DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter universe and all characters within that universe belong to J.K. Rowling, and no infringement on my part was intended. The original text is ©2001.

Author's Note: This is Yenta Sue. I apologize ahead of time.

It was the talk of all the Seventh Years: Defense Against the Dark Arts had been dropped entirely (no one saw the point anymore, especially after all the adventure, excitement, and incredible plot twists of the previous year), and in its place was a class Dumbledore thought would "prepare the children for life in the Muggle world, should events conspire against them, and the movie stink worse than a mermaid market at high noon."

Being a wizard, however, did not give Dumbledore quite the Muggle point of view when it came to success in the modern world: He instituted a creative writing class.

"I've seen a motion picture once or twice," he'd said soothingly to Professor McGonagall, who was rather suspiciously against the entire venture; "I've seen what kind of treatment authors are given: heaps of Muggle money, hardcovers on all their sales, well-publicized/attended book signings, and a large villa with a pool, a maid, and several palm trees."

He'd smiled innocently. "How far could that deviate from the truth?"

So the Seventh Years discovered that instead of buying textbooks with strange reddish ink and an unmistakable garlic smell, they were buying all sorts of Muggle texts like: "How I Became a Writer", "Writing in Twelve Easy Steps", and "The Sobering Saga of Myrtle the Manuscript". (No one could find that last one, which was just as well. It destroyed illusions faster than a Patronus, only with a great deal less flash.)

While all this was going on, no one knew that Neville Longbottom was now related to a Fifth Year. In a prequel yet to be written, a perky young scamp had been found wandering the streets of London with no memory and very little clothing (she claimed the lipstick and extreme eyeshadow were remnants of a life she couldn't, just couldn't, remember, drat the bad luck) -- she'd then been adopted by Neville's grandmother for reasons that eluded him, not to mention the entirety of the wizarding community (with the wild exception of Severus Snape, oddly enough; but that's prequel territory again).

And so it was that on the Hogwarts Express Harry, Ron, and Hermione were introduced by Neville Longbottom to his new kid sister, Mary Sue Cutebottom. Draco Malfoy happened to be walking past just as Mary Sue was hugging everyone, and so was embraced as warmly as all the protagonists, which suggests something about this story. (Malfoy, reading these words, glanced about the page nervously and left before Ron said something rude.)

Little did anyone know that a vicious -- yet at the same time rewarding and at times adorable -- love hexagon had begun, only to be resolved through several revisions and at least two sequels.

----

"I just don't see how it is that The Art and The Artiste will help us 'adjust' to the Muggle world," Hermione muttered to Harry and Mary Sue, just before the bell rang. It was the first day of school, and Seventh Year Gryffindor and Slytherin had morning class together. Neither group had been quite prepared for what awaited them.

Hermione's face wore a worried frown. "I mean, my family's all Muggles, and I don't remember anything like this."

The Art and The Artiste was being held in the same room Defense of the Dark Arts had been, but it didn't look nearly as well-kept as it had before. Strange piles of paper huddled in the corners; ripped posters and faded newspaper articles hung slantwise on the walls; lamps with their shades missing lit the room with shadows and weak yellow light; books with their covers missing and their pages dog-eared were stacked on broken bookcases; half empty inkpots littered desktops; hundreds of Muggle pens overflowed dirty mugs, all of which left brown ring stains on whatever they were standing on. And every inch of available space was covered with little black stickers, shaped like beer bottles.

Harry poked at one of the stickers with his wand. He heard a fizzling noise, and suddenly he couldn't help but say, "I know I should be working on my latest but, hon-hon-honestly, how can I work under these conditions, I ask you? Eh? Eh? What with that bloody git making at least 2000 pounds more than me with every single sale, and you know he couldn't put together a complete sentence if his gods-be-damned typewriter gave him grammar lessons--"

Harry stopped abruptly, as the strange effect of the bottle stickers wore off. He looked around; he hadn't been the only one to test out the stickers. Ron was merely mumbling incoherently between hiccups, but Draco Malfoy, across the room, was raging quite loudly about critics and their inability to "find a well-planted plot device if given a torch and a bloody tourist map." Considering the looks people were giving Malfoy, Harry felt quite better about his own outburst.

"Well," a scratchy voice called out, "I see you've found the Inspirations."

Everyone turned to look at the speaker. In the front of the room, beside one of the larger patches of bottle stickers, they saw a short woman with brightly dyed hair and a cigarette in her hand, smoothing her robes and smiling at the few students still Inspired by a sticker ("--royalties! I'm telling you, they're cheating me out of my royalties, the packager scum!--").

"My name's Professor Susan Jimison," the woman said in a pronounced American accent, "and here's a hint for the future, kiddos: Wait until the Inspirations flash before you poke your wands at them -- you'll get more done that way." Professor Jimison smiled again, took a drag on her cigarette, then wandered toward the closest pile of papers and pulled off the top sheet.

No one spoke for some minutes. Finally Hermione raised her hand, and said, "Professor, I'm sorry. I can't seem to find any flashing bottl-- Inspirations."

Jimison snorted, muttered "Trash," and crumpled the sheet she'd been reading. She looked up at Hermione. "Of course they aren't flashing. It's neither 3 a.m. nor a week before your deadline. Those are the only times they flash spontaneously." Jimison stalked past the pile of papers and toward a bookcase. She snapped her fingers, and dozens of small blue notebooks appeared on a shelf, displacing the books that had been there before. A second snap, and the notebooks flew to the students' desks. "Everyone, I want you put your name on the cover and then write, ah, two haikus and a three page essay about your summer holiday. Due tomorrow."

Immediately, Inspirations began flashing, almost too quickly to tap. After Harry had written his name on the notebook, he opened the cover to the first blank page. He put quill to paper... and realized he didn't know what a haiku was. He raised his hand. "Professor Jimison...?"

She ignored him in favor of pawing through a collection of literary review magazines.

Mary Sue Cutebottom leaned over to him. "Harry, tap the flashing Inspirations! They'll help! Look!" She held up her notebook, showing him an essay labeled, "Cutebottom's Summer Holiday: Prequel Material".

Harry nodded and looked around his desk for an Inspiration to tap. He missed twice, and ended up yelling epithets about ineffective agents for nearly half an hour. Finally he nicked a flashing sticker, and while the fizzling noise was louder, his mind was suddenly filled with word choices and plots and other marvelous things, most of which were completely useless for his current purposes. Still, he wrote down what he could, and discovered that haikus were particularly daft sounding poems, and that his summer holiday consisted mostly of sexual yearnings.

He didn't like how his essay turned out. It didn't at all sound like how he remembered his summer holiday, and it certainly didn't sound like something that should be turned in to Professor Jimison.

Ron nudged him. "What's your essay about, Harry? Mine kept going on about inferiority complexes and other rubbish, in between some good stuff about Quidditch. What about you?"

Harry looked at his third paragraph. It wasn't until this summer that I truly noticed how my feeling were affecting my judgement. My cousin Dudley's weight problems had always disturbed me, but his blond hair now reminded me of the one that I wish I... I wish I could touch, could run my fingertips through his hair, hair so bright it'd burn... and so it was that I found myself sharing some Chocolate Frogs with Dudley. And I still don't feel sorry for doing so, even if he did try to beat me up for the rest of them.

Harry swallowed. "Quidditch. Mine's about Quidditch too."

"Oh," said Ron. He shrugged. "Maybe Hermione's got something embarrassing. Hermione! Write anything weird?"

While Ron and Hermione argued about what constituted strange or not, Harry thought about his essay, and how he just couldn't allow anyone else to read it...

"Harry?" Mary Sue whispered.

He jumped, then tried breathing steadily. "What, Mary?" he whispered back, hoping she wasn't going to ask him about his essay.

"Harry, are you all right? You're breathing funny."

"Noth-Nothing, Mary. I'm just... nervous about my essay." He hadn't meant to say so, but Neville's little sister just seemed to project an air of attentiveness and trust. He didn't think that anything he told her would be passed on to anyone else, but he also thought that any advice she gave him would be well-worth his following. Protective, yet mischievous. Adorable, yet wise beyond her years. Underage, yet disturbingly perky.

