Summer 6/Part A

Harry sat in front of the lake, his legs drawn up to his chin, watching the sun glistening over the tops of the water.  He didn’t want to think about what had happened during the TriWizard Tournament, and he wouldn’t have, except that it bared thinking about.  Voldemort was back.  Cedric was dead.  It kept running through his mind like a bad broken record.

Voldemort was back.

He’d faced Voldemort three times now and came back alive, but how much longer could his luck last?  In first year, the man hadn’t been at full strength.  In second year, it was a teenage version of him.  This time he was real and powerful, but was he as powerful as he had been the first time?  Harry doubted it.   He didn’t want to think about what it would mean if he was right.

Cedric was dead.

He’d seen the other boy die, they’d been standing next to each other, cautiously holding their wands at the ready and then… then Harry’s scar had hurt and Cedric had been killed.  He didn’t know if there was anything he could have done to prevent it.  Maybe if his scar hadn’t hurt?  Maybe if he’d been able to stand up to the pain and just focus, he could have done something.  Like what, throw yourself in front of it?  He tried to ignore the little voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like a certain blond Slytherin, but he knew it was right.  He couldn’t have done anything, not really.  But still…

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Then there was Cho to consider.  The first girl he had ever thought he could possibly like and she would hate him now, because he had been the one to live and Cedric the one to die.  She had every right to hate him, but that didn’t make it any easier for Harry, who had sort of hoped that he would be able to explore the possibilities of being heterosexual.

The sun had dipped a little lower and was casting pink and purple across the sky.  It was pretty.   A twig snapped behind him and he looked over to see Hermione, standing a few feet away, eyeing him suspiciously.  “What?”

She shrugged and walked over, sitting next to him.  “You’ve been out here for hours, Harry.  I know you’re upset, but sulking isn’t going to change anything.”

He frowned at her and looked back at the water.  “I’m not sulking.”

“No, you’re brooding.”

“I’m thinking.”

She put her hands behind her and leaned back, stretching her legs towards the water.  “Harry?”

“Hm.”  He didn’t bother to look over at her, but he could feel her eyes on him.

“What’s with you and Malfoy?”

For a second, he couldn’t breathe.  He’d never told Ron and Hermione about spending time with Draco every summer; at first, because he didn’t want to think about it, and later because it felt private.  That year things had changed between them.  Oh, they still fought, but Harry didn’t quite put his heart into it, and he fancied Draco didn’t either.

At the beginning of the school year, shortly after his name had come out of the cup, Draco had sent a message insisting they meet in private.  They had had a row, in which Draco yelled at Harry for entering the stupid match and not telling him how.  It was suspiciously similar to his argument with Ron, only Draco had turned around and started making those bloody badges for everyone to wear.

Eventually, after two more meetings, each one consisting of more and more yelling, he had backed off and agreed that Harry probably hadn’t put his own name in the cup, but only because he wasn’t smart enough to know how.  They had met again after the ferret incident, and no matter how much Draco insisted that he deserved an apology for being laughed at, Harry refused to cave.  It had been funny, far funnier than the badges that were still circulating.

They’d met a few more times, talking about the tournament.  Draco had offered to help, because he said Harry would be hopeless otherwise, but he had told him he didn’t need it.  At best, Harry could call these conversations strained, like there was some kind of invisible tension between them and he wasn’t sure what it was and he doubted Malfoy did.

Then there was the third task.  Harry wasn’t sure what he thought of that in connection with Draco.   Lucius had been there, leering at him from the circle of Death Eaters.  Harry wondered if Draco would believe him if he told him that his father was there, or worse yet, would he care?  He knew that Lucius tortured Muggles, he’d seen it at the Quidditch World Cup and didn’t appear disturbed by it.

With a sigh, Harry decided that all his thinking was going nowhere and Hermione was still looking at him, waiting for an answer.  What was he supposed to say?  He’s good company when he doesn’t open his mouth?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hermione.”

“I’m not blind, Harry, and I’m not stupid.”

He winced, looking over at her from the corner of his eye.   “Of course you’re not, you’re the brightest witch of your age.”

She smiled, if a bit reluctantly. “Give me some credit Harry, I am one of your best friends.  Or, at least, I hope I am.”  When Harry still didn’t respond, she looked at her feet and began toeing her shoes off.  “He was staring at you all term.  At least, when you weren’t busy staring at him.”

Harry turned to her, his mouth in shock, “I wasn’t staring!  I was… looking.”

She laughed and pulled her knees up.  “Right, looking. And all those mysterious owls you got were just fan mail.”

“I got a lot of owls, Hermione, what with the stupid Rita Skeeter woman writing articles about me.”

“Yes, but I did happen to notice that every time a certain large brown owl dropped a letter in front of you, you put the letter in your pocket - very hastily, I might add.”  She raised her eyebrow, “It was almost as if you didn’t want Ron or me to see it.”

