cloud in the sky. Harry and Ron had breakfast in the Great Hall with the rest of the team before heading to the changing rooms to get into their uniforms. He delivered his pre-game pep talk with the usual words of encouragement. When he strode to the middle of the pitch to shake hands with the Slytherin captain, he shot a challenging glare at Malfoy, who smirked back at him.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle and Harry zoomed into the air on his Firebolt. His eyes scanned over the pitch looking for the Snitch and he caught sight of Malfoy looking at him, a curious expression on his face. For a moment, Harry thought of shooting Malfoy a malevolent look but resisted. As happened so often these days, the words that he'd read about Malfoy came back to him:

His birthright has left him with no more choice than yours did.

He wondered if that was true. What did he really know about Malfoy? He was a git, no doubt about that. His Death Eater father had tried to kill Harry more times than he could count. There could be no doubt that Malfoy's upbringing could be blamed for the way he was, but other than that? Harry frowned.

If Harry had been raised as bigoted as Malfoy, would he be the same way? Would he be like Dudley? Believing and spouting off about anything and everything that Uncle Vernon said to be true just because Uncle Vernon labeled it as fact? Did Malfoy really believe half the things he said or did he just repeat them sycophantically because it was expected of him?

Harry's musings were cut short at the sight of Malfoy streaking across the sky. He had spotted the Snitch! Harry dove after him; his legs were straddling his Firebolt as he urged it to go faster as if through sheer will he could gain more speed. Malfoy was closer to it; he was going to get there first. Harry lay flat on his broom and put his head down. He was right upon Malfoy now; he could see every single twig in Malfoy's Nimbus. Malfoy noticed him finally -- he turned his head to look at him, grinned, but the split second he had taken to do so had given Harry his edge. Harry shot forward in a burst of speed with his hand outstretched and closed his fingers around the Snitch.

Harry pulled the struggling ball to his chest and turned to face the Gryffindor supporters. Behind him, he heard Malfoy swear and Harry looked back at him. Malfoy's face was sweaty and red with fury. Harry forced the excited smile from his face and nodded once in acknowledgement. It really had been a good game.

The party in the Common Room was jubilant. Hermione was making it her duty to ensure that the lower year students didn't partake of any beverage that Seamus offered them and Ron, sitting on the couch, watched her move about the party. Harry sat with him, sipping on his butterbeer as Ron threw back shots of the vodka Seamus had smuggled in. Harry stayed in the Common Room for an hour or so before he made his way to the dormitory. He hadn't written a letter for almost a week.

February 20

You played a brilliant game. Congratulations! You always do. No, I didn't see Malfoy's face when you got the snitch on the last second, but I can imagine the rage, the frustration. I don't think he will ever beat you, but you do have to admire him for never giving up. Don't feel very well, must sign off.

I'm sorry you weren't well. Better now?

About Malfoy. That's not what I meant, actually. He wasn't sneering or anything. He, well, he smiled at me. And not that half-smirk that comes out more like an evil leer, but he genuinely smiled. I mean, he'd almost gotten the Snitch, hadn't he? For the first time in almost seven years, Malfoy was about to beat me at Quidditch. I wanted to

I felt bad after. That he didn't get it. I think you're right about him not giving up. I'm really going to miss Quidditch. I can't believe that's the last time I'll ever play him. It feels strange, really. I almost wish he'd have beaten me just this once.

I've got to go. Hermione's threatening to put the thumbscrews to me and Ron if we keep dodging her about our Defence Against the Dark Arts project. I hope yours is coming along.

February 24

Yes, I feel better. Marginally.

I'm glad.

February 26

My mother and I visited London last summer for our yearly mother/son shopping binge. Since we have virtually nothing to say to each other these days, all discussion revolves around whether this year's fashions are more hideous than last year's. Inevitably they are, but it doesn't stop us from spending a goblin's weight in galleons. Clothes are one of the few safe topics left. Other commentary, say, "Merlin's balls, that arse is begging to be shagged," wouldn't go over well.

While my mother was getting fitted, I walked into a Muggle shop to buy a pair of black leather pants. A mystery: Why are Italian Muggles the only tailors on this entire planet who can sew a decent pair of leather pants? Another aside: I look utterly shaggable in these pants. A wet dream walking.

Anyway, while debating over the color of one pair of black pants versus another pair of black pants--yes, there are various shades of black, so stop rolling your eyes, Potter--the background music changed. I stood transfixed for the entire duration of the song. When it ended, I buttonholed a salesman, unshaggable with a capital "U," and asked him if he knew the name of the band. "The Beatles," he sneered. "What planet did you grow up on?" Pat me on the back, Harry. I did not hex his dick to the size of a nicoise olive. Although I was sorely tempted. The one line that has haunted me ever since is, "And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make."