It was quite an amazing air she had.

"Harry, you shouldn't feel pressured to talk about a subject that makes you feel uncomfortable," Mary Sue said quietly, for once a smile not on her lips. "If you--"

"Mary," Harry said abruptly. He looked nervously at the floor. "I don't suppose you'd, y'know, read my essay before I hand it in, maybe help me rewrite it if it doesn't... sound... right?"

"Of course, Harry," Mary Sue said, just as the bell rang for lunch. "Anything I can do to help."

Harry smiled in relief. "Thanks, Mary," he said. "Good thing Dumbledore let you join this Seventh Year class; I don't know what I'd do without you."

Mary Sue Cutebottom giggled appreciatively.

---

After lunch, Mary Sue was making her way to McGonagall's Fifth Year Transfigurations when a hand roughly pulled her into a sheltered alcove. Expecting one of her friends from Gryffindor, or one of her other friends from behind the pub in Hogsmeade, she let herself be pulled, but the person dragging her out of sight wasn't Ron or Hermione, and it certainly wasn't Big Eddie or Hairy Vincenzo the Tireless Vicar.

It was Draco Malfoy.

"Oh, hallo Draco," she said cheerfully, remembering how well Malfoy had hugged on the train ride to Hogwarts. "Can I help you?"

Malfoy pressed her hard against the alcove's stone wall. If it wasn't for Mary Sue's inexplicable enjoyment of tall, rude, dangerous young men with posh accents, she'd be worried. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh. (As menacing as it was, Mary Sue rather liked being threatened -- it gave her fond memories of the prequel.)

"Listen, Mudblood," he said, "I don't like you. I don't like being cheerfully halloed by you. And I don't like that air of attentiveness and trust you project, all right?"

Mary Sue's forehead crinkled in thought. "Then why'd you drag me over here, Draco? I'm going to be late in a moment." Understanding suddenly flooded in. She looked him in the eye. "Is there something you... want to talk about?"

Malfoy let go of her arm and turned to lean against the wall beside her. He rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Why me," he muttered. "Why now?" He glanced toward Mary Sue. "I don't know why I stopped you, Mudblood. Except that I think you could help me."

"If it means hurting any of my friends, Draco, you know I can't do that."

"Ha. And your friends are, let me think... most of my arch enemies here at Hogwarts. How utterly convenient. Weasley, Granger, Potter... ha. Potter most of all... "

Mary Sue looked puzzled again. "Why do you keep saying 'ha' instead of, you know, actually laughing?"

"Literary device. And this author's writing style, which tends to explain a great deal."

"Oh."

"Like I was saying, though, I think I... need... your help." Malfoy began rubbing his eyes again. "Gods, that's embarrassing to say. I'm never working with this author again."

"Draco," Mary Sue said carefully, "this wouldn't have anything to do with our writing assignments, would it? Your essay... ?"

"Not the essay, Mudblood," Malfoy said wearily. "The haikus. Bloody things. I wrote about twenty of them, and all on topics that... " He leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling. "... that I'd rather die than discuss right now, thank you."

"All right, Draco," Mary Sue said, "I'll help you. I'm going to be meeting with Harry sometime after dinner, but I'll come by the Slytherin dungeon afterwards, all right? Fortunately, Professor Dumbledore told me the passwords to all the house doors -- this air of attentiveness and trust of mine is damned convenient at times, let me tell you."

"So I imagine," said Malfoy. The bell rang. "Don't tell anyone about our conversation, Mudblood." He slipped out of the alcove, and began running towards Professor Flitwick's classroom, probably for Seventh Year Charms. Mary Sue caught a glimpse of fine silver-blond hair and rather shapely legs before he was out of sight.

"This is getting interesting," Mary Sue murmured, leaving the alcove for her own class. She waved her wand in anticipation, and smiled when a heart shaped cloud appeared briefly in the hallway.

"Very interesting."

---

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together at the Gryffindor table for dinner, just like they had for the last seven years -- with, of course, the fabulous exception of three very tense and character-driven weeks the previous year, which, fortunately, were resolved with very few tears and only one maiming. Joining them now, and probably for the rest of term, were Neville and Mary Sue.

Mary Sue and Hermione had become fast friends once they discovered their similar measurements could lead to a doubling of their respective wardrobes -- Neville had been given strict instructions by his grandmother to keep a close eye on Mary Sue. ("Whither thou goest," Neville was fond of saying now; he thought the author might appreciate the reference to actual literature in the midst of this glorified PWP.) In any case, he didn't do much in this scene -- no one did, really, except Hermione and Ron. They talked about a sensitive topic; Mary Sue's high-pitched giggles masked their conversation from everyone present.

Except the author, of course.

"Have you noticed anything, I dunno, strange about Harry lately?" Ron whispered, unaware of the author's newfound interest in Hogwarts table-talk.

"What do you mean? Strange how?"

"I can't really say. There's like, like this air about 'im."

"You mean like Mary Sue's air? Attentiveness, trust, that sort of thing?"

"No, no -- like the author's planning to embarrass him horribly later in this fic."

"Really?"

"Yeah -- leaves a mark on you, it does. Happens to me all the time, but I haven't seen it on Harry in ages "

"Gosh," Hermione said, and looked over at Harry. Harry was busy adding butter to his mashed potatoes, trying to achieve a silver-blond look. It wasn't working. "Now that you mention it, he does look like he's in for a rough time."

"It's like he's already got a cream pie smashed in his face," Ron said glumly, remembering certain events from the last book.

"Poor Harry." Hermione didn't like it when her friends were treated badly by the author just to create an interesting story; it reminded her that she could be next. In a sequel, for instance.

"Listen, Hermione, we've got to be there for him, all right? Whatever happens, he's our friend, and the author isn't. I mean, look what she's done already in this piece."

Hermione shivered. "You're right. Pact on it?"

Ron and Hermione clasped hands, while the author looked on in interest. "Pact," Ron said. "No matter what, we'll stick by Harry."

"Pact," Hermione agreed.

The author was delighted to see how long it took for them to separate their fingers. Sequel material, indeed.

---

Neville Longbottom sat in the Gryffindor common room after dinner, feeling depressed. This morning's writing class had been a flop, as far as he was concerned; Inspirations just didn't work with him. His essay was as dull as ditches, and his haikus just talked about rabbits and ineffability. Nothing interesting.

And then there was his new "sister". Everyone seemed to like her. Hell, he liked her, but not like everyone else. "She has an... air," they all said; why couldn't he feel it? It just wasn't fair.

He looked up. Standing in the doorway was Mary Sue Cutebottom herself, staring at him. She turned her head, a blush sweeping up her cheeks, as if Neville had caught her doing something naughty. Doubt it was anything that bad, Neville thought gloomily; she was probably thinking about what a badly-written oaf I am.

"Hallo, Neville," Mary Sue said hesitantly.

"Hello, Mary," he said. "Enjoying yourself at Hogwarts?"

"Oh. Oh, yes. It's quite wonderful. As, as I guess you'd know, right?" the girl said, mumbling the last few words. It was painfully obvious, at this point; compared to everyone else here, Neville was a complete git. She was regretting being related to him. He was only embarrassing her now by making her talk to him.

"Well," said Neville, "I think I'll leave now."

Mary Sue blinked rapidly. "Of, of course, Neville. I'll see you tomorrow, all right?"

"Tomorrow. Right." He got out of his chair, smiled cheerfully without really feeling it, and left.

---

Harry found Mary Sue in the common room, staring into the fire and sighing. "Mary, you all right?" he said, wondering if maybe he should get Hermione or some other female to do the girls-crying-emotions-bonding thing. He wasn't very good at dealing with sighing women.

Mary Sue looked up at him and smiled softly. "Nothing, Harry. Just thinking about the prequel. Now," she said, straightening her spine and beckoning him to a nearby chair, "let's have a look at that essay of yours."

