Divisions: Chapter 1
Harry Potter was dead.
The phrase repeated itself over and over in Draco's mind, leaving no room for other thoughts. Harry Potter was dead, and Draco had killed him.
He could see Potter's slim body lying on the grass, unmoving. His green eyes were staring upwards into the sky, glassy and unseeing. Harry Potter was undeniably dead.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Draco wasn't prepared for this. The two of them had been dueling over some stupid thing—Draco couldn't remember what. He had been angry, so angry at Potter; he had cast a Divisius curse with all the force he could muster, wanting to rip Harry's thoughts into pieces for a while, to cause him pain that he wouldn't soon forget. He had cast the spell just as Harry had sent a Stumbling hex, and—-
Harry Potter was dead. Draco stumbled numbly toward Potter's motionless figure, barely aware of what his own body was doing. He felt as though he was underwater, and briefly he wondered why it was taking such a long time for him to drown. Dizzy and lightheaded, Draco dropped to his knees beside the still form of his rival and seized the other boy's limp shoulders. Roughly he shook them, trying to force the life back into the dark-haired boy.
Vaguely, Draco became aware of voices. There were voices shouting distantly; he couldn't make out what they were saying, but they were coming nearer, one of them was already close by—suddenly he realized that the nearest voice was his own, that he was shouting, screaming actually, at Potter's limp form, and Draco's hands were still on his shoulders, shaking him as if it were impossible to stop. Draco noticed that Potter's glasses had slipped off with the force of his shaking, and this only made him angrier because the green eyes would not close, they just kept staring and staring into nothing.
Slowly, the sounds around him began to make more sense. "Potter! Wake up, you bastard! You bastard! I know you're faking! Nobody is fooled! Get up! iGet up!"/i he heard himself scream in rage, knowing Potter was dead, gone beyond retrieval, and that no amount of screaming or shaking was going to bring him back. And Draco had killed him.
Draco distantly marveled at the startling sound of his own voice, harsh and raspy like he'd never before heard a voice sound. The other, more distant voices he had heard before were coming nearer and nearer, becoming louder, so loud that they hurt his ears; his whole head ached, his eyes stung, he couldn't breathe….Draco gasped for air as he felt hands grasp him roughly by the shoulders and pull him back, his own hands suddenly being jerked away from Potter's robes. The last thing he saw was green eyes—wait—had they just flickered? "Potter!" Draco tried to scream, but all that came out was a weak gasp as the world went dark.
~*~
Draco opened his eyes, shutting them instantly as harsh white light flooded his pupils. "Aggh," he said groggily, trying to sit up.
"You just sit right back down, young man."
Ah, Madam Pomfrey. He must be in the infirmary, Draco surmised as he slumped back down onto the bed. But why was he here? He felt confused, and still not quite awake; he could remember strange snippets of crazy dreams, Harry Potter lying on the grass, his eyes open and glowing green at Draco, then Potter suddenly standing lost in a pale mist against a dark sky and his mouth was open as if he were speaking to Draco, or perhaps screaming, but there was no sound…
Draco shivered. They had not been pleasant dreams. Slowly, more carefully this time, he opened his eyes and peered around him. Madam Pomfrey stood at the foot of his bed, glaring at him, and he stared blearily back.
"Why am I here?" he asked, wanting to get straight to the point.
Her eyes widened. "You don't remember, boy?" she spat.
Draco was surprised. He had never liked Pomfrey, and had always assumed the feeling to be mutual, but this unconcealed venom was unexpected from her. Her normally kind, if uncompromising, face was a now a thin mask of barely controlled anger. He wondered again, more intensely, what had happened to land him in the infirmary.
"No, I'm afraid I don't," he replied coolly, his insides now burning with confusion and curiosity. "Would you mind filling me in?"
She smiled humorlessly, her eyes glittering with anger. "You'll find out in due time, child. Don't move or you'll only make it worse for yourself." She started towards the door, making an obscure signal to two large wizards standing on either side of the door. "That is, if things can get any worse for you," she added in his direction.
With that she swept out the door, leaving Draco shocked and completely dumbfounded. What on earth had that been all about?
The minutes ticked by, and Draco warily eyed the large wizards standing in uncomfortable silence by the door. Why were they here? Surely they couldn't be here to watch him? It seemed crazy, but there was no one else in the infirmary, and Pomfrey had seemed angry enough to suggest that she thought he had done something quite terrible.
Draco grimaced inwardly, but carefully kept a cool exterior, as he always did. It would never do to show weakness, no matter how much he hated not knowing what was going on. He stretched a bit, and felt around for any injuries or bruises on his body, hoping for some kind of physical clue as to what was happening to him. He found nothing to indicate that he should be in the infirmary, aside from his having been mysteriously unconscious only minutes before.
He ran through his most recent memories, but the very last thing he remembered was going out to the lake for some alone time, because he had become tired of his Slytherin housemates' constant bickering and complaining. The fact that he had gone for some solitude didn't give any hints about his current situation, though; he often visited the lake for that reason, and nothing untoward had ever happened before.
Draco's thoughts were interrupted as the infirmary door swung inward and Albus Dumbledore appeared, with Madam Pomfrey trailing closely behind. Apprehensively, Draco met his gaze, and was startled to see the Headmaster's clear blue eyes looking sadder than he had ever seen them. They did not convey any anger, though, Draco noted with a small amount of relief; however, it occurred to him that that did not necessarily mean that Dumbledore wasn't angry—just that he didn't wish to show that he was.
"Thank you for notifying me so promptly of young Mr. Malfoy's awakening, Madam Pomfrey. Is your patient well enough to talk to me for a few moments alone?" Dumbledore asked her, his sad blue eyes never leaving Draco's cold grey ones.
Madam Pomfrey said nothing for a moment. Then, with obvious reluctance, "Yes, sir…I can find nothing iphysically/i-—" she paused, "wrong with him." Then, after a pointed look that Dumbledore did not return, she turned and briskly walked to her office, waving a hand vaguely at the guards as she went. Draco watched as they turned and left the infirmary as Pomfrey shut the door to her office firmly behind her.