Doesn't that capture perfectly a Gryffindor/Slytherin romance? Stop frowning, Harry. Light and dark. Give and take. You're frowning again. Think about it. The Gryffindor teaches the Slytherin about love, and the Slytherin teaches the Gryffindor about passion.

Leather pants? And you're sure your mother doesn't know you're gay? My uncle would spot my queerness a mile away if he ever saw me in leather pants.

You have a much prettier view on Gryffindor/Slytherin relations than I'll ever have. Are we talking about Slytherins in general or particular ones? Besides, you make it sound like we Gryffindors are fools who wear our hearts on our sleeves or something.

I suppose I can see what you mean about passion. Malfoy and Quidditch are fairly good examples of that. He starts every game the same way he ends them, all determination and heart no matter how many times he gets beaten. By me, anyway. He never loses games to the other Houses. I wonder what it is about Gryffindor. I mean, I know I'm a good Seeker, but he is too. He flies really well, no one could ever question that.

I watched him closely in the last match, you know. He's, well, if I had to describe it (and don't you ever fucking tell him I said this), he's pretty elegant on his broomstick. And I don't mean that in a “Wow, his legs look pretty fit with a broomstick between them” sort of way, either. I know what you're thinking.

There are only four months and two days of term left. Time is running out.

February 27

That's the first nice thing you've said about him. I was beginning to think you were harboring a very unhealthy obsession about Malfoy. Elegance on a broom. He would like to be described that way.

Ha ha. I am not obsessed with him! What the fuck makes you say that? You're the one who keeps bringing him up. Maybe you're the one with the problem, did you consider that? He must really be absolutely fantastic in bed -- you should go find him and fuck him again. Looks like that's all it takes to make someone like him.

That's another day gone. Soon the term will be over and you'll have lost the chance to meet me.

I don't know what you're so afraid of.

What can I do to make you believe that I. Don't. Fucking. Care?

I don't care who you are or what house you're in. If we meet and I find out that you're Lord Voldemort, I swear I'll still snog you within an inch of your life. Okay, so maybe that's stretching it a bit. Let me say it a different way, as long as you're anyone but Voldemort, I'll snog you. Does that work? I'm getting desperate.

Harry folded the letter and put it in his pocket before returning his attention back to Binns' lecture on the numerous ways troll disputes have been resolved. None of them ended terribly well for the wizards involved. Harry let his mind wander about making that night's letter drop-off. His bloke hadn't even acknowledged his last two requests to meet and he didn't expect any different this time.

He wasn't being coy; he really was getting desperate. He was tired of fucking his own hand to the image of a headless body, having no face to associate in his mind. It was bad enough that he was afraid he would get a hard-on the next time he saw Nearly Headless Nick.

After dinner, he told Hermione and Ron that he'd see them in the library later and he broke out in a run to get back to Gryffindor Tower in order to retrieve his cloak. He made his way to the Charms corridor like he always did, dropped the letter in the visor and walked away. He got half-way down the stairs by the bathroom before he threw his Cloak over his head and tip-toed back to the suit of armor. He sat down a few meters from it, crossed his legs and waited.

Harry didn't have to wait long. Less than fifteen minutes after he sat down, he heard the faraway sound of footsteps coming in his direction. He felt his pulse quicken. The anticipation was going to kill him. He was finally going to find out the identity of his mystery person. Harry closed his eyes, not wanting to open them until his bloke was standing in front of him.

A parade of seventh-year boys danced across his brain as he went through the list of possible candidates. It was a short list -- his bloke had eliminated half of the suspects by letting information slip; he knew who it was down to and he ticked them off on his fingers under the cloak.

There was Terry Boot. Harry didn't think it could be him based on what his bloke had said about Boot's bedroom performance.

Zacharias Smith. Harry's stomach churned at the idea of that git being the letter writer. Wait, it can't be Smith. He's a Hufflepuff. Thank Merlin.

He could hear the steps getting closer now although the person was making quite a meal of approaching the armor. Harry squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could. His heart was hammering in his chest; he thought it impossible that the sound didn't echo off the stone walls.

Right, he thought to keep his mind off the pounding of his heart. So. Slytherins.

He didn't think it could be Crabbe or Goyle; he had little doubt that Malfoy was also out, as was Zabini.