Harry handed over the notebook, and pretended to be incredibly interested in the carpet for the several minutes that Mary Sue took to read his essay.

"Hmm... " she said.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. The author's trying to think of something Freudian for me to quote, and needs to kill some time."

"This author's got funny ideas about--"

"I've got it!" Mary Sue quickly leaned over and said, "Harry, tell me: Do you have... feelings... for Draco Malfoy?"

"What?" Harry would have sputtered if he'd been drinking something, another oversight by the author. What ever happened to evening cups of hot chocolate? "That's rubbish! I hate him -- I've hated him ever since we were First Years together! He's a Slytherin, he's a rival Quidditch player, he hates Muggle-born, his father was a Death Eater and before I killed Voldemort it looked like he was going to join the Dark Force the second he graduated--"

" 'I would often think about my broomstick during the summer months -- the cool, firm wood that would warm as I flew it through the air,' " Mary Sue began reciting, " 'I'd think about who I'd like to fly with, the way his hands would caress my broomstick, sending me higher and higher until I met the sun and then, oh God, and then we'd fall together. We'd wave our wands before we hit, and the hard ground would become softer than gosling down. The landing would be made all the better by his hair brushing my cheek while we both lay gasping, and his eyes would promise devotion ever more. No more Dark Force for him, no sir.' "

Harry looked shocked. "It's a metaphor, that's all, I just want to win the Quidditch cup again--"

"Harry," Mary Sue said sternly, "Harry, it's no good. Don't deny your feelings! I want you to think about this, all right? How bad could Draco possibly be?"

"How bad?" Harry said with disbelief. "How bloody bad could he be? Should I start listing the myriad of choices now--?"

"You needn't bother, Harry, you already did a few paragraphs ago," Mary Sue said. "I want you to think about how much truth is in that list. I think you'll be surprised."

She got up and handed Harry his notebook. "As for the essay... I think it's important that you leave it the way it is. Professor Jimison is American -- I doubt she'll be shocked or anything. And as for everyone else... " She shrugged. "This is the British boarding school system; who'd be surprised?"

Mary Sue smiled again, and left the common room.

Harry looked at his essay. "Gosling down... " he mumbled. "Hell."

---

" 'His skin is of silk,' " Mary Sue recited to a gaping Malfoy, mimicking the previous scene with almost disturbing accuracy. " 'His eyes like emerald chips / His mouth sweet and warm.' "

"I do not have 'feelings' for Potter!"

"Is that so? Let me see... 'Evil? Nonsense! No! / Betray him now, with my love? / Rather die smelly.'"

"That has nothing whatsoever to do with Potter. It's probably a reflection of my childhood."

"'Harry Potter, sweet / angel of divine lusting / Can't I admit love?'" Mary Sue read triumphantly. "And while I'm at it, 'Hot sex on field with'--"

"All right, all right!" Malfoy ran his hand through his hair; Mary Sue delighted to see that it was trembling. "Just what am I supposed to do about this, Mudbl--" He saw her lift his haikus threateningly. "--ah, Mary? I'm his enemy. Always have been. I mean, granted, I'm too nasty to exist very long in the canon without changing for the better, but this isn't canon is it?" Malfoy stood and began pacing around Mary Sue's chair. "No redemption for me," he muttered, "oh no, we have to keep our antagonists, we'd be stuck with only Snape and Voldemort if you turned good... "

"Ah, Draco?"

"...damned prepubescent fanwriters... "

"Draco?"

"...no sense of character flaw resolution..."

"Draco!"

"...don't bloody drool in my sleep, nearly cut my throat after I read that fanfic..."

Mary Sue stood up and glared at Malfoy. "'Hot sex on field with / famous, too kissable scar'--!" she hissed angrily.

He stopped, and looked nervously about the room. "Here, now, let's not get drastic..."

"Listen to me, Draco, because otherwise I'll read every damn haiku you've got out loud. Now, you may think it's unlikely, and you may think it's embarrassing, and you may think it'll never happen in canon, but that's not the point! You love Harry!"

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh gods."

"And you have to come clean with it, Draco! Face your emotions!" Mary Sue took a deep breath. "You may be pleasantly surprised if you do."

He looked at her sharply. "What was that?"

Mary Sue gave him back his notebook. "I think the professor will understand if you don't have an essay. You've got plenty of poems; it's an even trade. Just think about what you've written, all right? I just want you to be happy."

She smiled, and left the Slytherin common room. Once she was sure she was out of earshot, she murmured, "Both of you."

---

It was the next morning, and another The Art and the Artiste class with Professor Jimison. This time, when everyone'd entered the class, Jimison was setting fire to the newspaper clipping on the walls, muttering about philistines and professional jealousy the entire while. She stopped once everyone was seated, though she used the last flame (the only words left visible were "A ridiculous interpretation of the post-modern gender issue--") to light a new cigarette.

"First of all, tomorrow's assignment is another essay. Use what Inspiration you had yesterday to write tonight's, and be prepared for some sort of open mike session with it. Next, I want everyone to lay their notebooks on their desks, please." The class did so, though some, like our dear protagonists, did so reluctantly. Jimison nodded, and pulled out her wand. "Now, I want you all to duck."

The books jumped into the air, swooping at lethal speeds toward Professor Jimison's head, neither noticing nor caring whether a student was in their paths. As soon as a notebook came within a meter of Jimison she'd fire several little arrows of smoke, always striking the book dead center; the notebook would then wobble back to its owner, weeping piteously.

Harry was boggled. "What is this?"

Ron was staring at his notebook, which had just flopped dejectedly back onto his desk. He opened its front cover, and bit back an exclamation inappropriate for younger readers.

Hermione was looking at her notebook too, looking faintly sick. "It's the grading process."

Harry's book was flopping weakly about his ankles. He picked it up, and tried to dislodge the arrows sticking out of the cover. Every time he tried, though, his fingers went right through them. So, ignoring his notebook's moans and hacking cough, he opened the front cover.

"Gosh," he said a moment later. There was really nothing else he could say.

His essay and two haikus (both of which talked about what a marvelous color silver-blond was) had been covered in commentary, all written with bright red ink. Some of the reader remarks were quite large, and easy to read ("You can skip to something interesting any time now"), while others were long and written very small, cramped between sentences and curving around the edges of paragraphs ("Your puerile attempts at masked sexual division make me retch, while your rather boring fantasy scenarios make it seem like you're looking for a grade rather than a successful seduction of Other -- which, coincidentally, is likewise a very poorly disguised view of Self").

With a brief look around the class, Harry knew he wasn't the only one who'd gotten unintelligible, but clearly negative, commentary. Hermione was past looking sick, and was working on outrage. "Will you look at this grade? She gave me less than half marks!"

"Join the rest of us, eh?" said Ron mournfully. "Mum's going to kill me."

"How the hell do we get rid of these arrows?" Harry asked. Half marks were bad enough -- his notebook was squeaking a funeral dirge.

"Those, kiddos, you can never get rid of." Professor Jimison grinned at the unhappy faces surrounding her. She pointed toward the Inspirations. "Ever wonder what these things are for if you don't want to write something?"

Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to try it first. Harry looked around, then shrugged. He pulled out his wand and tapped a black sticker.

He heard the fizzling noise, like the day before, and then he blurted out: "Half marks? Half marks? Bloody genius, that's what I give her, and what do I get in return, lads? Half marks! Soul on the page, and the bitch rips into it, like, like, like -- Jealousy! That's it! She can't handle what the up-and-comers are producing, wants to push us down, beat the bloody originality out of us, wants to make us all status quo, what the publishers want, what they can sell, not what the readers need to read! Not what they really want, oh no, then those publishing dictators wouldn't, wouldn't, wouldn't... Wouldn't that bitch like to have half my talent, eh, lads! Here, I'll sell something soon -- the next round's on me!"

---

After lunch, the Gryffindor Seventh Years were making their way to Divinations. Harry was letting himself be pulled along by his friends while he thought about what he was going to write about for tomorrow's The Art and The Artiste class. Suddenly, a young and perky figure threw herself in his direction.

