Title: The Tears (He Had Never Seen Her Cry)

Pairing: Harry Potter/Daralise Malfoy

"I hate this," Harry Potter muttered as he flopped onto the couch.

He dropped his head in Daralise Malfoy's lap, to no one's astonishment. He had known her since they were both four years old, and the sight of them ignoring proper protocol was everyday in the Slytherin common room.

"Hate what?" she asked, as if she didn't know the answer.

Daralise didn't stop reading her Quidditch strategy book, only stroked her fingers through his hair as proof she acknowledged his sudden presence.

"All of it," spat Harry.

He gritted his teeth and swung his legs up on the couch, letting his feet hang over the other arm. The couch was much too short with her taking up one cushion of it. Though, to be honest, it would be too short either way. Harry was almost six feet tall.

"Do stop being a child, Potter."

Her voice was chiding; a sneer twisted her lips.

"Dara," Harry cried, hands clutched to his chest, "you wound me! What happened to Harry?"

"That's a good question, Potter. When you find him, please return my best friend. I'm sick of this whining, pathetic, spoilt impostor."

Daralise tilted the book just enough so that she could peer down her nose at him.

"Throwing a tantrum is not only unbecoming of your position, but it's annoying. Didn't we make a pact two summers ago, just after your fifteenth birthday, in fact, to not act like toddlers?"

Harry huffed and turned on his side, facing away from her. Why did she have to throw that back in his face now? Why now?

He stared down at his right hand and the silver ring that encircled his pinky finger. It was the root of all his problems.

Harry winced.

Okay, so that was melodramatic and untrue.

His issues started before he was even born—much too long ago. Though, of course, no one who was anyone would ever forget the scandal and drama surrounding his birth.

His birth mother, a New Blood by the name of Lily Evans, had bonded with James Potter, who was Heir to the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter at the time. James Potter had been best mates with Sirius Black, Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black; as such, Sirius was chosen to be Harry's godfather.

Before Harry was born, Sirius's grandfather died, making Sirius the Lord of House Black. That might have been fine, except Alice Longbottom—a pureblood lady and Heiress of the Valiant and Most Ancient House of Longbottom—was chosen as his godmother.

In the end, because of all the pureblood links, Lily Potter's Muggle blood was overridden by blood-bond magic.

Since James and Lily were only an Heir and Heiress, whereas Sirius and Alice were a Lord and Lady, the nobility and purity of their blood replaced the inferior blood bonds Harry had with James and Lily Potter.

Sirius Black, as Lord of a House of Magic, ended up being Harry's birth father. And Alice Longbottom was noted as a surrogate mother—even though neither of them had any part of his creation.

James and Lily Potter ended up being his godfather and godmother.

Because of this, Harry had been raised as a Black. As Lord of the family, Sirius had no choice; he was magically compelled to teach his heir all of the proper ways of society: etiquette, courting, protocol, etc.

It was a never-ending stream of tedium that Harry loathed.

Perhaps the worst part, if he really wanted to delve into the horrors of his origins, was how happy James and Lily's other children were—children who didn't have two pureblood godparents.

The Potters still loved Harry, of course, and treated him well . . . but he couldn't help but notice how delightful his would-have-been brother and sisters always acted.

Henry, Rosalinde, and Primrose Potter weren't forced to follow so many rules, because the Potter family magic was Light and more generous.

The Black family magic, on the other hand, was just that: Dark.

And he, Hydrus Sirius Black—though he refused to answer to it, insisting his name was 'Harry Potter'—as the future Lord of the House, learned things he never wished to learn, spells he never wished to speak, and endured customs he didn't wish to follow.

If Harry had his way, the Black family would just die out in one fell swoop.

Or not.

He did love his little brothers and little sister, even if they weren't related by blood, per se. And Sirius's wife, Lady Calpurnia Black née Yaxley, treated him as one of her own.

"Thirty-eight at last count," Arrakis Black announced as he entered the common room.

Daralise deigned to pause her reading to ask, voice dripping scorn, "Thirty-eight what?"

Statements that weren't clear aggravated her; she felt miscommunication was liable to lead to duels to the death—and Harry understood why, though he never planned to admit that Boot's disappearance was because Harry had buried the jerk in the Forbidden Forest after killing him.

Boot should have known better than to speak of Dara in such a manner.

The prat had brought his fate upon himself.

"Pureblood witches wearing our family colors. Am I right, brother?" Asterope asked her twin.

Her hands were flat against a small table in the corner of the room; one of the third-years, a roommate, was varnishing her nails for her. It was a common request after winning a bet; Asterope rarely lost.

Arrakis laughed so hard that he had to lean against the wall to keep from falling over.

"Yes, of course you are. It's a sea of silver and black robes out there, Hydrus. Thank you for being older than me. They're swarming like ravenous Merpeople. Maybe you should ask Lady Daralise to protect your virtue."

Harry glared daggers at his brother, hating the appellation that rolled off his tongue.