Zabini's performance in the Astronomy Tower that night proved that since he would obviously have had no issue with agreeing to meet Harry long before now. He chewed his lip as his mind wandered over Theodore Nott. Nott was an unknown quantity and, for a moment, Harry thought that it was possible that the letter writer was Nott. It would make sense with all the talk about family obligations and such. Plus, who better to promote the benefits of a Slytherin/Gryffindor romance than an actual Slytherin?

Harry was still wondering about Nott and he hadn't noticed that the footsteps had stopped. Panicked, he opened his eyes and looked up, afraid that he may have missed him. His eyes caught on the person's feet and traveled slowly up to his waist. He could see that his arms were bent; he was holding something in front of him.

He was reading Harry's letter, of course.

Harry's eyes continued up to the person's face, though he didn't need to see -- he knew instantly who his bloke was. He was unmistakable.

Harry gaped. His mouth was frozen open in horror. He couldn't have moved if someone hexed him from behind.

There, right in front of him, holding Harry's letter with a grin on his face, stood Draco Malfoy.

He watched Malfoy's eyes return to the top of the page as though he wanted to read Harry's words for a second time. Still grinning, he folded the letter and placed it in a pocket of his robes. He shook his head and gave a small laugh before he walked past Harry down the corridor and out of sight. In his wake, Harry inhaled the same scent that he had smelled the night that his bloke - - that Malfoy - - had hugged him after the Valentine's Day ball.

He didn't return to the Charms corridor the following day or the day after that. He felt sick. It was as though his best friend had betrayed him. He was filled with a rage so all consuming that he would not have been surprised if his head exploded.

How the fuck could it be Draco fucking Malfoy? How?

He didn't think it was possible that the world in which he lived could be this fucking unfair. Wasn't it enough that his parents had been killed? That his godfather had been murdered? That he'd spent the last six years fighting for his life from Voldemort's annual attempts to do him in? Surely it couldn't be that fate had to take away his one fucking piece of salvation mere months before he faced becoming a murderer or getting killed himself.

And it's sodding Malfoy that I've been writing to all this time. For months! I fucking well told him that I'm gay! What was I thinking? Crying on his shoulder, practically begging him to fuck me? I bet he's had a good laugh, too. Oh, what a good joke it is that poor Harry Potter's a poof! Poor Potter wanks to thoughts of me every night. Stupid tosser can't even find a bloke to bugger him. Boo hoo hoo. Fuck!

CZĘŚĆ V

March 1

Harry spent the weekend brooding in the Common Room.

He didn't go down to the Great Hall for meals. He didn't eat the food that Hermione brought back to him, either. He snapped at anyone who dared talk to him and when he couldn't shrug even Hermione off, he retreated to the dormitory where he lay in his bed, fully dressed with the bed hangings spelled shut. Not even Ron could coax him out with complaints about it being his birthday and why didn't Harry want to come with them to Hogsmeade to celebrate? Harry didn't want to see anyone, most especially Malfoy and his gang of Slytherin cronies.

In his mind's eye, Harry could see it all. He'd be sitting in the Three Broomsticks with Hermione and Ron when Malfoy walked in with Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle. Swaggered in is more like it. He'd take a seat at the bar and look over his shoulder at them, smirking. He'd turn back to Zabini, say something cutting and then they'd all look over at him in disgust.

Despite his better judgment, Harry could not stop himself from checking the visor on his way to Charms. Hermione and Ron hadn't been at breakfast; he had been quite on his own. It didn't matter now whether he checked for a letter before or after class, there could be nothing in Malfoy's letter that would make a difference either way.

Because you write about him all the fucking time. That or my sex life. No, I haven't been with anyone for weeks. Well, that's not true. Zabini and I had a one-off, and it was fucking awful. All my fault. I'm jerking off all the time. It stops me from going mad, but only just.

Stop badgering me about meeting.

Harry felt angry and exposed. He finished Malfoy's letter with a feeling that he'd been hit by a particularly nasty jinx and no one around him would tell him how to counter it.

I did not write about you all the time, you conceited fuck, and I don't give a damn about your sex life, either, Harry thought to himself as he read Malfoy's short letter for the third time since the lesson had begun. Hermione and Ron joined him almost as soon as he'd sat down and he had hidden the letter hastily, but pulled it out again once everyone's attention was drawn to the pamphlet that Professor Flitwick was handing out. Harry stared at the vibrant orange parchment and only vaguely registered that it contained studying tips for their upcoming N.E.W.T.s.

Malfoy is still fucking Zabini, is he? Good. They deserve each other. Fucking sluts.