"Oh, drat!" Mary Sue Cutebottom cried. "Would you just look at that?! I'm sorry for running into you, Harry, but you're just what I need. I seem to have dropped my quill somewhere; will you help me look for it?"

"Well," said Harry, trying to disentangle himself from her grip, "d'you remember the last place you saw it?"

"Let me think, let me think... " Mary Sue was darting glances about the hallway; she's probably trying to find her quill without my help, thought Harry. Her eyes widened, and for a moment it looked like she grinned with triumph. Then she said in worried tones, "I remember now -- I was writing down my assignments in Charms. Or... was I printing my name on the study group list outside of Charms?" She grabbed his arm and started tugging him toward Professor Flitwick's classroom. "Come on, Harry, let's look."

"But-- I've got class-- "

"Oh, bother, Harry. There's at least five minutes before classes begin. Besides, you've never liked Divinations -- just tell Trelawney you had a vision of the future. Mention lots of blood." She had him by Flitwick's door, now. "Drat the bad luck, Harry. It must be inside. Could you look?"

"But you haven't even looked here!"

"Oh. Right." Mary Sue stared at the floor for a moment, then said, "Well, so much for that. Go on, Harry, look inside for me?"

"Now, just a moment, Mary-- "

Mary Sue looked at him, and he was embarrassed to see tears in her eyes. "Oh Harry," she sniffed, "please? It's, it's, it's the quill I had during the perilous conclusion to the prequel, you know, the one that saved my life and the life of-- "

"I remember, Mary," Harry said. He sighed, and straightened his glasses. "Where's your desk?"

"Um... " She looked into the classroom. "Third from the back, on the far left."

"Alright, then. Back in a mo'."

Harry entered Flitwick's classroom and started heading toward the back, looking around the path Mary Sue had probably taken when she'd left her Fifth Year Charms. He could tell people were looking at him, but he couldn't take the time to chat -- much as he owed Mary Sue, he did not want to make up ghastly predictions of his own demise. He'd had to do it twice yesterday.

He was in the back of the classroom, now; he turned and made his way over to the left-hand side. It was startling how many things students had left behind over the course of the day -- an inkpot, a bit of owl feed, a glitter-encrusted sneaker--

Ah, third desk from the back, Harry thought. Still no quill, though--

" 'Scuse me, you haven't seen a bright purple quill, have you? Belongs to a Fifth Year, should say 'MSC' on it?" said Harry, searching the ground around the shoes of the desk's occupant.

"Potter... " a low voice drawled out. Harry looked up and saw, for the first time, who precisely was sitting at the desk.

Draco Malfoy said, "Potter, just what are you doing?"

Oh dear, thought Harry.

"Looking for a quill, Malfoy. Mary Sue Cutebottom's actually. Seen it?" Harry's brain fought a valiant battle against Harry's eyes, which kept trying to stare at Malfoy's lips and long, pulled-back hair. Harry's brain was losing.

"Now why would I have a Mudblood's quill, Potter? Gone a bit daft in your old age?" Malfoy's eyes kept flicking back and forth between Harry's eyes and his forehead. Probably getting the closest look he's ever gotten of my scar, thought Harry. I haven't stood this close to him since we were First Years.

I'm standing very close indeed.

Harry didn't feel like stepping back. Instead, he slowing crouched beside the desk, until he was at Malfoy's eye-level. "Fine," Harry said quietly, "you haven't seen the quill. Should I ask what you are seeing?"

"Me?" Malfoy said, just as quietly. "Nothing, Potter. Ever since the exciting adventures of last year, it must seem strange for you to have absolutely no one to battle -- no evil to defeat, no puppies to save... you've run the course of your destiny, Potter, and what have you to look forward to now? Nothing."

Harry stared into Malfoy's eyes -- grey, a stormy grey. "What of you, Malfoy? Voldemort's gone. Your parents emigrated to Rio and left you to the mercies of the wizarding world. If it weren't for me and my 'destiny', you'd be trying to survive with the Muggles and their version of justice." Storm grey, with a hint of lightning. "If I've got nothing, then what exactly have you got?"

Malfoy smiled. When Harry saw it, something inside him hurt. Not like the way Voldemort had ever hurt him... in a different way. A more important way.

"Potter... "

"Harry. My name's Harry, you bastard. I'm tired of this bloody distant attitude of yours, and I've been tired of it for the last seven years. Call me by name, not by legacy."

Malfoy watched him for a moment, something indefinable behind those cool grey eyes. "I haven't been the only distant one," he murmured. "If you're Harry... then who does that make me?"

The bell rang.

"Oh, Harry!" called Mary Sue from the doorway. Harry flinched, his eyes breaking from Malfoy's to stare dumbfounded at the bouncing Fifth Year. "Look! I had my quill all along! Sorry for dragging you in here -- come on, you'll be late for Divinations!"

Harry stood up slowly, and made his way to the doorway and out into the hall. He could feel Malfoy watching him as he left.

Hell.

---

Harry thought about what happened all through the rest of classes. He'd never consciously thought of Malfoy in any sense other than 'rotten-to-the-core prat' -- but ever since he'd written that essay, he couldn't help but think over the past few years... there was the awareness of Malfoy's growth spurt some two years before, how large it'd turned Draco's hands. Malfoy's hair, which he'd let grow several inches past his shoulders, and the way he'd tie it back so it hung like a rope of silver. Those grey eyes, watching Harry... seeming all the more dark for appearing next to translucent skin and pale hair...

Bloody, bloody hell. Why hadn't he ever consciously realized this stuff?

"Because it's Malfoy, Harry. Why else?" Mary Sue plopped beside Harry in the near-empty Gryffindor common room. "And while I can see why that would be something of a hang-up, you must consider his good qualities."

"I see the author's letting you be psychic now," Harry said quietly, as he began tugging on his chair's loose threads.

"No, no -- I get to be empathetic, but not have direct mind reading abilities," Mary Sue said. "So tell me: Aside from the fact that it's the boy you've been quarreling with for the past seven years, why precisely do you have a problem being madly in love with him?"

"I am not madly in love with Malfoy."

"All right, then: Why do you have a problem being madly in lust with him?"

"It's not that, either," Harry said, standing up. He began to pace, though not as wildly as Malfoy had three scenes ago. "It's... it's that I thought I was quite blatantly heterosexual. That whole business with Cho, for instance, and you in the prequel... and let's not forget fanfic's attempts at explaining my love life. Hermione this, and Lavender that, and a host of 'original' characters... But now, suddenly, not only am I feeling something for a man, but... but that man is Malfoy. I mean, why him? Couldn't I have fallen for Ron or something? A fellow Quidditch player? Someone who isn't out to ruin my life? Someone who makes sense?"

"Well..." Mary Sue looked faintly upset. "You have taken into account who's writing this story...?"

Harry gestured vaguely. "Yes, yes. It doesn't make me feel any better about the situation."

Mary Sue said nothing for some minutes, then reached out and stopped Harry. "Sit down for a moment, would you?" Harry sat on the ground beside her feet. "Look, it's like this: Draco's made about as many mistakes as a person can possibly make when it comes to human relationships. He's insulted your friends, openly despised the culture you grew up in, and nearly joined forces with a hideous evil that wanted you dead for nigh on seventeen years."

She touched Harry's shoulder. "But has it occurred to you that maybe the only reason he's keeping up that charade is because you... need it?"

Harry blinked. "No, can't say that it has."

"If Draco started acting nice and... affectionate, let's say, then what? What would you think?"

The response came automatically. "That he was out trick me, and a murder attempt was imminent."

"See? So if he acts just as he has for the last seven years -- a sarcastic, openly hostile bastard who only hates Muggles more than he hates you -- will you avoid him more, or will you keep at least the token distance granted him?"

"I... " Harry stopped, and thought about what Mary Sue was saying. Finally he looked up. "I don't know," he said quietly. "How can I be sure? That I'm doing the right thing?"

"Well, there's the easy way, and there's the hard way."

