Title:  I Know (Love Ridden 6)

Author: Romie

Archive:  anywhere.  In fact, I'd appreciate it.  Let me know if it's

convenient.

Rating:  PG

Pairing:  prelude to Harry/Draco

Spoilers:  none

Disclaimers:  Rowling is God.  Fiona Apple is my continuing inspiration - in a way, these are my version of the songfic.

Warnings:  This series contains a non-explicit consensual same-sex relationship.  If you're the sort of person who dislikes that, then bugger off.  (And yes, I realize the irony of using that particular phrase.)

Summary:  Harry watches as Draco tries to destroy himself.

Feedback:  is the most addictive drug there is.  I crave it, both on

and off list.

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A man is not a fool for making a mistake, but for failing to admit it.  Dumbledore told me that the last time I got in trouble.  It was a stupid infraction: I'd snuck out after dark to rendezvous with a girl I was seeing.  I thought I was in love with her, even though we hardly knew each other.  It's painfully embarrassing to remember the impassioned arguments I made when apprehended; this love was Meant to Be and nothing as arbitrary as school curfews could stop it.  It was a romance for the ages.

 

The relationship fell apart a week later, and I realized that Dumbledore's advice had not been about the rule breaking.

 

I thought that I didn't get through to Draco last night because he was locking me out.  He was - he is - but I should have known better than to think that Draco would let anything be that simple.  This is a boy whose *socks* are probably starched and embroidered; you can't expect a person like that to have straightforward emotions.

 

Nevertheless, you can sympathize with my error.  I can't dislodge the image of Draco staring me down from the doorway, jaw locked and eyes flashing.  (I envy his ability to look commanding in even a towel.  I can put on dress robes and uncomfortable shoes, and I still look like a little boy.  It has its advantages, but I suspect it stops people from taking me seriously.)

 

After the unsuccessful attempt to mend the rift and offer Draco my friendship, I beat a hasty retreat to the Gryffindor common room.  Hermione looked upset and demanded to know where I'd been; Ron wanted to know who the girl was.  It hadn't occurred to me until then that I'd been missing for several hours.  Waiting for Draco hadn't seemed long at all; I'd been too busy dreading the confrontation and trying to think of something to say.  It's almost a good thing he didn't utter a word - one hello, and I might have crumbled.

 

For some reason, I didn't tell my friends about my overtures to Draco.  Still haven't, and it's a night and half a day later.  I really should - this whole thing would be much easier with their help, (or at least without their interference).  But there's something in me which resists making this public; I guess I want to make sure this connection happens between Harry and Draco, not Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, Bitter Enemies Reunited as Friends.  I can see the headlines now, and I'm a little sickened by the idea of the whole thing turning political.  It's bound to, but I want to hold it off for as long as possible.  Not that I can't trust Ron and Hermione. . . Fuck.  I'm not used to having secrets - not this kind.  I don't know how they work.

 

Anyway, I mumbled something about losing track of time while studying in the library.  Hermione perked up immediately and launched into a spirited dissertation on the unusual variations found in the wizard version of the Dewey decimal system.  (Ron looked rather disappointed, though; I sometimes think he lives vicariously through my love life.  It's not that he isn't positively moony over Hermione, but he shares his brothers' love for conquest and adventure.)

 

That night, I slept better than I had in a week.  My duty was acquitted; my conscience was clear, despite the niggling lie I'd told my best friends.  I awoke this morning completely free from visions of sugar-blond hair and storm-chased eyes; I even whistled on the way to breakfast.  (Ron hopefully asked me if I was *sure* I wasn't dating anyone.  I don't think I ever got around to answering him; I was too busy roaring with laughter.  He may be miffed at me, actually.  I should really tell him what's going on.)

 

The meal was uneventful - toast and orange marmalade - until Draco entered, proud and aloof.  He stalked over to the Gryffindor table, upended several soup tureens, and emptied a pitcher of syrup on Ginny's hair, staring at me the whole time.  The entire hall went silent, except for the sound of Ron's chair scraping the stone floor as he prepared to launch himself at The Enemy.  I stopped him with a touch to his knee, needing him to stay out of this even as Draco struggled to bring the rest of Gryffindor into it.  (I really should tell Ron what's going on; he must be dreadfully confused.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his face go purple.)