I don't care anyway.

The worst part was that Harry did care and he hated himself for it.

Why did I have to know? Why? Didn't he tell me that I wouldn't like what I would find if I discovered who he was? Didn't he? Why the fuck didn't I just leave it alone? Fuck. I can't write to him anymore. Not when I know who he is. That's just. Just. No. I can't do it.

But he knew it was a lie. He knew he couldn't let it end like that any more than he could have kept going on with his bloke without knowing who he really was. It just wasn't in his nature and now that it had come right down to it, Harry wasn't completely sure that he cared if the letter writer really was Malfoy.

They were two separate people, as far as he was concerned.

His bloke.

Malfoy.

Harry knew that he would miss having just his bloke in his life, but he couldn't go on pretending that he didn't know that it was Malfoy.

He hung back after Charms, assuring Hermione and Ron that he'd see them both in Herbology rather than join them in the Common Room. They all had a free period and he had something he wanted to do.

“Professor?” he said when Flitwick looked at him curiously. Harry was the only one in the room besides the teacher.

“Oh, yes. What can I do for you, Mr. Potter?” said Flitwick in his squeaky voice.

“I just wondered if you would mind me using one of the desks? I have some thoughts about my Defence Against the Dark Arts project that I want to jot down before I forget. You don't mind, do you?”

Flitwick smiled at him and shook his head. “Take all the time you need, Mr. Potter. The next class isn't due for at least an hour. Ravenclaws, though, so you've probably got only fourty minutes or so to yourself.” He walked into his office and closed the door but not before Harry heard him mutter something that sounded like “over-achievers” in a tone that sounded fond.

Harry sat down, retrieved parchment and quill from his bag and began to write.

March 8

Seven days passed between leaving his letter in the visor for Malfoy and seeing Hedwig soaring towards him at breakfast. He had checked the visor every day, sometimes more than once, and come up empty every time. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. His last letter had not been kind. He'd unloaded himself on Malfoy. If he'd had to vocalize everything he'd written in his letter, he'd have shouted himself hoarse with the effort of it.

The week had passed like normal. If it weren't for the gaping hole in his heart, Harry would have felt that there was nothing at all out of the ordinary. He ate his meals in the Great Hall next to Hermione and Ron (he made sure to keep his back to the Slytherin table), attended his lessons and avoided doing his homework. Normal. Malfoy acted perfectly normal, too. He sneered at Harry and his friends just as much as he usually did, but there were times when Harry thought it seemed to cost him a great deal to do it. As if he was only doing it because he was expected to.

Hedwig landed next to his cereal bowl and held out the leg to which a tightly rolled parchment was affixed. He untied it and offered her the remains of his pumpkin juice in thanks. She nipped his hand and dipped her beak in his goblet. He quickly pocketed the letter and gave Hermione a pointed look that he hoped would tell her in no uncertain terms that she was to keep her mouth shut about the letter. He stood up from the Gryffindor table once Hedwig took off. When he walked past the Slytherin table on his way out the door, he slowed his pace and looked purposely at Malfoy.

Malfoy's eyes were locked on Harry's. He felt as though he were walking in slow-motion as he held Malfoy's gaze. Malfoy raised an eyebrow and Harry turned and strode through the double doors into the Entrance Hall.

Grateful that it was still breakfast, Harry entered the first classroom he passed. He closed the door tight behind him and sat down on the floor in front of it. He leaned back against the door and pulled Malfoy's letter out of his pocket. The ink must have still been wet when Malfoy rolled it, he thought, for there were great blotch marks on the back side of the parchment. He raised the letter to his face and sniffed. It didn't smell of fresh ink but of that distinct musky scent that Harry now knew Malfoy had. He closed his eyes and thought about how it had felt to have his bloke's arms around him that night.

Fuck you, Potter. You and that fucking invisibility cloak. I WARNED YOU! In almost every letter. How meeting me would be an enormous mistake. How you would regret it. Yet, being the nosy, insufferable, never let anything lie, Gryffindor GIT that you are, you had to push it. Had to find out.

Don't you dare say that I deceived you. That I duped you. Everything I've written to you in the past few months has been true and honest. Everything. I've been more honest with you than I've EVER been with ANYONE in my entire life, and you've reduced it to some pathetic payback. Like I'm going to announce to the Great Hall that Harry Potter is a fucking faggot. That he likes to put his fingers up his arse when he wanks off. If you think I'd do that after all these months, fuck you!

How could you not know it was me? Are you fucking clueless? Practically every single letter screams "DRACO MALFOY WROTE THIS!"