"Um... not that I'm shirking my leading character, always-taking-the-rougher-road type responsibilities, but out of idle curiosity... what's the easy way?"

"You find all the gimmicky magical objects that Dumbledore's 'accidentally' let you find over the years and mess about with them until you are granted knowledge of some sort. Or are turned into an orangutan."

"Ah. And the hard way?"

Mary Sue shrugged. "You have to realize that you can't be sure. The best you can do is speak the truth, and hope." She smiled. "Have fun with your writing assignment, Harry."

And then she left Harry alone with his thoughts.

---

Some time ago Harry had refound the Mirror of Desir-- ah, Erised. The first time Harry had looked in the Mirror of Erised, he'd become nearly obsessed with the images of his family he'd seen there. But, thanks to those surprising few chapters in the previous book, Harry felt a sense of... completion, joy... and a sincere wish to never see his family ever, ever again.

To ease the writing of the story, and because his bed hadn't had a headboard (a stylish touch, the lacking of which Harry thought to be extremely gauche), Harry had propped the mirror against the wall behind his bed; well-covered, of course. There had been very little comment on it, except for some puzzled glances from Ron, and a poke or two (swiftly halted) from Neville. Now, though, for the first time in months, Harry had a reason to look into the mirror.

He waited until the other boys were asleep. He was cutting it close; he'd only have a few hours to write his assignment for the next day, and that was only after doing a very poor job on the rest of his work. That was all right, though -- he'd be able to finish the rest properly during Divinations, and claim he was writing out a new version of his will.

It was past midnight, now. Four snores, of varying symphonic quality, surrounded Harry. He pulled the drape from the mirror.

Though only half the Mirror of Erised was visible -- the other half having been wedged into place between his bed and the wall -- Harry could still see himself completely. Kneeling in front of it, he could see clearly his almost-too-long black hair (had Harry any experience with Japanese animation, he would no doubt be extremely disturbed to discover how closely his hair style resembled that of an anime character's), bright green eyes, glasses of a spectacularly ugly design, and the small lightning bolt scar on his forehead that had so enchanted Malfoy.

Malfoy.

At the thought, the mirror's image wavered. The Mirror of Erised showed what a person most wanted. And what the mirror showed Harry was a picture of Malfoy, sitting on his bed, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankle, a pile of papers surrounding him and a quill in hand. Malfoy muttered something, crumpled up the sheet he'd been working on, and tossed it aside. The image ran his hand through his unbound hair, muttered again, and set his quill to paper. Suddenly, the audio on the mirror picked up.

"Hot sex on field with / famous, too kissable..." Malfoy said. The mirror-Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. "There has got to be some other thing I can pass in tomorrow. And lord only knows what the 'open mike' session will entail."

Malfoy sighed, sneered, grimaced, and settled for looking faintly troubled. "One thing for it," he said. The image got off the bed, and left the picture.

The reflection in the mirror wavered, then resettled in a different location -- the Art and the Artiste classroom. Malfoy stealthily entered, wand in one hand and paper and quill in the other. He looked around after he closed the door, and the mirror-Malfoy's face took on that most naked of expressions -- surprise.

Ye gods and small fishes, thought Harry, what an awful description. But the mirror's picture suddenly pulled back, and Harry forgave the author any and all prose decisions up to this point because, standing near the opposite wall of the classroom, staring directly at Malfoy, was Harry himself.

Gosh, thought Harry, this looks like the beginning of a spicy porn scenario. The author had no comment. A second later the mirror clouded, and when the picture cleared--

Harry swallowed.

"Right. Erised. Not going to be the answer." He watched, mesmerized, as the mirror-Malfoy began doing something rather ingenious to the mirror-Harry's... etcetera. "Then again, who needs answers..."

The mirror did a tasteful fade to black, but not before someone had brought out a tube of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Lube, a novelty item that Harry had only ever seen out of the corner of his eye in the 'Unusual Tastes' portion of the Hogsmeade sweet shop. This tube, if the color was to be believed, seemed to be cherrywood flavored.

"Oy! Author!" cried out both of the mirror images. "That was completely unnecessary!"

The mirror-Harry muttered, "Besides, it's clearly orange sorbet."

And the mirror blacked out.

Harry sat staring. His eyes felt as if someone had double-glazed them during a moment of inattention. This was what he desired?

The Mirror of Erised. It couldn't read the future, it couldn't tell the truth, but by God, it gave good show.

With much difficulty, Harry covered the mirror again and focused on Mary Sue's advice. What should he do?

Well, the mirror-Harry had been in the Art and the Artiste classroom. The question that begged was, why? Perhaps I should look in the mirror again, Harry thought, you know, just to, um, find out, what... how...

He sighed. No. That would be playing entirely too much into the author's hands. If I were to go to the classroom right now, he thought, why would I do so?

To touch a flashing Inspiration. To gain some much needed, well, inspiration. And considering Professor Jimison's instructions ("Use what Inspiration you had yesterday..." Harry remembered helpfully), to be a complete and utter bounder and cheat at my assignment.

Just like the mirror-Malfoy had planned to do.

"Right," said Harry. "Where'd I leave my wand?"

--

The classroom was glowing with the constant burn of the bottle stickers. Harry had never seen darkness look so bright. He silently congratulated the author for the apt, though a tad obvious, metaphor.

He sat at his desk and flattened his Marauder's Map on the surface. No one was moving. No one had moved around at night since Voldemort's death in the previous book, and the surprising involvement of the caretaker, Argus Filch, and his cat, Mrs. Norris, both of whom were taking a well-deserved vacation in the Virgin Islands.

"Don't know what I'd do if old Filch hadn't saved my life during the perilous conclusion to the previous book. He was flash." Harry sighed. "Who knew pectoral muscles could be that multipurpose?"

No, Harry wasn't looking for creepers about the school -- he was looking for Malfoy. And sadly, there were no little wandering Malfoy shapes to beguile Harry's eye.

Harry put away the map and opened his notebook to a fresh page. "Right," he said. "Cheating. Can't be hard, can it?"

He felt a twinge of discomfort at the thought, but despite that, he closed eyes, took a deep breath, and touched one of the glowing Inspirations.

"Dear God!" he cried out, as his pen began to idly scribble on the page, "I'm a, I'm a, I'm a hack. Can't manage on my own, can't come up with a gram of, of originality, creativity, nothing, I'm nothing, why did they let me sign the contract? -- I can't write. No talent. That first one was a, was a fluke, and now they expect me to do it again! Damn the readers anyway, no taste, if they had taste, they wouldn't have bought my book, and those editors, daft, the lot of them, they haven't any taste either, bloody publishers and their bloody sense of, of... Literary hacks, that's what they want, they, they made me become one -- I could have been great, if they hadn't forced this upon me. O muse! I have no art," Harry sobbed into one hand, "and I'm fooling no one."

The fizzing noise in his ears receded, and the tears abruptly stopped. Crikey, thought Harry. Damned if I'll ever become a writer, even if wizarding goes out of fashion.

He stretched, and looked down at what his pen had written. Then he looked again. And then he started counting pages. And finally, he read the thing.

"Bloody hell," whispered Harry, dropping the over-hopeful PG-13 rating off the Embankment for British readers. "I've written a mainstream novel."

What's more, defying all logic, it was... it was a good mainstream novel. Love, loss, sex and violence, "a journey through adolescence", and more first person monologues of a highly personal and self-exploratory nature than you could shake a stick at.

And its focus was Harry and Malfoy.

Oh, granted, those weren't the characters' names. And perhaps the descriptions differed, and the setting somewhere unlikely. But even so... it was clearly Harry. And Malfoy. And the previously mentioned sex and violence.

Lots of sex and violence.

Funny, thought Harry. Characters that are clearly based upon real people, including a character who is, in fact, myself. I wonder if there's a term for that in the literary field?