Draco turned his attention back to the Headmaster, who had seated himself on the end of the bed. He wasn't sure what to say, so he stayed silent, wondering when the infernally frustrating man would speak.
"Draco, do you have any memory of the events of this morning?" he said finally.
"The last thing I remember was taking a walk to the lake for some solitude," Draco replied truthfully. He didn't know what the old man already knew, and he wanted to play it safe until he knew more about what was going on—then he could decide how best to get out of this situation.
Dumbledore nodded. "I thought as much," he sighed. Then his brow creased almost imperceptibly, and he said, "Mr. Malfoy, some things occurred this morning that will be very important for you to know."
Malfoy waited, feeling impatient. Must the old man preface everything with dramatic statements?
"Harry Potter was killed this morning."
Draco's mouth fell open, and his heart seemed to stop. What? Harry Potter—dead? How could that happen? Potter was the Boy Who Lived; even Avada Kedavra couldn't kill him. The idea that Potter could die unsettled him horribly for some reason—Potter couldn't just up and die! What about his raving Gryffindor fan club? What about the entire wizarding world who loved him? What about…what about inormality/I, for Merlin's sake!
Draco closed his mouth with a snap, suddenly angry. Why was he so upset? He should be glad that Potter was dead; hadn't he wished for exactly that a thousand times over the past six years? Hadn't his father wished for it?
And yet…Harry Potter's existence was important to Draco. As much as he ihated/i him—oh yes, he hated him—Potter was his nemesis, the person who gave him a reason to excel in his studies, to strive for victory in Quidditch, to be the best at everything. Harry was the only student in Hogwarts that Draco (reluctantly) considered an equal, and the one he most (enthusiastically) wanted to prove was less worthy than himself. And now—he would never have that chance, because Potter had gone off and idied/i-—now he would always be the golden boy, the beautiful hero of Gryffindor who could do no wrong and would never, iever/i lose to Draco Malfoy.
Suddenly, strangely, Draco was reminded of the unsettling dreams he had had while unconscious: Harry on the ground with glowing green eyes, Harry reaching out to him through white mists in a neverending darkness…
Dumbledore spoke slowly and quietly. "And Draco…you killed him."
Draco felt the blood drain from his face.
~*~
He reeled as the memories hit him, flaring to life in blazes of color and horror. Everything came rushing back to Draco—visions of himself going out to the lake for some peace and quiet, turning his back as always to the distant shouts of other students playing on the nearby Quidditch pitch. Harry showing up and disturbing his solitude. Insults flying, rage mounting, wands being pulled out… "Why don't you write to your dad, Malfoy—or perhaps he's too busy being somebody's girlfriend in Azkaban to have any time for you?" Harry's voice was saying, and Draco was screaming i"Divisio!"/i but he'd already been hexed. He was stumbling, and his wand went the wrong way as he fell forward onto his knees…and suddenly there was Harry, lying motionless and unbreathing on the grass: not only in dreams, it had all really happened…he was shaking Harry…screaming…he remembered it all now. It was all real; more real, it seemed, than the infirmary, than his own trembling hands spread over the covers, than Dumbledore sitting at his feet.
Draco was aware of his entire body shaking as he looked back up at Dumbledore, eyes wide and pale lips working soundlessly. "I—" he choked out, finding his voice, but Dumbledore was shaking his head, holding up a hand to still Draco's words, whatever they were going to be—Draco had no idea.
"Witnesses that were within sight of the lake this morning have informed me that you stumbled due to a hex as you cast the curse that killed Harry. Several seemed to think that you reacted as if you had not expected the curse to work the way it did. Of course, several more students—many from Harry's house—seemed convinced that you knew exactly what you were doing.
"Draco, I need you to tell me your version of events, as truthfully and completely as you can." Dumbledore's eyes focused penetratingly on Draco's, seeming to stare at the back of his skull. "I cannot help you if you are less than truthful."
Draco swallowed, and tried to gather his composure. He was angry and ashamed that he had allowed himself to react so emotively, in front of the damn Headmaster of all people. His father would flay him alive if he heard about this—not for killing someone, of course, least of all Harry Potter—but for showing weakness in front of Dumbledore. Lucius would never understand Draco's abject horror at having killed another person—Lucius often had to kill people in his line of work, and he never got unduly upset. He frequently expressed disdain for those who could not kill with ease when the need arose.
But now was not the time to think about his father, not with Dumbledore still staring at him, waiting for his story. He shelved the thoughts for later and frowned down at his still-shaking hands, somehow unable to meet the other man's eyes—he would not lie to the old fool, of course; what lie could he possibly tell that would get him out of trouble this time? Draco never lied if the truth would do just as well, and in the end, he had found, the truth often ended up serving him better than even the most well-crafted lie could have.
With another deep breath Draco forced his eyes up to meet the older man's, and he began to recount what had happened.
~*~ (three weeks later)
Ron Weasley stared at his quill. It hadn't changed at all in the last hour that he had spent staring at it, but he didn't care. He didn't care about much of anything, really. He didn't care about the quill, or about Professor Binns' droning voice washing unheeded over him, or Hermione's frequent worried glances in his direction. He supposed that if he were a good friend, he would take down a note about the Great Muggle Schism, or something, just to make her feel better, but he couldn't seem to get up the motivation. Oh well. He didn't claim to be a good friend.
Thinking of friendship, his thoughts strayed inexorably to Harry, and the small white marble tomb that had been set up far along the mostly unvisited side of Hogwarts' property borders. Ron winced inwardly as a quick, sharply familiar twinge of pain twisted his gut. The fact that Harry was dead was the one thing—the only thing—that could still really inspire any sort of feeling in Ron anymore, and because of that, while he tried to avoid ever thinking about it, each time he did, he almost welcomed the pain as a small relief from the monotony of feeling numb all the time.