I know why you're so furious. You've discovered I'm not the person you thought I was. I'm a fairly decent human being, someone you actually like. How perfectly galling! Someone you're dying to fuck. You want to fuck me, don't you? Fuck that toerag, Malfoy. That makes you sick to your stomach, doesn't it? That's why you're furious. Not at me, but at yourself.

You can just fuck yourself, Potter. With ten fingers for all I care.

How did you think I was going to feel when I found out that it was you? Which I would have done eventually, you know. There are months of term left and you've got a mouth like a sieve, Malfoy. In every other letter, you were making comments about this boy and that boy, telling me who you weren't. By the time May rolled around, you'd have been signing your letters `Love, Draco' because there would be NO OTHER PERSON YOU COULD BE.

So I didn't figure it out without using my cloak. Big fucking deal. Do you know how long I've wanted to use my cloak to find out who you were? Since you started leaving them in the visor. That's how long I've been tempted. Every fucking time I left one, I'd think next time. Maybe next time I'll use the cloak and wait. I didn't do it because you didn't want me to know. Now I know why. Why did I do it? You said it yourself. I had to know. I HAD TO and it's nothing to do with my being a Gryffindor OR a git. I had to know because I, well. I just did, alright?

I never said that, either. I never said that I think you're going to tell the school that I'm gay. I'M GAY. Take out an ad in the Daily Prophet if you want to, I don't give a shit. What I said was that I thought it was piss poor of you to drag it out of me only to turn around and use it to your own end.

Okay, maybe I can see how you'd misinterpret that but that isn't what I meant. I meant that you used it against me. You did too, don't you dare deny it. You used it when you wrote all those pretty words to me, telling me how you'd fuck me. You used it when you told me how to wank, for fuck's sake. I'm so pissed off at you -- not me, you -- that I can't even think straight. I'm going to fail my fucking N.E.W.T.s because of this. I can't sleep.

Yes, I felt all those things that you said. Deceived, duped, whatever. I wanted to punch every inch of you I could reach. For all of about five minutes.

Of course I fucking wanted you and no, it doesn't make me sick to my stomach now. How could

Would you meet with me now? It's all out in the open, isn't it? I think we need to talk about this. Please, I just need you to. I'm asking nicely.

April 1

No, I do not want to meet with you. This is done.

Bloody hell, you made me wait a fucking month for you to tell me no? Maybe you're right after all and I never would have known who you were if it weren't for my cloak. You've got more willpower than I'll ever have. I can't believe I ever got to the Snitch first. Really.

Malfoy, look. I'm sorry for how things ended. I shouldn't have done it. Used the cloak, I mean. I just. Well, I told you I was desperate, didn't I? I wasn't lying. The thing is, in my mind you were this person who meant so much to me. I could tell you anything, I did tell you everything, more than I have ever told anyone, including Ron, and it just got to the point where I needed more. I needed more than your handwriting on a page and the image I had of you in my head when I wanked. I was in love with you, you bastard, and I didn't even know who you were. There was no name, no face. In my head, I called you “my bloke”. Stupid, isn't it? It would have made more sense to just make up a name, I suppose, but it never occurred to me that I wouldn't find out your real name eventually. I don't know.

I'm just sorry, alright? I miss you.

I assume you're still reading. You'd have just chucked it into the fire once the owl delivered it if you didn't plan to read the whole thing, wouldn't you? I thought you should know that I did it. I came out to Hermione and Ron. That's it, though. Well, not exactly. I didn't actually tell anyone else but the Gryffindors are notoriously nosy and someone overheard. By the time I got to breakfast the next day half of the girls were congratulating me and the boys were talking about some “nice boys” they wanted to set me up with.

That was supposed to be a joke about the nosy Gryffindors, by the way. Ha ha.

So I've got a date for next weekend's trip into Hogsmeade. You'll probably find out anyway but I wanted to be the one to tell you first. I'm going with Terry Boot. He's alright. Okay to look at and I already know him fairly well so I think we'll have a good time. I'm nervous, but isn't everyone on their first date?

I hope you're well.

Harry

Harry's eyes tracked Malfoy's owl as it soared across the Hall to land gracefully before its master at the Slytherin table. Hedwig couldn't be persuaded to go near the Slytherins; Harry thought privately that she was being cowardly though he'd never say that to her. He had spent a good half an hour in the owlery trying to coax her into taking the letter when Malfoy's owl swooped down and nudged Hedwig out of the way with its leg outstretched.