"Mary Sue!" Harry said aloud suddenly. "She knew I'd do this! She knew I'd find the mirror, come here, and write -- this! It must be all right then." Harry fondly smoothed the ink-heavy pages of his notebook. "I'll magic this up into proper manuscript format, one-inch margins, 12 point mono-spaced font, double spaced and all its pages numbered. I'll even put my name, address, email, fax and phone number on a cover page. I'll make this perfect for tomorrow."

An Inspiration paused its glow for a moment, dimming to black and then back to blazing glory. The interruption jogged something in Harry's head. "A title," he murmured. "I need a title for this."

He worried the end of his quill with his fingers, and then, it came to him. In triumph, to be followed shortly by a scene break, he wrote in the upper margin of the first page of text:

"Bloody original, that is," he said triumphantly. "This story'll be a smash tomorrow. I can't wait."

---

The next morning was bright, cheery, and extremely difficult for Harry -- between the indecision about his homework and the actual writing of same, he'd gotten almost no sleep. Still, he dragged himself out of bed and began dressing.

"Harry," Ron said drowsily, "what the hell is that?"

"That," Harry replied, "is my assignment for Professor Jimison."

Ron sat at the end of Harry's bed and peered at the manuscript laying there. "Don't know if you noticed yet, Harry, but it's three inches thick."

"Yeah. Wrote it last night."

Ron yawned. "You'll have to get a new notebook, you know."

Ron was used to this sort of thing. Neville came over and looked at the manuscript. "You," he said, looking at Harry questioningly, "wrote that?"

Harry nodded. "Yep."

"Last night?"

"Took me a bit to tidy it up, I don't mind telling you."

Neville rubbed his forehead. "Bloody hell, I've only got two pages, and I've been working on it since lunch yesterday."

Ron nodded sagely. "Some blokes," he said, poking Harry, "get too many leg-ups from certain authorial Powers That Be." Ron started to leave, but looked back to Harry with a smile. "Mark my words, one of these days the authors that contribute to your good fortune will up and leave you, and then what will you do?"

"May the day never come. Hey, Ron--" Harry said, shouldering his book bag and heading out after his friend, "what did you write about this time around?"

"Me? Inferiority complexes again. Strange, eh?"

Gryffindor students flooded the stairs to head down to breakfast. There was oddly empty feeling about the corridors, though, which Harry couldn't quite pin. Until he reached the Great Hall.

Harry hadn't seen this sort of configuration since the old Defense Against the Dark Arts professor Gilderoy Lockhart tried to start the Dueling Club. There was the huge stage where the High Table usually was, and there were the floating candles giving light from above. Seats for spectators now stretched out where the house tables usually were, and instead of friendly faces filling those seats, Harry saw row upon row of... not precisely happy students.

"Hiya, kiddos." Professor Jimison stood center stage. She set down a microphone stand, and then waved her wand -- a bright spotlight shone down on her. "I told you yesterday that you'd have to participate in a sort of open-mike session today." Her smile turned evil. "This is your mike, and this is your audience -- tired, hungry, and ready to mock you cruelly if you waste their time. I'll be grading random members of class immediately after they finish--" She looked thoughtful for a moment. "And maybe I'll throw in some comments before they finish too. Everyone will be given written commentary in addition to whatever I may say here."

"But Professor," cried out someone who sounded suspiciously like Hermione, "how will we all read today? I've got a scroll and a half to go through!"

Jimison waved the question away. "I've put the great wizard Montoya's Summarian spell on this microphone. It may not seem so to all of you, but I've been speaking for about two hours now. You'll all have a chance to read everything you've written."

"My God," Ron muttered into Harry's ear, "she's mad."

"Worse," said Hermione, having just nudged several people aside to join her two friends, "she's unstoppable."

Professor Jimison took out a long roll of parchment and looked it over. "Since I don't believe in the false sense of security brought upon by knowledge of the alphabet, I'll be choosing which students will read in what order." She rolled up the scroll, set it aflame, and used it to light one of her cigarettes, which seemed to have Apparated from some undisclosed location straight into her waiting fingertips. "And first goes to... Harry Potter."

"She's worse than unstoppable," Harry said in a panicked whisper--

"--She's another bloody Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher trying to kill me." Harry audibly gulped. He was on stage. And that last sentence had wheezed itself out over the entire sound system.

"Um," he said. The microphone whined. Harry cleared his throat and lifted his manuscript. The audience groaned. "Sorry," he muttered. "The Horrid Pain of the Artiste, by Harry Potter. 'In the beginning of the summer months--'"

"Harry?"

Harry broke off. "Um, yes, Professor Jimison?"

"Two things. One: Suck ass title. Find another. Two: Do you have any... warnings, maybe? For content?" Jimison waggled her eyebrows. "I remember your essay, Flyboy."

Harry searched his brain for any warning that would cover everything. He reverted to looking through the author's mind as well, and finally settled on, "This story is slash. That means there will be relationships of a sexual and/or loving nature featuring people of the same gender. So if don't want to hear about that, bugger off. Um. So to speak."

Dead silence. No one left. Jimison nodded. "Go for it, kid."

And then off he went. He had some difficulty at first -- public speaking was so utterly not his thing that, had there been a contest for things that were his, public speaking would not even be allowed in the vicinity of such award winners as, say, his moldy gym socks, his used tissues, or the Dursleys.

"'The calendar passes through each day without pause for reflection...'" Harry was really getting into the swing of things by then. He didn't go so far as to change voices, or even act out much of the action, but he was feeling the power of his own words, the way they flowed easily from him once he stopped feeling nervous.

The nervousness came back in droves when he saw Malfoy sitting in the front row.

"'There comes a day in every child's life -- a moment, a fragment, a dream -- when they must throw off toys of plastic, and take up toys of flesh...'" As often as Harry could, he looked over at Malfoy, gauging reactions, watching for acceptance, rejection, something... The rest of the audience was listening as well, of course -- had Jimison made any more comments during this reading? He couldn't remember -- but they didn't really matter. Only one person did. It was uncomfortable, it was embarrassing, and, as mentioned a few scenes back, it would never work in canon. But Harry needed something, and only Malfoy could give it to him.

Harry realized something was... off... with the rest of the school somewhere around chapter eleven. "'But why are you here?' I whispered. 'Haven't you figured that out yet, Johnny?' Tom replied, and closed the door behind him...'"

By midway through chapter twelve, there was definitely something wrong. "'Like nothing else I had yet experienced -- like nothing else ever -- like fire, water; pain, surcease; love, honesty -- there he was...'"

The audience... his friends, his classmates, the best people he'd ever known... they weren't happy.

Only five chapters to go, thought Harry. He continued to read, and continued to watch Malfoy.

But there was something wrong there as well. Something Harry couldn't figure out. So he kept going.

"'And I had come to the end of the journey -- the road untraveled was blocked by boulders -- or were they emotions? Both, because Tom smiled at me, and said we were going home.'" Harry cleared his throat again. "The end."

And that's when the negative criticism started. But it didn't come from Jimison.

"Ew! ewewewew," said someone from third row back. "you made Harry gay!! That is SO WRONG."

As horrible as that was, Harry felt confused more than anything else. Last time he'd checked, his peers had been capable of decent punctuation. And while there had been a multitude of sex/violence between the characters, that wasn't the point of the story. Well, not much anyway. Why did this person concentrate their critique on that?

Someone else yelled out, "U R gay UR goig to h-ll."

"Ur?" Harry asked, bewildered. "Who's Ur? What?"

Another: "I relly think you need to get you're priorities straight. Get it?? *STRAIGHT*? Figure it out. Oh yeah, you are gross and J.K. Rowling is going to sue you I wrote to your ISP and reported you that's what you get for beign a pervert."

"What the hell does my internet service provider have to do with any of this? I don't bloody have an ISP!"

There was one more shout ("Everyone knows its HARRYANDHERMIONE4EVER!!!! so don't write this sick s--- anymore, it's digusting and wrogn and Draco would never do that anyway.") before an overwhelming wall of flaming sound surrounded Harry.