Ron grimaced at the nondescript brown quill twirling in his freckled hands. He remembered the first two weeks after he had heard the news about Harry from a white-faced, shell-shocked Hermione. The night she had told him, the other Gryffindors had had to hold him down until Hermione could petrify him. He hadn't gone to classes for the next few days, hadn't left the Gryffindor tower, because the other students wouldn't let him; despite the obvious distress the other students were experiencing over the loss of Harry, everyone knew Ron had it worse than anyone else, except possibly Hermione. But Hermione wasn't consistently muttering in her sleep about spilling pure blood. So the Gryffindors had made sure there were always at least two other fifth-, sixth-, or seventh-year boys hanging around the tower to guard him at all times, to make sure he didn't get away. At first, he had desperately wanted to escape, had wanted to break down the walls to the bloody Slytherin dungeon and rip Malfoy into pieces, Cruc
io him forever until he felt perhaps a tenth of the pain Ron was feeling. Assuming that bastard Malfoy could feel pain at all.
Ron frowned down at the quill. His housemates had, finally, let him leave Gryffindor Tower. He had heard reports, the week he'd been confined, about disorganized classes being let out early, confusion and distractedness from nearly all of his classmates' professors. When he came back to class, most of his teachers had pretended Ron had not missed a single class—all except for Snape, of course, but no one was surprised by that. Ron had never had to make up the work he had missed and he had not been punished for missing class. Even Snape only took away ten points from Gryffindor, and for him, that seemed equivalent to a sympathetic pat on the head.
He didn't care about any of that, though. Ron had, after a week, just desperately wanted to be free of everyone's watchful eyes, even if he couldn't avenge Harry while he was in school. He pleaded with his housemates, but they had nevertheless been wary of letting him go; they were afraid he would do something stupid like attack Malfoy.
Which, of course, he eventually did.
After the other Gryffindors had allowed him to leave, having been dubiously persuaded by Ron's fervent promises of self-control and good behaviour, Ron had stayed faithful to his promises. He still desperately wanted to see Malfoy suffer, of course—that went without saying—but he reined himself in every time he saw the little blonde git slinking along the hallways. Dutifully he would avert his eyes and breathe slowly, counting to fifty—or one hundred—or two hundred, whatever was necessary. His day would come eventually, Ron told himself. He just had to wait for school to end.
But Ron had reached his breaking point when he had gone out to visit Harry's tomb one night. He had not been there since the funeral service that the school had put on. It was too painful to see the small square building jutting out of the ground, looking so friendly and innocuous, and knowing exactly what was inside. He had screwed up all his resolve, though, to go and visit…and who should be sitting outside in the moonlight but iDraco Malfoy/i.
Ron could not remember ever having been so angry. He remembered not being able to see, or think properly—the only thing he had been able to think was that Malfoy had no right to be anywhere near Harry, no right to sit outside his tomb all smug, as if he hadn't always been horrible to Harry, as if he hadn't gone and killed him in the end. Mostly all he remembered was hitting Malfoy, the dizzying rage and alarming joy with which he slammed his fists into Malfoy's body, not aiming nor caring where they hit him, so long as it was hard and caused lots of pain.
Vaguely, through his anger, Ron had realized that Malfoy was yelling with pain—but not fighting back. Well, that didn't make any difference to Ron—he didn't deserve to fight back. Malfoy didn't even deserve to live. But the strangeness of Malfoy's passivity nagged at him and his fists slowed, and then stopped. Ron, who had been kneeling heavily on the other boy's stomach as he had pummeled him in the face, sat back on his feet, removing himself from contact with Malfoy. "Bastard," he spat, breathing hard from exertion. "Why don't you fight back." It wasn't a question, exactly, although he was seeking an answer.
"I don't know," Malfoy had responded tightly through teeth gritted with pain, both eyes bruised, fresh blood from a split lip smeared on his face.
Ron had growled in fury, and then stood up suddenly, aiming a swift kick at Malfoy's ribs. "I was going to kill you—but I won't do it here. You're not worth defiling Harry's grave." And he had turned on his heel and walked out of sight, back towards the castle.
That's when he had lost his ability to feel, Ron supposed, as he had walked back to the castle the night he had attacked Malfoy. After he had left the bleeding Slytherin lying on the grass outside Harry's tomb, Ron had felt the anger slowly draining out of him, replaced by a kind of emotional exhaustion that was much worse than the tiredness of his muscles. By the time he had reached his bed that night, he had realized that he felt nothing about having just partially achieved his desire to make Malfoy pay—he didn't care about that, or anything else.
The bell rang, signaling the end of class. Ron sighed, dropping the quill on his desk, and bent to gather his things together, purposefully avoiding Hermione's eyes. He would pretend to be remorseful for his apathy later—right now, he thought with a crooked smile for the irony, he didn't have the energy for it. He was finished with classes for the day, and he couldn't wait to get back to his room for a midday nap. Ron took a lot of naps, lately. He found it was the best way to escape not only the constant reminders of his departed best friend, but also the dreary emotionless dullness that was his existence now.
He straightened up, and, with a rueful smile and a shrug at Hermione, he headed swiftly for the door. She did not look appeased in the slightest, but she did not follow as he sidled out. He supposed he should be grateful that she usually let him have his space when he needed it…but he just didn't care.
He shook his head and headed for his room.
~*~
Draco's head drooped over the open book spread on the table before him. He had been reading all night, meticulously poring over every mention of the Divisius curse in every book he could find in the school library that was of any relevance. He was hoping for a clue, a hint that would help him figure out where his spell had gone wrong three weeks ago, but so far all he had found was different versions of the same basic description. Draco blinked, straightening up with a frown at the page below him as he reread the words written there:
The Divisius Curse divides the victim's mind into many separate and disorganized thought patterns, so that trains of thought are fractured and nearly impossible to follow without confusion. Divisius is often quite painful for the victim, but the spell wears off several hours after being cast. It is most commonly used in dueling.
Draco shook his head. It had been three weeks ago, now, that he had—Draco gritted his teeth—that the incident with Potter had transpired. He had thought he would be well over this and laughing with the rest of the Slytherins by now…but no. Far from being over it, he couldn't get it out of his mind. He couldn't think of anything else, which is why he was here at his desk at four in the morning, reading the same page in this damn book for what seemed like the three thousandth time.