He watched as a small smile touched Malfoy's face once he recognized the handwriting on the outside of the parchment. Malfoy's eyes flicked once to Harry at the Gryffindor table but he looked away almost as quickly. Harry watched him pick up his coffee cup and drain it of its contents before he collected his bag from below the table and bustled out of the Great Hall.

April 4

I am owling you this letter because you MUST read it. If you don't read it to the very end, I will send you a howler next time, and the entire school will hear what I have to say. You know me. I will do it.

Are you trying to wind me up on purpose? I told you to leave Boot alone for a very good reason. The third time we fucked he essentially raped me. He'd been a little rough the first two times in a skating-close-to-the-edge but still exciting and not yet freaky sort of way. The third time he completely lost it. He likes to humiliate his partners, hurt them. I think it's because he hates himself for being gay, hates his partners for making him desire them. Stay away from him. He'll hurt you.

Do you want the gory details? He threw me on the ground, pushed me onto my stomach, and shoved into me without any lube or anything. Tore into me. Called me a bunch of names, horrible names, while he battered my arse and kidneys. Do you know why? To punish me. Because my arse was so sweet that he got off. And he hated me for it. More? Want to hear about how I bled for days afterwards, pissed blood for a week. More?

I have no right to ask this, but I am begging you. Please stay away from him.

God, that's awful. I can't believe he did that to you. I'd say I'm sorry but that seems pathetic somehow. Fuck it, I'm sorry that happened to you.

I can't not go now, I've already said that I would. It's only Hogsmeade and anyway, I'll get Hermione and Ron to go with me so he can't try anything. I don't think he would anyway but just in case he does. I don't think they'll mind. Ron doesn't like Terry much but I'll make it up to him with Honeydukes or something.

Why won't you even look at me anymore?

Harry

April 7
Was it you?

Yes, I pushed him off his broom. I saw him copping a feel off of you under the table at the Three Broomsticks. He's lucky he only broke his arm. He so much as looks in your direction again and I'll break the bastard's other arm. With my bare hands.

I thought so. Thanks, I think. That's quite chivalrous in a twisted sort of way.

Stop playing these games, Malfoy. Either you care about me or you don't. Pushing someone off their broom because they felt me up under a table? Who does that?

How many times do I have to say I'm sorry? I'M SORRY. I'll have Hermione write it across my fucking face with that jinx of hers if it will get you to talk to me. Come on. What are you doing next weekend? I could meet you on the pitch; we could fly and talk a little. Whatever you like. I won't make any plans until I hear from you either way.

Please let me know.

Harry.

April 9

Stop owling me, you annoying twit! You want to apologize in person. Right. I'll give you three minutes. Astronomy Tower, 11:00 pm.

Harry's spirits soared as he read these words. He didn't know how much he was going to be able to say with only three minutes to do it in but he supposed he could worry about that later. He rushed through dinner, ploughed through his homework in record time (he'd get Hermione to check his work later) and dashed up to the dormitory to retrieve his Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map.

He met nobody as he made his way to the Astronomy Tower. Harry was uncomfortably reminded of the last time he'd engaged a Slytherin on the Tower. He had to have been off his rocker to ever think that “his bloke” could have been Zabini. Chuckling to himself, Harry climbed the stairs two at a time. He removed the cloak and stuffed it into a pocket of his robes before he opened the door and stepped onto the Tower.

Malfoy was already there, of course. He stood with his back to the door. Harry saw him turn around just as he pulled the door closed behind him. Once the door snicked shut, he took a deep breath and walked slowly toward Malfoy.

“Well?” said Malfoy in a colourless tone. “I'm here. What did you want to say to me, Potter?”

“Er,” said Harry. His mind was blank. Now that he was face to face with Malfoy, he was starting to think that this had been a very bad idea.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and looked away from Harry. He shifted on his feet and Harry noticed that Malfoy's hands were shaking. Buoyed by the fact that Malfoy seemed just as discomposed as he felt, Harry's confidence lifted and he took another step forward.

“Malfoy. Draco. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that it ended up like this,” said Harry. His voice broke on the last word and he closed his eyes. His arms hung limply at his sides.

Harry felt like his heart was breaking all over again and it wasn't until he heard Malfoy's voice close to his ear that he opened his eyes. Malfoy had closed the gap between them and was leaning in toward Harry.

“You stupid fucking Gryffindor, stop saying you're sorry,” he whispered, and he wrapped his arms tight around Harry's shaking body.