It hurt. Hadn't anyone been listening during his content warning? And was this what the next generation felt had to be said about homosexuality? I mean really, thought Harry, if this is what parents are teaching their children today about acceptance of all lifestyles, I sincerely fear for the world of tomorrow. Can't these people recognize irony? The Muggle/Wizard conflicts? Gosh, it's so wrong to pick on Muggles just because of the way they are, but it's all right to completely bash an entire sexual orientation? Might as well bring Voldemort back from the dead and start over -- far as I know, he didn't give a fig who I wanted to shag.

But it doesn't matter, Harry thought. None of it matters if Malfoy understood what I wrote.

So then Harry looked down. And Malfoy slowly met his gaze, and then, just as slowly, he turned away.

Oh.

Harry swallowed, looked around at the angry faces, and ran.

---

Several things happened after Harry left. Foremost of all were the two short, angry women who stormed the stage. One was Professor Jimison. The other was Mary Sue.

"Quiet!" Jimison yelled into the mike. Her voice amplified much louder than the sound system could be blamed for, but it didn't seem that magic was powering the sound either -- pure righteous anger was on her side. "What the hell do you think you people are doing?"

Crickets. The dark faces still hadn't lightened up, though.

"Didn't you hear a word of his inner monologue? Idiots! Fools! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write something you feel passionately about, and share it with equal passion to the uncaring world?"

Mary Sue suddenly jumped in. "Screw that! Even if it sucked, so what? It did suck. Harry really needs to let go of the metaphors and figure out his pronouns. A helpful hand with his action scenes would also not go amiss. Why didn't you complain about that?" Mary Sue pulled herself up to her full height, and her eyes, usually so friendly, so helpful, so attentive and trustful, turned ice. "Flame a person for their lack of talent. Flame a person in revenge. Flame a person because you're bored, and you've got a few minutes before the bell rings for third period History. But there is no reason whatsoever--" and every syllable of that kicked ass and took names -- "for you to degrade yourself, your generation, and the Harry Potter universe itself by becoming bigoted hypocrites."

There was a stunned silence. No one had tried to invoke canon in this story as an actual excuse not to do something -- not until now, anyway. Jimison cracked her first smile in hours. "That, and flames are very rarely intelligent, humorous, or even very original. Tomorrow we will begin work on the subtle science and precise art--"

A faint voice from the back of the hall, where the professors stood, said, "Stealing my line!"

"--and precise art of insightful, painful, and deliciously addictive critique. But for now..." Jimison raised an eyebrow. "I think it's Draco Malfoy's turn for the guillotine."

Mary Sue smiled and bounced offstage. Jimison smiled and resumed her seat, likewise offstage. Malfoy just swallowed, clutched his papers in one sweaty hand, and made his way to the microphone.

---

It was some time later.

It's all gone to hell now, Harry thought, unable to dredge up any real emotion to go with the words. He was sitting on the floor of Professor Jimison's classroom, his back against one of the bookcases, watching the ceiling Inspirations glow like lightning bugs in the dark. Perhaps Jimison had a deadline to meet, and that caused the flashing -- he couldn't really bring himself to care.

His story lay in his lap. Harry felt along it, straightened the edges, then straightened them again as the pages slipped out of alignment. He felt the corner of the top page -- he remembered how carefully he'd handled this sheaf of papers, making sure not a tear, not a crease formed. He'd wanted it perfect, in case... in case he ended up giving it to someone other than the professor.

Perfection.

He could fix that.

The remnants of thirty pages lay heaped in front of Harry, and he was midway through the thirty-first when a voice said, "It wasn't that bad, Potter."

Harry looked up. Draco Malfoy stood leaning against the classroom's doorway, watching as Harry tore his writing assignment to shreds. Neither of them spoke, but neither turned his eyes away.

Harry sighed, and started on the thirty-second page. "Take a seat, Malfoy, unless you've come just to stare at the Witless Wonder. In which case you can bloody well shove off."

"No, no... I want to talk to the Witless Wonder, too," said Malfoy. He walked over to Harry, and sat down a safe meter away. "After all, it's not every day that the estimable Harry Potter makes an ass of himself in front of the entire school. I'm dying to find out why."

"For rank purposes all my own, Malfoy," Harry said. "Have a page. Rip it in good health." Harry held out the next sheet of paper from his pile.

Malfoy took it, and read the first few lines. "I rather liked this scene, actually," he said.

"Which one is it?"

"Where you -- or a character incredibly similar to you -- declare yourself to male persons unknown."

"Ah," said Harry. "That scene. Can't say the audience liked it much. I seem to remember several gasps and at least one disgusted shriek."

"Hmm," said Malfoy. Harry looked up, and saw that Malfoy was reading the rest of the page. After a moment Malfoy said, "I can't help but wonder what sort of reaction you were looking for."

You. I was looking at you and you turned away, thought Harry. Isn't that reaction enough? "Certainly not the one I received," said Harry. Malfoy looked up sharply at that, and Harry shrugged and picked up the next sheet of paper.

"Hang on," Malfoy said, and reached out and stopped Harry's hand mid-rip.

Harry breath hitched -- when had breathing around Malfoy become difficult? -- and tried to talk around the metal bands seemingly wrapped around his chest. "What?"

"I... You've got a decent speaking voice, Potter, loathe though I am to admit it. I'd be interested to hear this section again."

A very stupid request. Malfoy's hand was still against his own, still stopping Harry from the act of tearing. "Where would you like me to start?" Harry said.

Malfoy made as if to pass his page over, but Harry looked where Malfoy's fingers held the page, and knew. "I wish I could've told you," Harry said, speaking words he'd read for the first time less than a day ago -- but it was a memorable passage. "I wish I could've told you years ago, when I realized what was happening. I'd watch you enter a room, and wait for you to find me before I'd turn away. I've wanted to... just touch your hair, feel the blond strands between my fingers, see how far I could pull before you gave up and bared your throat to me."

Malfoy watched him, didn't interrupt. "I wish I could have told you how often I've just wanted to sit and stare, for hours, at your eyes, and count those lashes that are too pale to see from a distance. I wish I could have told you how wonderful your hands look, and how much I've wanted to feel them. Anywhere."

Harry slowly withdrew his hand from Malfoy's, and turned his head to watch the far-off ceiling. He'd reached the end of the dialogue, but there was still something more that had to be said. Maybe something better than what the Inspiration had given him.

"I never knew if this was something you wanted too. But that's no excuse. I should have told you, the moment I knew I could. And now... now it's too late, you bastard, because it's all gone to hell. You have no idea what even the thought of you does to me now. The heavens fall, the rains sweep in, and what do I do? I float, because I'm thinking about your whiny voice, your ratty hair, your repulsive beliefs and your damned ineffective Quidditch maneuvers, and how much I want you. Because it's all you, even the rat bastard bits, and I want you."

Dead silence from the Malfoy side of the conversation. What did I expect? thought Harry, the back cover of a bloody romance novel?-- Malfoy said, "Let me see if I can remember the next line."

Harry blinked, started to turn his head. "There was no next li--"

And the punch came from no where. It hit hard; Harry's head knocked against the wall from the force of it.

Malfoy had his fist curled around the sheet of paper Harry'd quoted from. "That is for saying all that syrupy rubbish in front of the entire school," he said, his voice shaking and furious. "And for involving Mary Sue, of all people, in this debacle. And, while I'm at it, for six years of pure hell while I had to watch you being the unbreakable, the untouchable, the pitiful Harry Potter, a reluctant-but-brave bastard who gets respect like a dog gets fleas, who saves the world three times over on a slow day, with a bit of a cold, mind you; surrounded by your bloody friends, and your bloody memories, and your complete lack of forgiveness for the utter idiocy of childhood, I was left to watch all that, alone -- because damned if I'd come near you without some respect, and damned if you'd come near me without--"

Malfoy's breathing went ragged. Harry couldn't think what the last words could be. Without someone shoving me closer? Without a professor pairing us up? Without him insulting everything I believe in? Maybe there was a good reason why Malfoy hadn't finished the sentence. Malfoy said then, "It took me six bloody years to figure this out, Potter, and you tried to change it overnight with a writing assignment."