His eyes darkened as he thought of the Slytherins' laughter. It seemed no one in the school believed that his killing Potter had been an accident except Dumbledore—Draco grudgingly admitted to himself that maybe the man wasn't just a useless muggle-lover after all, since Dumbledore (along with Professor Snape) had gone to great lengths to keep him from getting expelled. Dumbledore had represented him at a trial he was certain he would have lost, had he not had the Headmaster on his side. Of course, it helped that the Wizengamot was still afraid of Lucius Malfoy, even though they had incarcerated him over a year ago. Draco let out a derisive snort. Even the Ministry lacked faith in its own prison system, now that the Dementors were gone from Azkaban.
Well, perhaps Dumbledore and Snape weren't the only ones who believed him about Potter's death; he'd heard it was quite a controversial subject, whether he'd meant to kill Potter or not, among students of all four houses, but he tried studiously not to pay attention to the gossip. He carefully maintained an expressionless, cool façade, never letting it slip when his cheerful housemates jokingly slapped him on the back in congratulations, nor when he was tripped or thrown at in the hallways or spit on in class by other students.
Draco had not even had much of a reaction when Weasley had attacked him. He should never have gone out to Potter's tomb, anyway, but he had desperately wanted to rid himself of the unfamiliar feeling of guilt. He'd never experienced anything so horrible, and he hoped that visiting Potter's resting place might make it go away. It didn't. When he had gotten back, he had healed the cuts and bruises that were anywhere that would not be covered up by his robes, but left the ones that no one but him would see. Draco had wanted a physical reminder of the night. He almost relished the memory of being attacked without fighting back; the physical pain of being hit had made him forget the drag on his heart that was guilt over Harry's death.
He bore certain teachers' anger, too, with equally good grace. Professor Sprout and that lump Hagrid kept taking points off of Slytherin for the smallest transgressions, such as pulling too hard to extract a plant from its pot, or staring for too long at a woolly Faun.
The one thing Draco had failed to bear gracefully was the letter from Azkaban he had received from his father two days after Potter had died. Luckily, he had been alone at the time, so no one else had seen his reaction. Draco had sat here at his desk, reading the letter calmly, taking in the words of pride and congratulations, of how the Dark Lord would surely be pleased, that Lucius had written Narcissa instructing her to increase Draco's monthly allowance. He had read the letter unblinkingly, and once finished, he sat still for a moment, breathing lightly, grey eyes hard and staring into space. Then he had burst up from his chair, knocking it over, the letter crumpled in his fist. Then, on second thought, he had smoothed the wrinkled page out in hands trembling with anger, and then ripped it to shreds and let the pieces fall. In almost the same movement he had lifted his wand from the desk and muttered i"Incendio"/i as the last of the scraps drifted to the floor, and watched, breathing heavily, as they a
ll burst into tiny flames, and settled on the floor as nothing more than a small pile of loose ash.
Damn Potter. He shut the book abruptly, getting up from the table. It was time for bed, he decided. He couldn't keep avoiding sleep; his body couldn't take the stress. Of course, there was always the question of whether his imind/i could take the stress of constant dreams about bloody Potter, but there came a point, Draco reasoned, where you really didn't have much of a choice. He had been nodding off for the past hour, despite numerous Alertness charms.
He stood up, unbuttoning his grey silk shirt, looking around his room. One of the best parts of being Head Boy, Draco reflected, was that he got the biggest room in the Slytherin dorms all to himself. He cast his shirt carelessly over a chair and threw himself fluidly onto the bed.
Potter. Ugh. Couldn't he even go one minute without thinking about bloody Potter? Draco grimaced and turned over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Ever since that day in the infirmary when he had remembered what had happened, he had felt as if a rock was permanently lodged inside his chest, a heavy weight that was always there. It was with him when he woke up in the morning, when he went to classes, when he ate…nothing Draco had tried to distract himself with had helped.
Sighing, Draco closed his eyes and spread a hand over his face. He hadn't gotten much sleep since it had happened—a few hours every couple of nights, he supposed, when his body got so exhausted he couldn't prevent falling asleep. He'd spent every night researching the Divisius curse, trying to find out where his spell had gone wrong. It was a difficult curse to perform, certainly, but he couldn't think of any reason it should ikill/i someone.
He supposed he should let Dumbledore and the rest do the all researching—he knew they were doing it too, and he also knew that they hadn't found anything more than he had. It's not as if it would do him any good even if he did figure out why the spell went wrong—even knowing wouldn't bring Harry back. But Draco had to do isomething/i-—particularly since sleeping was so unpleasant, he needed something to keep him from falling asleep too often.
He never dreamed, now, about anything except Harry Potter. His dreams were strange, disjointed, and always prominently featuring Potter. iScarhead,/i Draco tried to think viciously, but even in thought he couldn't muster up his old conviction. He suppressed a groan of despairing frustration. If he had realized that guilt was this difficult to deal with, perhaps he wouldn't have laughed with his father so often, when he was younger, at those who failed to bear killing gracefully.
He let out a short, hoarse laugh at the irony of his predicament. Six full years of trying to do Potter harm, and now that he'd succeeded—unintentionally, but even so—he regretted it more than anything he'd ever done.
Draco lightly brushed the pale skin on his chest above his heart, where the heaviness lay. The bruises he'd left there were nearly faded, now. Sighing, he let go and let himself drift off into much-needed sleep.
~*~
iHarry looked up at his Uncle Vernon fearfully, knowing that this time, the punishment would be severe.
"I knew it! Me too, Harry, me too!" Uncle Vernon cried in a girl's voice, his hair growing long, brown, and bushy, and his face turning less purple, turning into Hermione's face.
Harry, thoroughly bewildered, looked wildly around and realized he was in his and Ron's bedroom at number twelve, Grimmauld place—of course he was—he had been staying there over the summer since he'd left the Dursleys'.
"No," said Harry quickly. He tried to ignore the nagging feeling that something wasn't normal, hastily pushing the new prefect badge back into Ron's hand. "It's Ron, not me."
