Harry Potter is NOT dead! No, really, he can't be!

Chapter Six: The Chosen Ones

We always had to maintain a careful front, always Potter and Malfoy, never Draco and Harry; it avoided slip-ups. As Potter had said, this was the stupidest thing either of us could be doing and we both knew too much was at stake if we were caught. I tried to persuade Potter that he should publicly date the Weaslette but he struggled with that concept, too virtuous to play with her heart and two-time either of us. That was until I kissed Pansy in the middle of the Great Hall one breakfast. I watched him slip his arm around the Weaslette's waist and pull her against him. He was looking directly at me when he whispered something in her ear with a smug smile on his face. She squealed loudly and wrapped her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug.

The sex that night was brutal... and brilliant... and fuelled by a possessive passion on both our parts.

I didn't kiss Pansy again but everyone thought we were dating so my tactic worked. He never talked to me about his relationship with the Weaslette but she made great show of always hanging off his arm when they were together in the Great Hall or the corridors. She made sure everyone knew she was Potter's.

As June sped by in this strange mix of delirium and fear, he and I started to meet in the Room of Requirement during free periods as well as after dinner but never spending the night together despite that one time. Sometimes it was for no more than to study together, other times the passion took us before the door had barely shut.

I suppose, for the first time in my life, I relaxed about who I was and my preferences. We'd spend hours lounging around on our shared bed in little more than a bedsheet around us, our legs intertwined as we studied. Potter was a restless worker. While I sat on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, he'd be on his front, his feet constantly moving in the air behind him, or he'd be on his back, or resting against my thigh, or he'd squirm his way under my arm between me and my book and disrupt me, or he'd do wicked things with his tongue that simply distracted me. Amongst it all, we'd have surprising conversations about the benefits of certain potion ingredients or how the slight amendment to a wand movement could change a charm. And if I thought I was well-schooled in the Dark Arts, Potter held an overwhelmingly in-depth knowledge on the Dark Arts and Defence. I didn't like to admit that it filled me with hope; the hope that perhaps he was the one who could defeat the Dark Lord. Of course, I knew about the DA and his teaching but I wondered if his knowledge was supplemented by Dumbledore. There were evenings he couldn't join me in our room and I knew he went to see the headmaster. Perhaps it was just an innate skill in the same way that I could take on any potion. I didn't ask. Any more than he didn't ask about those hours when I needed to apply myself to the Vanishing Cabinet and work out what it was that was preventing it from working properly.

It frustrated me. I knew I was close but there seemed an unfathomable step that I needed to make.

One evening, as we lay on the bed, pretending to study, he rolled over and stared at the ceiling for a long time, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

'You should ask Dobby to help you,' he said quietly.

'What?' I stuttered; afraid he'd discovered what I was trying to do.

'I know you are struggling over a particular element of whatever it is you are trying to achieve. Sometimes I can positively hear your brain whirring as you try to work it out. You should ask Dobby. House-Elves know far more magic than wizards give them credit for. It's powerful magic too.'

'I can't,' I said bluntly, trying to shut down the conversation.

He shrugged nonchalantly. 'Just a thought.'

'Anyway, Dobby doesn't like me.'

'He's getting better.'

'He tolerates me, for you.'