Harry didn't move. He couldn't. He just stood there and breathed as Malfoy held him. Malfoy's hair was in his face; he could smell that wonderful musky scent that he just knew he would remember forever. They stood there like that for a long while before either one of them moved.

Finally, Harry's shaking subsided and he raised his arms to wrap them around Malfoy's waist as he leaned into him.

In a heartbeat, Malfoy pulled back and crushed his mouth to Harry's. Harry whimpered, tightened his hold on Malfoy's waist and pulled him close against his body. They staggered where they stood before they toppled over and Malfoy landed on top of Harry. His hands were everywhere. On Harry's face, in his hair, on the back of his neck. He drew Harry's tongue out of his mouth and suckled it with loud slurping sounds. Harry arched his neck and Malfoy nipped at his jaw before sucking on his neck. Malfoy's hands scrabbled at Harry's robes before giving up altogether -- ripped them open, and began undoing the buttons of Harry's oxford.

Harry moaned and writhed beneath Malfoy. He had his hands on Malfoy's head and was guiding him down his chest. His dick was so hard; it felt as if it was going to explode. He thought briefly about what would happen when Malfoy's mouth got down there but then Malfoy's mouth was down there and it felt brilliant. Malfoy was mouthing his erection through his trousers as his hands fumbled with Harry's flies. Harry made an “uh-uh-uh” sound before he pushed Malfoy's hand away so that he could undo his trousers himself. Malfoy groaned when Harry's dick sprang free and he took the tip of it in his mouth. Harry gasped at the sensation; he shut his eyes and thrust upward into his mouth. He felt Malfoy's grin around his dick. Fuck. It was his first blow job and Malfoy knew it. He knew he wouldn't last long anyway, so Harry slapped the cold stone floor and cantered his hips up. He rolled them eagerly in Malfoy's face.

He opened his eyes to gaze into the starlit sky.

He wanted Malfoy's mouth on him again. He didn't care where.

Malfoy used both of his hands to pin Harry's hips to the floor and lowered his head again. Harry felt his dick slide into the warm, wet hole that was Malfoy's mouth. He thought he could feel every taste bud on Malfoy's tongue on the underside of his dick and wondered briefly what it tasted like. Malfoy kept his hips pinned to the floor and Harry could just see the top of his head as it bobbed up and down. He raised a hand to caress the back of Malfoy's head. The silky hair slid under his fingers and he heard Malfoy groan. He released Harry's hips and Harry felt his eyes roll back in his head. Malfoy sucked again and Harry came, hard, into his mouth.

He lay there panting with Malfoy's cheek against his softening prick for what felt like hours.

“Oh my god,” he said, when Malfoy pulled himself up to Harry's eye level. Malfoy draped himself on top of Harry again and he could feel Malfoy's cock digging into his hip.

Malfoy grinned down at him lasciviously. “Told you you'd like it.”

“Mm.” Harry didn't know what to say. He didn't want to say anything, really. His eyes bore into Malfoy's, who stared back. He could see amusement there and also desire. Oh yes. Definitely desire.

Harry cupped the back of Malfoy's head and tugged it down. He opened his mouth the minute Malfoy's lips touched his. The kiss lacked the unbelievable passion of the one Malfoy had initiated before. It was slow and languid. A lazy tangle of tongues and teeth. Loving.

Harry pulled away. Without removing his hold on Malfoy's neck, he pressed their foreheads together and wrapped his other hand around Malfoy's waist. Lazily, he rolled his hips so that his body ground itself lightly up into Malfoy's. He could see Malfoy's lips curve into a slow, sexy smile as he mimicked the movement, pressing his body down into Harry's.

When Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower many hours later, he stood in front of the Fat Lady's portrait for a good ten minutes before she woke up of her own accord and demanded the password. He turned a ridiculously goofy grin to her and with a huge sigh of annoyance, she swung forward. Harry wondered if she ever got tired of dealing with teenagers in love and the stupid things they did.


April 10

How did I know? I didn't. I just hoped it would be like that.

May 10
Draco, I don't know why I'm leaving this instead of owling it or just giving it to you later tonight. Call it a whim. Isn't that what you said to me?

I just wanted to tell you that you are just the most amazing thing. I can't believe how lucky I am to have found you. Actually, I think it's more like I was found by you. Not many people can say that, can they? They'd better fucking not anyway.

Did I ever tell you that I dream about you? I do. All the time.

I also have a confession to make. I'm really quite glad that you're not the Giant Squid OR Voldemort.

When I said I'd fallen in love with you before I'd even known who you were? I meant it and it doesn't matter whether you feel the same or not. It doesn't matter.