"Ron?" said Hermione, her eyes bulging, her mouth opening wide and spreading wider and wider, and suddenly she was a giant snake with no eyes, lunging for him…but before he had time to scream, he was in his room at Hogwarts, writing an essay about the Great Goblin Rebellion of 1596.
Harry stared down at the essay, wanting to scream in frustration…something was wrong…he didn't know what, but something just didn't make sense. He shouldn't be here…everything seemed fine but he knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. Suddenly, he felt eyes on him, and he spun around. The room melted around him, turned to mist as he met the cold grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.
"Malfoy," he breathed, feeling a totally incongruous sense of relief at seeing the Slytherin. Vaguely Harry thought that he should be angry or fearful or something at the sight of Malfoy, but all he seemed to be able to think is that whenever Draco appeared, the world made more sense, stopped shifting on him without warning…but that didn't make any sense at all, he thought.
"Draco!" he said, wondering why the other boy wasn't wearing a shirt. He must work out, Harry thought distractedly, then he realized he had called Malfoy aloud by his first name. But the other boy did not respond to the unusual greeting, he just stood still, staring at Harry with a weird, sad look on his face, fists clenched at his sides.
Harry frowned, standing up. "Listen, Malfoy, what are you doing here?"
Malfoy stayed silent, watching him.
"Dammit Malfoy!" Harry shouted, getting angry. Malfoy could obviously see him, why didn't he answer? Images flitted across his memory, and for a strange moment he was sure this had happened before, him talking and Malfoy unable to hear or respond. /IWell,i Harry thought, shaking his head with confusion, /iwhatever is going on here is going to change right now. i
He strode up to him—he'd never tried this before, he thought vaguely, not really knowing where the memory came from. "Malfoy," he said firmly, inches from the other boy's face. Malfoy looked somewhat taken aback at Harry's sudden proximity, his hands unclenched and held up slightly as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them.
"Malfoy, you are going to listen to me," Harry said forcefully, if not unkindly, and punched him in the stomach. Both boys gasped as Harry's hand shot right through Draco's midsection as if it were made of mist, traveling straight through and coming out the other side.
Draco twisted wildly, trying to see where Harry's fist had gone. "Merlin, Potter!" he cried, and Harry caught his breath. He had never been able to hear Draco's voice before.
"Malfoy?" he said, and the blonde head whipped around to stare wide-eyed at Harry. Neither one of them moved, for fear of losing this tenuous new connection.
"Potter—Potter, I'm sorry—" Draco said suddenly, speaking quickly as if rushing to get the words out.
"Listen, Malfoy," Harry interrupted. He felt he didn't have much time. "You've got to get me out of here," he said quickly and intensely, not really knowing what he was saying but knowing he had to make Malfoy understand. "Use all the knowledge you've got. You've got to help me."
"All the knowledge…listen Potter, I've been trying to help you, I've been doing nothing for weeks but looking for how I can fix this," Draco said in what would have been a pleading voice on anyone but a Malfoy.
"Then you haven't been looking in the right places," Harry responded, and leaned forward, but Malfoy was suddenly gone, and Harry blinked. What was he doing? He pulled his hand back from where it was still thrust outwards, trying desperately to hang on to the fading memory of cold grey eyes as he wiggled his fingers to make sure they all still worked.
Wait…why was he standing here staring idly at his hand when he had to finish weeding the garden? Aunt Petunia would be furious if he didn't finish today, and he wouldn't get any dinner for the third night in a row. Hurriedly he crouched down, trying to ignore the harsh sun beating down on his seven-year-old back, and got to work, feeling strangely out of place…/i
~*~
Draco's eyes flew open with a gasp. His heart was beating a thousand times a minute as he stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, remembering where he was. His hands drifted to his midsection and felt solid familiar skin, and suddenly Draco sat bolt upright. "Harry…" he said in a hoarse voice, not even caring how ridiculous he sounded.
Harry Potter was still alive.
Harry Potter was dead.
The phrase repeated itself over and over in Draco's mind, leaving no room for other thoughts. Harry Potter was dead, and Draco had killed him.
He could see Potter's slim body lying on the grass, unmoving. His green eyes were staring upwards into the sky, glassy and unseeing. Harry Potter was undeniably dead.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Draco wasn't prepared for this. The two of them had been dueling over some stupid thing—Draco couldn't remember what. He had been angry, so angry at Potter; he had cast a Divisius curse with all the force he could muster, wanting to rip Harry's thoughts into pieces for a while, to cause him pain that he wouldn't soon forget. He had cast the spell just as Harry had sent a Stumbling hex, and—-
Harry Potter was dead. Draco stumbled numbly toward Potter's motionless figure, barely aware of what his own body was doing. He felt as though he was underwater, and briefly he wondered why it was taking such a long time for him to drown. Dizzy and lightheaded, Draco dropped to his knees beside the still form of his rival and seized the other boy's limp shoulders. Roughly he shook them, trying to force the life back into the dark-haired boy.
Vaguely, Draco became aware of voices. There were voices shouting distantly; he couldn't make out what they were saying, but they were coming nearer, one of them was already close by—suddenly he realized that the nearest voice was his own, that he was shouting, screaming actually, at Potter's limp form, and Draco's hands were still on his shoulders, shaking him as if it were impossible to stop. Draco noticed that Potter's glasses had slipped off with the force of his shaking, and this only made him angrier because the green eyes would not close, they just kept staring and staring into nothing.
Slowly, the sounds around him began to make more sense. "Potter! Wake up, you bastard! You bastard! I know you're faking! Nobody is fooled! Get up! iGet up!"/i he heard himself scream in rage, knowing Potter was dead, gone beyond retrieval, and that no amount of screaming or shaking was going to bring him back. And Draco had killed him.
Draco distantly marveled at the startling sound of his own voice, harsh and raspy like he'd never before heard a voice sound. The other, more distant voices he had heard before were coming nearer and nearer, becoming louder, so loud that they hurt his ears; his whole head ached, his eyes stung, he couldn't breathe….Draco gasped for air as he felt hands grasp him roughly by the shoulders and pull him back, his own hands suddenly being jerked away from Potter's robes. The last thing he saw was green eyes—wait—had they just flickered? "Potter!" Draco tried to scream, but all that came out was a weak gasp as the world went dark.