Despite his familial feelings for James Potter, Sirius was insistent that everyone in the family should address Harry as Hydrus; nothing would get him to change his mind.

Harry would know, because he had tried—oh, how he had tried.

Daralise snickered and said, "It amuses me, little Black, that you think Harry still possesses his virtue."

She continued to feather her fingers through his hair, as if she wasn't aware of the fact that she had just implied her best friend was a rake.

"Oh?"

Blaise Zabini, who didn't often speak, leaned forward in her chair, a wicked smile on her face. She was one of the few witches his age that wasn't wearing the Black family colors.

Harry could almost love her for that . . . if she weren't her mother's daughter to the bone: cold-blooded and vicious.

"Do tell. Who managed to snag—?"

Harry glanced up in time to see the look Daralise gave Blaise. If it were a sentence spoken aloud, he thought it would be something like: There are innocent people still present, you filthy minded wretch.

He wasn't sure why, but Daralise and Blaise had gone from good friends to bitter enemies the summer after their third year.

Daralise refused to confide in him why, too, which was unconscionable. They told each other everything!

At least, Harry thought they did. . . .

"I still haven't told you the best part, though!" Arrakis declared as he slouched against the wall, shoulders hunched, a grin splitting his face.

Harry rolled his eyes. Arrakis was a drama queen. Daralise hadn't even been this melodramatic when she was younger, and everyone knew Malfoys were melodramatic!

"And what is the best part, little dancer?" he asked, mocking the meaning of his brother's name, something he only did when he felt agitated.

Arrakis paused, as if debating the intelligence of continuing in the face of Harry's tone of voice, but opened his mouth and spoke anyway.

"The Weaselette is wearing our family colors—brand new robes, too. It must have cost her family a year's wages."

He snickered.

"They must be desperate to land you and the family wealth, Hydrus. Her robes are . . . well, low-cut would be the polite way to put it."

"She's dressed like a trollop," one of the fifth-year boys said.

"That's not the way to get a Sacred Twenty-Eight bonding," another boy said, voice dark and amused.

Daralise's hand fisted his hair; he thought that she might rip it right out of his scalp.

Harry gazed at her face, wondering what had caused her reaction. It couldn't be the insult, because he knew that Daralise loathed the littlest Weasley. The Weaselette didn't honor any of the protocol, while Daralise abided by it to the letter.

Except . . . except when it came to him.

"It might get her a marriage, though."

"Or a Muggle-born. Wasn't she hanging off that seventh-year Gryffindor just last week?"

As the Slytherins erupted in petty comments and snide remarks, Harry felt like he was drowning.

How had he never noticed before? He wasn't an idiot; he was actually very intelligent. Yet, he had never realized how Daralise kept everyone else away from her until now.

It was true.

Daralise followed protocol to the letter: immaculate robes, hair swept up in elegant styles, perfect manners, and she never let any man touch her.

Except for him.

"Silence!" Harry snarled as feelings and impressions inundated him.

Their mindless chatter was distracting him from an important idea that was swelling inside him.

At his command, the Slytherins stilled, hooded eyes fixed on him.

Harry wasn't ignorant of her beauty; she was perfection to him, but only as a passing thought. He had never paid much attention to her golden hair, icy blue eyes, or porcelain skin. Her figure was lush in all the right places, and fit against him as if made for him, something he had noticed and discarded during the many times he gave her a spontaneous hug.

Daralise was always there.

If Harry felt contentious, she would convince some poor fool that it was a good idea to duel Heir Black. If he felt like whining, she listened for a while and then told him to grow up. If he felt sad, she let him rest his head in her lap and stroked his hair until he fell asleep. If he felt anxious, she would soothe him.

Honestly, no matter how Harry felt, Daralise knew how to deal with his moods; she always seemed to know exactly what he needed most.

That's why she was his best friend. Well, one of the main reasons.

But now that this foreign spark of an idea had entered his head, he couldn't get it out. It caught hold of countless memories, and they all went up in flames.

When Daralise bonded with someone, he wouldn't have that. He wouldn't be able to Apparate wherever she happened to be and nestle his head in her lap, or pull her into hugs.

Her husband—her lord wouldn't allow him—

Harry's magic exploded out of his skin.

The fire leapt from the hearth and took on the shape of a dragon, flying around the room, scorching the walls. The Slytherins shrieked as it swooped through the air.

The torches flared, and fiery serpents slithered from them and down the walls.

The portraits fled their frames, as students fled the common room.

The shadows in the room stretched, eating away at the blazing creatures.

Soon, all that was left untouched was the couch.

Upon which Daralise sat, her hand still stroking Harry's hair, eyes on her book. She didn't tremble. She didn't quake. She sighed, as if he were being histrionic. After rolling her eyes, she closed her book and set it on the arm of the couch.

"Really, Harry?"

She wasn't the least bit afraid, but she was tired; he could see it in her eyes now. It made him wonder what else he had missed over the years.

Far too much, Harry thought.

"Why?"