Are we staying in the Room of Requirement tonight? I don't mind coming to Slytherin. I've got the cloak.

Harry

Harry slipped this note into the visor on his way to Charms. He would tell Draco to look in the visor when he saw him after lunch. They'd already made a habit of bolting down their food as quickly as they could before meeting. They would have a quick snog or whatever in that empty classroom that Harry used once to read one of his bloke's letters.

Yes, I do. No, I can't say it, I cannot even write it. Just know that I do.

May 28

Draco, I was packing my trunk and I found this. I'd forgotten all about it. I bought it for my bloke at a Muggle junk shop over Christmas. They have these great big boxes of postcards from all over the world. Sometimes they're blank and new and sometimes they're like this one.

It was obviously an exchange between lovers when one of them went on holiday to Rome. I thought it was nice, anyway. If I ever sent you a postcard it would be something like this. Only, I'd be afraid of your house-mates seeing it so I wouldn't sign my name. I'll sign it “You-Know-Who” if I ever do, okay? It would be a laugh, wouldn't it? Harry Potter as You-Know-Who?

I think we should go there. I've thought about what I want to do after school and after, you know. I've decided that that's it. I want to see the world.

I want you to see it with me.

Draco, I'll carry the stones for you whenever you'd like. All you have to do is hand them over and leave all that baggage behind.

You are my heart and my conscience. I don't imagine my future without you in it. Know that.

Harry

June 3

You saw the owl from my father. The summons. Yes, I am called to take my Dark Mark. He writes in glowing terms about the glory of serving the Dark Lord. You can fill in the blanks. Basically it's time for me to show the world that Lucius Malfoy has raised his son to be the penultimate little Death Eater.

I must now make a choice. Several months ago I wrote to you that I felt unbearably trapped, that I didn't have a choice. Now you offer me a choice, and I hate you for it. I must choose between you and my history, my family, even perhaps my destiny.

You are ruthless, Harry. A ruthlessness I've only seen you display on the Quidditch field. But then again, I've never seen you in love. Sending me a picture of the Trevi Fountain. Do you even know what you're asking? You think that all this "baggage," as you refer to it, is nothing. Just window dressing. It's what has defined me for nearly twenty years. It is my birthright just as much as being the son of Saint James Potter and Saint Lily Evans is yours. You are not asking me to give up much. You are asking me to give up everything.

Suppose I say yes. Do you think that Granger and Weasley will ever accept me in your world? Granger? Maybe in twenty years. Weasley? Never. He will hate me until the day he dies. And he will never forgive you for putting him in the position of choosing between his hatred of me and his love for you.

I'm sitting on the edge of the lake, a cigarette dangling out of my mouth. These fags are going to kill me. One finger worries the bruise you put on my neck last night, a reminder of your passion. Your passion for me. I stare at my other hand, the one that wears my family's signet ring.

I do not know what I am going to do. Know that I love you. Very much.

I feel like a snitch. There's you and my father, both seekers. On my father's side is six hundred years of power and tradition and history. On your side, there is the promise of iced espresso and passion and love. You are both reaching for the snitch simultaneously, it's only a question of who is faster. But then you rarely lose, do you, Harry?

It does beg the question. Does the man choose his lover or does the boy choose his father?

The day is warm, and my fingers are swollen from the heat. I take off my shoes and wade into the lake up to my ankles. A shiver snakes up my spine, the cool water licks at my toes. I think of Rome, you at my side, our feet in the water, and all of a sudden I am there. We are there. Together. I close my eyes and imagine the smell of history that is peculiar to Rome. I slide my hand into the water in the hope that the chill will ease the pressure on my fingers. Loosen the ring.

Do you know that "ciao" is both hello and goodbye in Italian?

Epilogue

Draco,

Rome is just as beautiful as you promised. The Fontana di Trevi is overwhelming, isn't it? You'll roll your eyes at this, I know, but I'm impossibly reminded of Hogwarts when I look at the sea horses. The one so calm - - obedient - - and the other restive. It reminds me of us back at school, but I can't ever think which one is me and which is you.

I don't remember anything that filled me with such peace but I think it's because when I look at it, I see only you. What did you see when you looked at it?

Anyway, you're going to think I'm being ridiculous but I just wanted to write a quick note for old time's sake. I hope that this letter makes you smile when you read it. You know that private smile you used to get when you received one of my letters? Don't bother denying it, either, you know you looked forward to them with bated breath. I know I did.

When we get home, remind me to call Hermione and Ron, okay? They'll want to know all about our trip.

I love you.

Harry

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