~*~
Draco opened his eyes, shutting them instantly as harsh white light flooded his pupils. "Aggh," he said groggily, trying to sit up.
"You just sit right back down, young man."
Ah, Madam Pomfrey. He must be in the infirmary, Draco surmised as he slumped back down onto the bed. But why was he here? He felt confused, and still not quite awake; he could remember strange snippets of crazy dreams, Harry Potter lying on the grass, his eyes open and glowing green at Draco, then Potter suddenly standing lost in a pale mist against a dark sky and his mouth was open as if he were speaking to Draco, or perhaps screaming, but there was no sound…
Draco shivered. They had not been pleasant dreams. Slowly, more carefully this time, he opened his eyes and peered around him. Madam Pomfrey stood at the foot of his bed, glaring at him, and he stared blearily back.
"Why am I here?" he asked, wanting to get straight to the point.
Her eyes widened. "You don't remember, boy?" she spat.
Draco was surprised. He had never liked Pomfrey, and had always assumed the feeling to be mutual, but this unconcealed venom was unexpected from her. Her normally kind, if uncompromising, face was a now a thin mask of barely controlled anger. He wondered again, more intensely, what had happened to land him in the infirmary.
"No, I'm afraid I don't," he replied coolly, his insides now burning with confusion and curiosity. "Would you mind filling me in?"
She smiled humorlessly, her eyes glittering with anger. "You'll find out in due time, child. Don't move or you'll only make it worse for yourself." She started towards the door, making an obscure signal to two large wizards standing on either side of the door. "That is, if things can get any worse for you," she added in his direction.
With that she swept out the door, leaving Draco shocked and completely dumbfounded. What on earth had that been all about?
The minutes ticked by, and Draco warily eyed the large wizards standing in uncomfortable silence by the door. Why were they here? Surely they couldn't be here to watch him? It seemed crazy, but there was no one else in the infirmary, and Pomfrey had seemed angry enough to suggest that she thought he had done something quite terrible.
Draco grimaced inwardly, but carefully kept a cool exterior, as he always did. It would never do to show weakness, no matter how much he hated not knowing what was going on. He stretched a bit, and felt around for any injuries or bruises on his body, hoping for some kind of physical clue as to what was happening to him. He found nothing to indicate that he should be in the infirmary, aside from his having been mysteriously unconscious only minutes before.
He ran through his most recent memories, but the very last thing he remembered was going out to the lake for some alone time, because he had become tired of his Slytherin housemates' constant bickering and complaining. The fact that he had gone for some solitude didn't give any hints about his current situation, though; he often visited the lake for that reason, and nothing untoward had ever happened before.
Draco's thoughts were interrupted as the infirmary door swung inward and Albus Dumbledore appeared, with Madam Pomfrey trailing closely behind. Apprehensively, Draco met his gaze, and was startled to see the Headmaster's clear blue eyes looking sadder than he had ever seen them. They did not convey any anger, though, Draco noted with a small amount of relief; however, it occurred to him that that did not necessarily mean that Dumbledore wasn't angry—just that he didn't wish to show that he was.
"Thank you for notifying me so promptly of young Mr. Malfoy's awakening, Madam Pomfrey. Is your patient well enough to talk to me for a few moments alone?" Dumbledore asked her, his sad blue eyes never leaving Draco's cold grey ones.
Madam Pomfrey said nothing for a moment. Then, with obvious reluctance, "Yes, sir…I can find nothing iphysically/i-—" she paused, "wrong with him." Then, after a pointed look that Dumbledore did not return, she turned and briskly walked to her office, waving a hand vaguely at the guards as she went. Draco watched as they turned and left the infirmary as Pomfrey shut the door to her office firmly behind her.
Draco turned his attention back to the Headmaster, who had seated himself on the end of the bed. He wasn't sure what to say, so he stayed silent, wondering when the infernally frustrating man would speak.
"Draco, do you have any memory of the events of this morning?" he said finally.
"The last thing I remember was taking a walk to the lake for some solitude," Draco replied truthfully. He didn't know what the old man already knew, and he wanted to play it safe until he knew more about what was going on—then he could decide how best to get out of this situation.
Dumbledore nodded. "I thought as much," he sighed. Then his brow creased almost imperceptibly, and he said, "Mr. Malfoy, some things occurred this morning that will be very important for you to know."
Malfoy waited, feeling impatient. Must the old man preface everything with dramatic statements?
"Harry Potter was killed this morning."
Draco's mouth fell open, and his heart seemed to stop. What? Harry Potter—dead? How could that happen? Potter was the Boy Who Lived; even Avada Kedavra couldn't kill him. The idea that Potter could die unsettled him horribly for some reason—Potter couldn't just up and die! What about his raving Gryffindor fan club? What about the entire wizarding world who loved him? What about…what about inormality/I, for Merlin's sake!
Draco closed his mouth with a snap, suddenly angry. Why was he so upset? He should be glad that Potter was dead; hadn't he wished for exactly that a thousand times over the past six years? Hadn't his father wished for it?
And yet…Harry Potter's existence was important to Draco. As much as he ihated/i him—oh yes, he hated him—Potter was his nemesis, the person who gave him a reason to excel in his studies, to strive for victory in Quidditch, to be the best at everything. Harry was the only student in Hogwarts that Draco (reluctantly) considered an equal, and the one he most (enthusiastically) wanted to prove was less worthy than himself. And now—he would never have that chance, because Potter had gone off and idied/i-—now he would always be the golden boy, the beautiful hero of Gryffindor who could do no wrong and would never, iever/i lose to Draco Malfoy.
Suddenly, strangely, Draco was reminded of the unsettling dreams he had had while unconscious: Harry on the ground with glowing green eyes, Harry reaching out to him through white mists in a neverending darkness…
Dumbledore spoke slowly and quietly. "And Draco…you killed him."
