“I know, but —”
“And I don't want you to think I don't respect that, because —”
“SEAMUS!” she yelled, and he broke off, startled, and stared at her.
She took a deep breath before she spoke, but when she did, her voice was firm.
“I want to go to Ireland with you,” she said.
Harry looked up as the door to the fencing room opened, and Draco came in. Harry hopped down off the table and came towards the other boy, smiling. “I wasn't sure you'd make it,” he said. “You're pretty late.”
“Sorry,” said Draco, shutting the door behind himself. He was still standing in the shadow and Harry could see only the outline of him, and the faint glint of silvery hair in the darkness. “I got detention. And I had to do some quick talking…and a little bit of kissing.'
“Dumbledore made you kiss him?” Harry snorted. “Malfoy, what kind of detention did you get?”
“Not Dumbledore,” Draco clarified. “He was actually pretty understanding. Blaise, however…she wasn't.”
“Blaise?” Harry bit his lip. “You know, I forgot all about her.”
“Yeah,” Draco said. “Apparently so did I.” He sighed. “She was waiting for me when I got back to the dungeon. So was everyone else as a matter of fact. I had to do some quick talking.”
“She forgive you?”
“Not exactly,” Draco hedged. “I promised to talk to her about it as soon as I got back from detention.”
“I'm detention now?” Harry suggested, a laugh building under his voice.
“You know, you didn't tell me you were going to punch Seamus in the face.”
“You wouldn't have let me,” said Draco, finally coming forward into the light. As he did, Harry saw that he had the beginnings of an impressive black eye, as well as a cut across one cheek. Oddly, it suited him. Only Draco, Harry thought wryly, could manage to give the impression that he had gotten up in the morning, decided a black eye might add to his ensemble, and punched himself in the face. His shirt was also ripped where he had skidded across the floor on broken glass, and even that looked intentional. “Anyway, it wasn't like I planned it,” Draco added. “It came to me in a flash of inspiration, you might say.”
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Draco grinned. “You told me to create a distraction.”
“You,” said Harry, “have been wanting to belt Seamus in the face for weeks. You think I can't tell?”
“Oh, come on,” said Draco. “Don't you ever want to belt Seamus in the face? He's so damn smarmy.”
“No,” said Harry. “I happen to like Seamus.”
“No accounting for tastes,” said Draco. “Did you want to practice, or not?”
Harry nodded. “Sure I do. It's been a while.” He went back to the table and retrieved his sword, and when he turned back to Draco, Draco already had Terminus Est in his hand and was looking down at it almost quizzically. His face was oddly blank, expressionless, his eyes shining with a strange light. “Malfoy…?” Harry said.
Draco looked up quickly, his gray eyes lighting. “Yeah. Sorry,” he said, came forward, and met Harry in the center of the room. They saluted each other and moved apart, and then back together, Draco advancing, Harry backing away and parrying as he did so. He wondered if there would ever be a time he wouldn't hear Draco's voice in the back of his head as long as he had a sword in his hand. He had been quite patient in the beginning, explaining attack and recovery, parries and lunges. But Harry knew perfectly well he'd never have become as good as he had, as quickly as he had, if some measure of Draco's own knowledge and skill hadn't bled over to him through the Polyjuice Potion.
He slitted his eyes now as Draco came forward quickly with a beat-feint-feint-thrust. Harry riposted swiftly, then began retreating, drawing Draco out. Draco knew what he was doing; Harry could tell by his smile, but they were just practicing so it hardly mattered. Often they simply went on and on and on, until both or one of them tired, with nobody winning. Now Draco ducked and tried to get through Harry's guard, low-line, and Harry smiled at the anticipated move and replied with a stop-thrust which the other boy should have been expecting — but Draco did not move at all to block the thrust and Harry, realizing this almost a split second too late, wrenched his arm to the side. The blade made a sound like a whisper as it opened a slash along the side of Draco's sleeve. Harry, nearly overbalancing, crashed into Draco, who caught him and pushed him away, steadying him.
Harry jumped back as if Draco's touch burned him. He realized he was shaking and the hand that gripped the hilt of his sword was slick with sweat. “Draco,” he said. “What — why did you — I could have killed you, why didn't you block me?”
Draco's expression was almost completely blank. He looked down at his shoulder, where the rip in his shirt was already reddening with blood.
Then he looked back at Harry, and Harry realized with a slight start that he was very pale, and that his white-blond hair, his shirt, his clothes, were drenched in sweat, as if he'd been running a marathon. “I don't know,”
Draco said in an unusually quiet voice. He walked across the room, and laid Terminus Est down on the long wooden table there. Then he put his hands flat on the table, and made a sort of gasping, hitching noise, as if he were having trouble breathing and only leaning on the table was holding him up. “I don't know,” he said again, his voice almost too faint to be audible.
Seriously alarmed now, Harry went over and dropped his own sword on the table. “Draco,” he said, “are you all right?”
Draco didn't say anything. Harry stood where he was, and waited, and finally Draco lifted his head and looked at Harry. His eyes were gray tunnels, going on and on without ending, and Harry could see into and through them — could see Draco's bewilderment and rising panic. And his pain, not emotional pain, but physical pain. As if a light had been switched on he realized what was happening, the knowledge passing from Draco to himself like light passing through a crystal. “You're ill,” Harry said. “Aren't you?”
Draco took another breath. His shaking seemed to have eased a bit.