 

Never breaking eye contact with Draco, I *willed* the rest of the table to stay calm.  Somehow, that worked; I guess something in my body language warned them not to riot.  Or maybe they were just waiting for me to give the signal so they could storm him en masse.  I'm not really sure.  The important thing is that they *didn't*, even when Ginny ran out in tears.  Draco had his quiet captive audience, at least for the time being.  Evenly, utterly relaxed, I asked Draco what he wanted.

 

The floodgates were opened.  With a haughty sneer, a smile's caricature, Draco enumerated exactly what he'd like to do to each and every Gryffindor - individually, and in explicit anatomical detail.  I won't bore you with a recitation of the threats; I'm not sure all of them are even physically possible, although magic can accomplish some surprising things.  Even though the taunts applied to dozens of different students, he spoke as if I was the only one in the room - in the world.  (Perhaps *that's* why no one intruded; Draco made it clear that this was *our* battle.)

 

I just sat back and watched him fume.  He needed to put on his show, and I let him.  I understand; he's not ready to let go yet.  I'll pretend that I don't know, that I didn't see it, until he gets to a point where he can tell me.  At least I will if I can be that patient - not traditionally my strongest suit.

 

But I'm getting ahead of myself.  You see, while Draco was ranting, I found the slip I was waiting for, the vital clue.  Watching his flushed face and his jabbing gesticulations, the missing puzzle piece slipped into place.  It's so obvious once you see it, like dismantling a Rubik's cube.

 

Draco doesn't want to be my friend; he wants to be my lover.

 

Fortunately, before he could finish, Professor McGonagall hauled him off to the headmaster's office.  (I say "fortunately" because I suspect he would have been lynched as soon as the others' shock wore off.)  McGonagall looked worried, and a little frightened, but relieved at the same time.  I think the teachers have been waiting for Draco to snap since his father left.  She probably counts herself lucky that he didn't kill someone.

 

It's rather funny that the only casualties of Draco's "big explosion" were Ginny's hair and some cream of mushroom soup.  It confirms my belief that he's not that horrible after all; this was a *performance*, not an attempt to hurt anyone.  He probably doesn't see it that way - I'm sure he'd be offended if I said anything.  I imagine he likes to think of himself as thoroughly wicked.

 

The other Gryffindor students aren't terribly inclined to see my point of view, either; as soon as Draco left, the silence turned to uproar.  Everyone traded stories of Malfoy humiliation and degradation, while Ron and Seamus advocated a return to the days of vigilante justice.  This lead to elaborate fantasies of what Draco should be made to do under the Imperious Curse.  Even Neville got in on the action with a stirring retelling of that potions incident in which Draco accidentally turned himself blue.

 

After things calmed down a bit, Ron began informing anyone who'd listen that Draco is a criminal mastermind and his actions are part of a larger and more sinister plot which we must foil at all costs.  I replied that since that was obviously what Draco wanted us to believe, Ron was playing right into his hands.  He fumed at the inescapable logic trap, and asked me whose side I was on, anyway.  (I should *really* tell him what's going on.)

 

Can something be called a mistake if you do it on purpose, fully cognizant of the consequences?  I think I'm about to do something foolish; I have that familiar bubble at the base of my spine, impelling me toward the path least traveled.  Is the risk worth it?  I could lose everything and gain nothing in return.

 

Already, I know there's not a decision left to be made.  I *will* do this thing.  Why?  I'm not sure.  Maybe because it's there.  That sounds like a weak justification, but would "it just feels right" be any better?  Like any true Gryffindor, I have a reckless gambling streak which I disguise as intuition.

 

This is ridiculous; I don't even know what it is I'm talking about *doing*.  I just know that this new understanding of Draco changes *everything*.  It eats away at the base of my existence.  Never again will I be able to exchange insults without wondering whether it's all just sexual tension.  I won't be able to walk past him in the hall without checking to insure that my walk isn't somehow seductive.  No simple touch, no simple look, will ever be simple again.

 

Is this what he had to deal with all these years?  Constantly wondering, layering every comment with layers of meaning?  Dissecting the possible motivations behind a head toss, or a raised eyebrow?  How did he stop from going mad?  How did he hide it?

 

More than ever, I need him as a friend.  Funny - I hadn't realized until now that I *do* need him; I had thought I was doing this all for him.  I suppose we're all selfish at heart.

 

Ron will say that this is a mistake.  But we only call them mistakes if they fail.