Draco felt the blood drain from his face.
~*~
He reeled as the memories hit him, flaring to life in blazes of color and horror. Everything came rushing back to Draco—visions of himself going out to the lake for some peace and quiet, turning his back as always to the distant shouts of other students playing on the nearby Quidditch pitch. Harry showing up and disturbing his solitude. Insults flying, rage mounting, wands being pulled out… "Why don't you write to your dad, Malfoy—or perhaps he's too busy being somebody's girlfriend in Azkaban to have any time for you?" Harry's voice was saying, and Draco was screaming i"Divisio!"/i but he'd already been hexed. He was stumbling, and his wand went the wrong way as he fell forward onto his knees…and suddenly there was Harry, lying motionless and unbreathing on the grass: not only in dreams, it had all really happened…he was shaking Harry…screaming…he remembered it all now. It was all real; more real, it seemed, than the infirmary, than his own trembling hands spread over the covers, than Dumbledore sitting at his feet.
Draco was aware of his entire body shaking as he looked back up at Dumbledore, eyes wide and pale lips working soundlessly. "I—" he choked out, finding his voice, but Dumbledore was shaking his head, holding up a hand to still Draco's words, whatever they were going to be—Draco had no idea.
"Witnesses that were within sight of the lake this morning have informed me that you stumbled due to a hex as you cast the curse that killed Harry. Several seemed to think that you reacted as if you had not expected the curse to work the way it did. Of course, several more students—many from Harry's house—seemed convinced that you knew exactly what you were doing.
"Draco, I need you to tell me your version of events, as truthfully and completely as you can." Dumbledore's eyes focused penetratingly on Draco's, seeming to stare at the back of his skull. "I cannot help you if you are less than truthful."
Draco swallowed, and tried to gather his composure. He was angry and ashamed that he had allowed himself to react so emotively, in front of the damn Headmaster of all people. His father would flay him alive if he heard about this—not for killing someone, of course, least of all Harry Potter—but for showing weakness in front of Dumbledore. Lucius would never understand Draco's abject horror at having killed another person—Lucius often had to kill people in his line of work, and he never got unduly upset. He frequently expressed disdain for those who could not kill with ease when the need arose.
But now was not the time to think about his father, not with Dumbledore still staring at him, waiting for his story. He shelved the thoughts for later and frowned down at his still-shaking hands, somehow unable to meet the other man's eyes—he would not lie to the old fool, of course; what lie could he possibly tell that would get him out of trouble this time? Draco never lied if the truth would do just as well, and in the end, he had found, the truth often ended up serving him better than even the most well-crafted lie could have.
With another deep breath Draco forced his eyes up to meet the older man's, and he began to recount what had happened.
~*~ (three weeks later)
Ron Weasley stared at his quill. It hadn't changed at all in the last hour that he had spent staring at it, but he didn't care. He didn't care about much of anything, really. He didn't care about the quill, or about Professor Binns' droning voice washing unheeded over him, or Hermione's frequent worried glances in his direction. He supposed that if he were a good friend, he would take down a note about the Great Muggle Schism, or something, just to make her feel better, but he couldn't seem to get up the motivation. Oh well. He didn't claim to be a good friend.
Thinking of friendship, his thoughts strayed inexorably to Harry, and the small white marble tomb that had been set up far along the mostly unvisited side of Hogwarts' property borders. Ron winced inwardly as a quick, sharply familiar twinge of pain twisted his gut. The fact that Harry was dead was the one thing—the only thing—that could still really inspire any sort of feeling in Ron anymore, and because of that, while he tried to avoid ever thinking about it, each time he did, he almost welcomed the pain as a small relief from the monotony of feeling numb all the time.
Ron grimaced at the nondescript brown quill twirling in his freckled hands. He remembered the first two weeks after he had heard the news about Harry from a white-faced, shell-shocked Hermione. The night she had told him, the other Gryffindors had had to hold him down until Hermione could petrify him. He hadn't gone to classes for the next few days, hadn't left the Gryffindor tower, because the other students wouldn't let him; despite the obvious distress the other students were experiencing over the loss of Harry, everyone knew Ron had it worse than anyone else, except possibly Hermione. But Hermione wasn't consistently muttering in her sleep about spilling pure blood. So the Gryffindors had made sure there were always at least two other fifth-, sixth-, or seventh-year boys hanging around the tower to guard him at all times, to make sure he didn't get away. At first, he had desperately wanted to escape, had wanted to break down the walls to the bloody Slytherin dungeon and rip Malfoy into pieces, Cruc
io him forever until he felt perhaps a tenth of the pain Ron was feeling. Assuming that bastard Malfoy could feel pain at all.
Ron frowned down at the quill. His housemates had, finally, let him leave Gryffindor Tower. He had heard reports, the week he'd been confined, about disorganized classes being let out early, confusion and distractedness from nearly all of his classmates' professors. When he came back to class, most of his teachers had pretended Ron had not missed a single class—all except for Snape, of course, but no one was surprised by that. Ron had never had to make up the work he had missed and he had not been punished for missing class. Even Snape only took away ten points from Gryffindor, and for him, that seemed equivalent to a sympathetic pat on the head.
He didn't care about any of that, though. Ron had, after a week, just desperately wanted to be free of everyone's watchful eyes, even if he couldn't avenge Harry while he was in school. He pleaded with his housemates, but they had nevertheless been wary of letting him go; they were afraid he would do something stupid like attack Malfoy.
Which, of course, he eventually did.
After the other Gryffindors had allowed him to leave, having been dubiously persuaded by Ron's fervent promises of self-control and good behaviour, Ron had stayed faithful to his promises. He still desperately wanted to see Malfoy suffer, of course—that went without saying—but he reined himself in every time he saw the little blonde git slinking along the hallways. Dutifully he would avert his eyes and breathe slowly, counting to fifty—or one hundred—or two hundred, whatever was necessary. His day would come eventually, Ron told himself. He just had to wait for school to end.