Harry flushed, embarrassed that his actions had been so hasty and Hermione slid closer so they were shoulder to shoulder.  “Don’t get me wrong, Harry, I’m your friend and I won’t tell anyone, least of all Ron, he’d have a fit, but… well, I’ve been thinking about it a lot and…”

She trailed off and looked at the ground, her eyebrows pinched together in thought.  “Look, if you like him, you can tell me.”  Like him!   “I don’t think he’s good for you. He’s a complete prat, he wastes no effort to tease you, he calls us all names, and I won’t even mention who his father is.”

Hermione looked at him sternly, “But… well, he did warn us at the Quidditch World Cup, didn’t he?  He wasn’t just taking the opportunity to make fun of us, he was telling you to get away, to run and hide.  Then there was the third task.”

Harry’s head shot up from where he had put it on his knees.  “The third task?”  His voice choked.  Why was she bringing that up in connection with Malfoy?

“We were sitting in the family section with the Weasleys and Malfoy was sitting near us with Professor Snape and his father.  When you… disappeared,” she said the word very delicately, as if she might be dropping a bomb.  “Malfoy stood up and shouted ‘Harry’.  He was white as a sheet and he might have fallen over is Snape hadn’t pulled him back into his seat.”

This was bad.  This was really, really bad.  “Who else saw?”

Now she just looked smug.  “Well, Ron did, but he’s convinced himself it was a shock induced hallucination.  I think everyone else was too worried about you to notice.”  Thank god!  “The point is that he obviously… cares about you.”

She had screwed her face up very hard when saying this and Harry thought it might be best to put her out of her misery.  “We’re just friends, Hermione.  I’m not even sure we’re that.”  He told her everything, well, everything except that part where they had tossed each other off and enjoyed it.  As he spoke, it felt like a great weight was being lifted off him and the more he spoke, the lighter that weight became, even with Hermione’s occasion interruption.  “I can’t believe Professor Snape did that!”  “Harry, that was incredibly dangerous.”  “You hung him off the Astronomy Tower?!”

By the time he’d finished, the sun was setting over the lake and it was nearly time for supper, but he felt better, if only a little.  Hermione had listened to everything with an even head, as she always did.  There had been no admonition about who Malfoy was or what kind of danger he posed.  Eventually, she had taken a very deep sigh and looked over the lake thoughtfully.

“Harry, have you ever considered that you might be gay?”

Where the hell had she gotten that?!  In fact, “Where the hell did you get that?!  I like Cho.  Remember Cho, the girl with… with breasts.  I like her, so I can’t possibly be gay.”

She blushed brightly, not something that Hermione did on a regular basis, “Yes, Cho, the girl who plays Quidditch and is about as flat as they come.   No offence,” she offered, when Harry looked affronted, “she’s very pretty and all, but her body type is a little… boyish.  And you spent an awful lot of time staring at Malfoy.”

Harry couldn’t believe Hermione was saying this, “Hermione, I’m not gay.  Just because I’ve never kissed a girl doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”  I hope.

Hermione shrugged and stood up, brushing her skirt off.  “Maybe you’re right and I’m reading too much into this, but Harry, you know you can come to me about anything, right?  I’m your friend, I’m not going to stop talking to you just because you’ve been forced to hang out with Malfoy or because you might like boys.”

“I don’t like boys.”

She winked, “Sure, Harry, whatever you say.”  Before he could retort, she turned on her heals and walked back towards the castle, socks covered in green grass stains and shoes in her hands.  When she was out of site, Harry stood up as well.  He was hungry and tired and he wanted to go to diner and then go to bed.

The smell of food from the Great Hall was overwhelming.  God, he hadn’t eaten much that day, he’d been too busy thinking about things.  Now, he just wanted to stop thinking about them.  Especially about Malfoy staring at him, or calling his name, or…

“Potter!”

Damn.  Turning around, Harry started to put on his best scowl for Draco, only to find himself shoved up against the wall, the other boy’s hands pressing his shoulders back.  “Hey!  What are you…”

But he never got a chance to finish it because Draco kissed him.   Not tender or sweet, or anything else Harry had ever associated with kissing, but hard and rough and punishing.  For the first two seconds, Harry couldn’t think, let alone fight it, and when his sense finally started to come back to him, he was shocked that they weren’t screaming at him to push the Slytherin away, they wanted him to touch back.

He closed his eyes in denial as a tongue pushed into his mouth, but he couldn’t bite back the moan that worked its way out of his throat.  He felt his hands grab Draco’s shoulders and pull him closer, trying to get more contact, more something.  Draco’s grip slid up to cup his face, holding him in place while he was being absolutely devoured by tongue and… oh, god, was that teeth?

Harry’s legs felt like jelly when Draco suddenly pulled back and stared at him, confused.  Well, Harry thought, he’s not the only one.  Then Draco backed away and turned to run towards the dungeons, his face pink and pale at the same time, leaving Harry panting and weak kneed against the wall next to the dining hall.