Daralise narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, a silent command to elaborate.

The battle to find words was vicious. Now that he comprehended what was going on—what had been happening for so many years—it took precise control to keep his magic from harming her.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he demanded.

"And what was I supposed to say?"

Her voice was emotionless, eyes reflecting back his image as if they were an empty mirror and nothing more.

"Anything! Everything!" Harry snapped.

As soon as the words left his mouth, her left eyebrow winged upward.

He winced.

It wasn't proper for a pureblood witch to confess her feelings before a wizard made an offer or showed an overt amount of interest in her.

Seeing as Harry had ignored protocol in regards to her since they were four years old, she would have assumed it was habit on his part . . . and she would've been right before his realization today.

Daralise wouldn't have seen it as enough proof of his interest to broach the topic.

"Anything. Everything," she repeated, as if that would satisfy him.

Her snark, which had amused him for over a decade, now cut to his heart.

"Dara . . ."

Harry balled his hands into fists.

"What if I hadn't figured it out? What then?"

The words left his mouth with the force of the Unforgivable Curses.

"Then I would have bonded with Heir Nott the day after graduation," she stated.

Daralise's blue eyes were haunted now, as if even the thought of such an event made her wish she were dead.

Harry choked, rage rising and magic molten hot at the thought.

Nott—seeing her hair down. Nott—buying her nightgowns. Nott—bedding her.

"You can't be serious."

She couldn't, could she? How could she ever bond with Nott when she loved him so much that she allowed him to take innumerable liberties with her person?

"No, that's your father," she said, gaze dancing away from him.

"Dara, now's not the time for stupid jokes!"

Harry sat up and swung one leg over her lap, pinning her against the couch with a hand on either side of her head. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Look at me," he demanded.

She ignored him.

Harry took a deep breath and fought to retain control of his magic.

"Dara, look at me," he begged.

She acquiesced.

"Why?"

Daralise didn't make him expound this time.

"Mother convinced Father that no wizard was worth waiting for, including the future Lord Black. If you didn't offer for me by the end of the school year, they said they were going to sign Heir Nott's contract," she whispered.

Her hands were pressed against the couch so hard that they made indentations.

Harry collapsed forward, head landing on her shoulder. He inhaled the sweet scent of Aristocracy, a perfume he had created for her fourteenth birthday. She wore it every day, and he had never given it more than a smug thought that his gifts were the best.

"Why didn't you give me your maiden's kiss?" he asked.

Daralise chuckled, and then burst into laughter that bordered on hysterical, shoulders shuddering.

"One of your favorite topics of conversation is how much you hate all the pureblood customs, Harry. They stole your entire past, your origins and heritage from you. Do you really think I would ever consider binding you to me through a pureblood custom that would steal your future as well?"

No. She wouldn't do that.

His Dara would never do such a thing to him.

Harry's magic edged closer and closer to them as he pondered on all that he might have lost: the right to shorten her elegant name to something fond and loving, the right to see her in all her glory, the right to father and name her children, the right to nestle against her and nuzzle her whenever he so desired. . . .

For Dara, to keep her, Harry could tolerate pureblood customs.

Only for her.

Cupping her face, Harry swiped his thumbs under her eyes, as if to wipe away all of the tears he had never seen her cry over a deep love that she had believed was hopeless.

"Heiress Black," he breathed, bequeathing his wife's title to her and fulfilling her most secret dreams, "your wait is at an end."

Daralise stared at him for a moment, as if she wasn't sure she had heard him right. When he didn't retract his statement, she threw herself forward.

Harry managed to turn them just enough that he tumbled back onto the couch with her on top of him.

"Mine!" she purred before placing her lips over his.

Harry felt her magic, which was just as Dark as his, pour out of her skin and settle over them. His leapt to join hers. It burned. It felt like someone had dumped them in a lake of lava . . . but he didn't care. As long as he got to keep her, the bonding magic could burn like hellfire for all Harry cared.

Her hands were deep in his hair, and his had just finished removing the pins from hers. Daralise's hair spread over them like a blanket of woven gold.

Daralise's lips devoured his with passion as Harry crushed her against him.

The ring on his right pinky scorched his skin as it melted off, before reappearing on her left ring finger.

Daralise pulled away from him to stare at it, eyes glistening, and said, "Gold matches my hair; it's more expensive and rare. Why is it silver?"

Harry had to kiss her again for asking such a selfish and vain question.

"Because Sirius has no taste."

Truthfully, because it was one of the Black family colors.

After kissing her again, Harry withdrew his lips enough to whisper, "I'll replace it with whatever makes you happy, Dara."

Dara's fair cheeks flushed as she looked away and mumbled, "I'm in your arms, Harry. What could possibly make me happier?"

Harry smirked.

Keeping his lady-wife happiest in his arms?

That sounded like a pathetic Gryffindor Quest. But seeing as his real father and Sirius Black were both Gryffindors, perhaps Harry would allow himself the inane sentiment . . . just this once.