Harry touched his jaw, and winced. "Overnight? Hardly. This has been at least three days in the making. But honestly meant anyway. Nothing else, Malfoy? That the end of it?" Harry said, slowly standing up. "I expect you'll rub this in for the rest of the year -- the rest of my life... I've stopped caring. It would seem that since you've made your feelings on the subject rather clear, the best thing for me to do would be to clear off... give you a rest from the harrowing experience of being in my company... the sheer torture that is me... good God your fist is hard..."

Malfoy stood as well, a bit too fast; he swore as he stumbled, and his hand reached out and gripped Harry's shoulder for support. "Wait a moment, Potter," he said, and then that hand pulled Harry too close, and Malfoy swore again and kissed him.

It was fast, a brief press of warm flesh against his own; almost meaningless, really, it went so quickly. Malfoy pulled back, watched Harry for a moment -- tense, waiting for a blow.

None came.

Malfoy leaned forward again, slowly, and this time the contact was longer. Harry's lips tingled from the pressure, so he opened his mouth, a little, a little... Malfoy inhaled sharply, pulled back, asked, "Isn't this the part where you try and fend me off?" His eyes darted up to Harry's for a moment, then down again, and this time he didn't bother with a slow approach, but caught Harry's mouth and there was a strange tug, taste, as Malfoy moved his mouth against Harry's, and then, then he felt the wet heat of Malfoy's tongue, touching... hell.

"Call for help?" Malfoy asked hoarsely. Malfoy's grip on his shoulder loosened, and his fingertips pulled along the cloth of Harry's shirt, up to his jaw, and he lightly caressed the bruise forming there. Malfoy kissed him again, and this felt different from every other kiss he'd ever had, warmth that was Harry's, all Harry's, and he'd never give this up, he couldn't, and if Malfoy pulled away one more time--

Malfoy stopped, exhaled, made a move to step away, but seemed to rethink it -- he instead pushed Harry away, back against the wall, but kept one hand on Harry's shoulder. He studied Harry's face. "Potter," Malfoy whispered, "isn't this the part when you kick me in the bag and make a run for it?"

God, those eyes. Harry reached up and took off his glasses. "No," Harry said, "this is the part where you stop talking."

And when Harry kissed Malfoy, neither man pulled away.

---

Again, hours -- and considerable action -- had passed between scene breaks.

"Wait a moment," Harry said, "what did you read to the class?"

"Me? Haikus. Hundreds of the damn things. And I had to follow you, which I don't mind telling you was hell for an audience." Malfoy looked meditatively up at the ceiling. "My punishment, I suppose, for cheating."

"You touched an Inspiration?"

"Oh, yes. I snuck in during lunch."

"Damn. I snuck in past midnight."

"Crafty bastard. Hadn't thought you had it in you."

"You don't know the half." Harry looked over to Malfoy. "You do realize you're going to have to recite some of those haikus for me."

Malfoy nodded. "Only fair, I suppose -- the majority of them are about you. Which should I start with?"

Harry gave a helpful suggestion. Malfoy took him up on it.

---

"You border on sexual perversity," Malfoy murmured.

"How so?"

"Pull my hair until I bared my throat to you? Have to watch those sadistic tendencies, Potter."

"Must be your influence then, because I used to be quite sedate in my youth."

"I remember," Malfoy said. "It drove me to distraction on more than one occasion."

"Do you suppose our frequent battles were releases of homoerotic tension? We've been fighting since we were first years."

"Are you suggesting," Malfoy said, striving to look shocked, "that we were eleven when we first noticed each other?"

Harry raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Prude."

Malfoy sighed and shook his head. "Deviant."

---

"You know," said Harry, "I'd been told that this author was someone to be reckoned with."

"Quite so. Look at the bother we've had so far in this bloody thing."

"Granted. However..." Harry did something he'd figured out about forty-five minutes ago, and which the author blushed to describe.

"Ah. See your point. Quite right. Thank you, dear author."

"Do you think she could be convinced to write another?"

"If not her, I'm certain there are whole writing lists devoted to pairings such as us. I wouldn't doubt that there are several scenarios floating around that are much better written than this."

"I wouldn't doubt it, but..."

"But?"

"But I don't remember those. And if you don't mind--"

"Don't see how I could really, when you're doing that--"

"--I would like to remember this particular relationship for some time to come."

"In a relationship, are we?"

"So I presumed. Considering your response to--"

"Ah."

"Indeed."

"We sound like salacious characters from a regency romance, you do realize that, Potter."

"Blame the author. Our accents have changed dozens of times during this piece. And you've completely avoided the issue at hand, Malfoy--"

"And one hopes she'll settle for one accent by the sequel. It's bad enough I'll be dating Harry Potter from here on out in this series -- damned if I'll date someone with a badly written Yorkshire accent."

"Dating, are we?"

"Do shut up, Harry." And Malfoy helped Harry with this request, for as long as was required.

---

The next morning was an interesting experience. Especially since Harry and Malfoy decided to take full license of the author's ability to do whatever she damn well pleased, and took their breakfast to a peaceable corner near the Hufflepuffs instead of sitting at their respective tables. They had a good enough time complaining about each other's food choices ("Granola. I'm shocked. Shocked and appalled." "No more than I, Potter -- Eggs Benedict?" "Ever the patriot, I." "Muggle." "Brat."), but the real fun was having people watching them actually being friendly ("What did I tell you, Harry? You're a kink-magnet. I should inform the house elves to keep all rubber goods from you." "Too late." "What?--").

About halfway through, Hermione and Ron wandered over with offerings of food and faint blushes. Hermione spoke first. "Harry... are you happy?"

Harry actually thought about it for a moment. And then, just to annoy, he kept thinking, until Malfoy jabbed him rather hard in the ribs. Laughing, he said, "Yes."

Hermione smiled, then turned to Ron. "Go on," she whispered. "You said you would."

Ron screwed up his courage. "So... is this a private party, or is the floor reserved for poofs?" Ron asked.

"Free for the taking," Harry said. "And that's the best you could do?"

"Sorry," Ron said. "I panicked."

"Damn right, you did," said Hermione. "And you said something amazing and very sweet back at the table without an ounce of prompting. It was his idea to come over, you know," she said proudly. Hermione shook her head sadly and sat down beside Malfoy. "Crumpet?"

Malfoy accepted it, then turned to Harry to mutter about the absolute shame that all the really excellent jokes about Ron and Hermione he could make at this time had already been written by much better fanfic authors. Harry nodded sympathetically, then began to explain where the Mirror of Erised idea had really come from.

A giggly Mary Sue Cutebottom soon came over, trailed by a slightly confused Neville. And once it was realized that the author was freely breaking all rules for this bit of the story, breakfast became a floor party. The professors conveniently never noticed, though they did remark on the seemingly poor turnout for the morning meal. While a loud and raucous party with a good three-fourths of the student body participating occurred at foot level, they planned a restorative vitamin regimen. It seemed like a good and forward-thinking idea.

Meanwhile, squirreled away in her offices, Professor Jimison was muttering over an old Macintosh computer, writing up her Letters of Comment. The majority of them would be exceedingly nasty. Harry's was as well, but then, she'd given him a little bit more than half marks, so that was all right. And Jimison knew a great secret: One of the other members of the staff was friendly with a great many publishers, and, given enough... persuasion, could be convinced to send Harry's manuscript to an agent.

And then there was the matter of Ron and Hermione -- Jimison knew the author had to do something about that. And what about Neville? What was to become of Mary Sue? Would the movie suck? Would Harry and Malfoy actually be accepted around school? What happened to Snape in the never-to-be-written prequel? Why did Malfoy's parents emigrate to Rio? What happened to those scenes the author wrote involving the Book of Three Words? And who the hell is Hairy Vincenzo the Tireless Vicar?

Jimison smiled. "But that's sequel territory."

-The End.

next in the series: Harry Potter and His Very Small Role in the Plot

third in the series: Harry Potter and the Unmistakable Air of Attentiveness and Trust