That had been… he touched his lips and realised he wasn’t breathing.  He’d liked that.   He’d liked that a lot. It had been sudden, violent, and… well, wet, but he’d liked it and if he were going to be entirely honest with himself, he wanted to do it again, but that didn’t make him exclusively gay, did it?  Maybe he was bi or something. Maybe it was just Malfoy.

Taking a deep breath, Harry closed his eyes.  Screw dinner, he was going to bed before anyone else could corner him and make him question his sexuality.

“Hey, Harry!”

“I’m not gay!”  Oh, bloody hell.  He turned around and saw Ron standing next to the doors, a small bowl in his hands.  Hermione was behind him with a smug frown on her face and one raised eyebrow.

Ron opened his mouth and then closed it, looking down at the bowl for a moment before looking back up.  “Does that mean you don’t want the pudding?”

Without a word, Harry charged up the stairs.  If he were lucky, he could hide under the covers until everyone was gone.

____________________

Harry loved Ron, he really did, which was why he was so completely horrified with himself for what he’d said on the stairs.  Yelling ‘I’m not gay!’ to someone for offering you pudding was as bad as having yelled, ‘I like cock!’ At least it was in Harry’s estimation, especially when Ron didn’t immediately follow him.

God, what was he going to say later?  What would Ron say?  Would Ron ignore it completely and pretend it hadn’t happened?  Somehow, Harry hoped not.  He had never been brave enough to mention his quavering sexuality to anyone; not Ron, not Dumbledore, not McGonagall, and certainly not Sirius.

Dumbledore didn’t have a judgmental bone in his body where Harry was concerned, but for some reason, it hadn’t seemed appropriate.  He was, after all, the Headmaster of Hogwarts and as such was always terribly busy.  There hadn’t been a time or place that Harry would have felt comfortable perking up and saying, “I think I’m gay.”

McGonagall had always made Harry feel protected and safe.  There was a side to her that the rest of the students never saw, but that Harry was thankful for, the side that tucked him in after nightmares and made sure the house elves brought all his favourite foods at meal times.  However, during his third year, she had pulled him aside to give him a talk about ‘birds and the bees.’  It had been the most awkward and embarrassing conversation he had ever had and if that had been bad, he could only imagine how bad it would be if he decided to blurt out that he was gay.

Oh, and the idea of telling Sirius was petrifying.  Sirius was his godfather, the closest thing to real family that he had outside of the Dursley’s.  He could just imagine the look of disappointment.

Ron had been the only one that he’d given a second thought to.  Ron was his best mate and he didn’t want to lose him.  The door creaked open and Harry pulled his knees up to his chest.  Please don’t let it be Ron; let it be Neville, or Dean, or Seamus - okay, not Seamus, the boy had absolutely no tact, but anyone else…

“Harry?”  It was Ron.

Harry sighed and uncurled himself, refusing to face this looking like a petulant child.  “Yes?”

The curtains parted and Ron sat on his bed, clasping his hands in his lap and looking as awkward as Harry felt.  “So, you’re… not gay, then.”

Harry flinched and looked at his bed, not wanting to see Ron’s face in case it was mocking or teasing.  “Um… yes.  I think.”

The silence stretched out between them and Harry was just about to say that he was going to go take a shower, or anything else he could think of to escape, when Ron said, “You know, it’d be alright if you were.  Gay, I mean.  I wouldn’t care.  Well, unless you had a crush on ferret-boy or something.  Imagine snogging Malfoy.”

Harry felt his stomach sink and he chuckled nervously, before looking up at Ron through his lashes, “That’s disgusting, Ron.”

Ron laughed, “Yeah, it is.  Feel better?”

Slowly, Harry nodded, realising that he did feel better.  “Thanks, Ron.”

A few more minutes of silence stretched between them and Ron spoke up again, this time, much more confident of himself than he had been before, “So, why do you think you’re gay?”

Harry shrugged, amazed that he hadn’t turned bright red at the question.  “I dunno.   Just, maybe I kissed a bloke and felt… something.”

His friend’s mouth dropped open.  “Who?!”

“Not telling.”  The last thing he needed was Ron knowing that it was ‘ferret-boy’ he’d been snogging.

Ron shook his head in wonder, “But you’ve never kissed a girl.”  It was said with the confidence of someone who knew that they weren’t going to be contradicted and as much as Harry wished he could say otherwise, it was true.  If he’d kissed a girl, he’d have told Ron right away.

Finally, Ron shrugged, “Well, that’s it then, you need to kiss a girl and see how it feels.  You could just like kissing.”

Harry felt himself smiling.  He didn’t think that Ron was right, but the fact that he was trying to help and not blaming him for possibly being gay, made him Harry feel much better than he had since before the Triwizard Tournament even started.  “You’re a good friend, Ron, you know that?”

Ron’s face turned red under his freckles, but he didn’t look away.  “So, who do you fancy kissing?  And it better not be Pansy Parkinson, or I’m committing you to St. Mungo’s, mate.”