But Ron had reached his breaking point when he had gone out to visit Harry's tomb one night. He had not been there since the funeral service that the school had put on. It was too painful to see the small square building jutting out of the ground, looking so friendly and innocuous, and knowing exactly what was inside. He had screwed up all his resolve, though, to go and visit…and who should be sitting outside in the moonlight but iDraco Malfoy/i.
Ron could not remember ever having been so angry. He remembered not being able to see, or think properly—the only thing he had been able to think was that Malfoy had no right to be anywhere near Harry, no right to sit outside his tomb all smug, as if he hadn't always been horrible to Harry, as if he hadn't gone and killed him in the end. Mostly all he remembered was hitting Malfoy, the dizzying rage and alarming joy with which he slammed his fists into Malfoy's body, not aiming nor caring where they hit him, so long as it was hard and caused lots of pain.
Vaguely, through his anger, Ron had realized that Malfoy was yelling with pain—but not fighting back. Well, that didn't make any difference to Ron—he didn't deserve to fight back. Malfoy didn't even deserve to live. But the strangeness of Malfoy's passivity nagged at him and his fists slowed, and then stopped. Ron, who had been kneeling heavily on the other boy's stomach as he had pummeled him in the face, sat back on his feet, removing himself from contact with Malfoy. "Bastard," he spat, breathing hard from exertion. "Why don't you fight back." It wasn't a question, exactly, although he was seeking an answer.
"I don't know," Malfoy had responded tightly through teeth gritted with pain, both eyes bruised, fresh blood from a split lip smeared on his face.
Ron had growled in fury, and then stood up suddenly, aiming a swift kick at Malfoy's ribs. "I was going to kill you—but I won't do it here. You're not worth defiling Harry's grave." And he had turned on his heel and walked out of sight, back towards the castle.
That's when he had lost his ability to feel, Ron supposed, as he had walked back to the castle the night he had attacked Malfoy. After he had left the bleeding Slytherin lying on the grass outside Harry's tomb, Ron had felt the anger slowly draining out of him, replaced by a kind of emotional exhaustion that was much worse than the tiredness of his muscles. By the time he had reached his bed that night, he had realized that he felt nothing about having just partially achieved his desire to make Malfoy pay—he didn't care about that, or anything else.
The bell rang, signaling the end of class. Ron sighed, dropping the quill on his desk, and bent to gather his things together, purposefully avoiding Hermione's eyes. He would pretend to be remorseful for his apathy later—right now, he thought with a crooked smile for the irony, he didn't have the energy for it. He was finished with classes for the day, and he couldn't wait to get back to his room for a midday nap. Ron took a lot of naps, lately. He found it was the best way to escape not only the constant reminders of his departed best friend, but also the dreary emotionless dullness that was his existence now.
He straightened up, and, with a rueful smile and a shrug at Hermione, he headed swiftly for the door. She did not look appeased in the slightest, but she did not follow as he sidled out. He supposed he should be grateful that she usually let him have his space when he needed it…but he just didn't care.
He shook his head and headed for his room.
~*~
Draco's head drooped over the open book spread on the table before him. He had been reading all night, meticulously poring over every mention of the Divisius curse in every book he could find in the school library that was of any relevance. He was hoping for a clue, a hint that would help him figure out where his spell had gone wrong three weeks ago, but so far all he had found was different versions of the same basic description. Draco blinked, straightening up with a frown at the page below him as he reread the words written there:
The Divisius Curse divides the victim's mind into many separate and disorganized thought patterns, so that trains of thought are fractured and nearly impossible to follow without confusion. Divisius is often quite painful for the victim, but the spell wears off several hours after being cast. It is most commonly used in dueling.
Draco shook his head. It had been three weeks ago, now, that he had—Draco gritted his teeth—that the incident with Potter had transpired. He had thought he would be well over this and laughing with the rest of the Slytherins by now…but no. Far from being over it, he couldn't get it out of his mind. He couldn't think of anything else, which is why he was here at his desk at four in the morning, reading the same page in this damn book for what seemed like the three thousandth time.
His eyes darkened as he thought of the Slytherins' laughter. It seemed no one in the school believed that his killing Potter had been an accident except Dumbledore—Draco grudgingly admitted to himself that maybe the man wasn't just a useless muggle-lover after all, since Dumbledore (along with Professor Snape) had gone to great lengths to keep him from getting expelled. Dumbledore had represented him at a trial he was certain he would have lost, had he not had the Headmaster on his side. Of course, it helped that the Wizengamot was still afraid of Lucius Malfoy, even though they had incarcerated him over a year ago. Draco let out a derisive snort. Even the Ministry lacked faith in its own prison system, now that the Dementors were gone from Azkaban.
Well, perhaps Dumbledore and Snape weren't the only ones who believed him about Potter's death; he'd heard it was quite a controversial subject, whether he'd meant to kill Potter or not, among students of all four houses, but he tried studiously not to pay attention to the gossip. He carefully maintained an expressionless, cool façade, never letting it slip when his cheerful housemates jokingly slapped him on the back in congratulations, nor when he was tripped or thrown at in the hallways or spit on in class by other students.
Draco had not even had much of a reaction when Weasley had attacked him. He should never have gone out to Potter's tomb, anyway, but he had desperately wanted to rid himself of the unfamiliar feeling of guilt. He'd never experienced anything so horrible, and he hoped that visiting Potter's resting place might make it go away. It didn't. When he had gotten back, he had healed the cuts and bruises that were anywhere that would not be covered up by his robes, but left the ones that no one but him would see. Draco had wanted a physical reminder of the night. He almost relished the memory of being attacked without fighting back; the physical pain of being hit had made him forget the drag on his heart that was guilt over Harry's death.
He bore certain teachers' anger, too, with equally good grace. Professor Sprout and that lump Hagrid kept taking points off of Slytherin for the smallest transgressions, such as pulling too hard to extract a plant from its pot, or staring for too long at a woolly Faun.
The one thing Draco had failed to bear gracefully was the letter from Azkaban he had received from his father two days after Potter had died. Luckily, he had been alone at the time, so no one else had seen his reaction. Draco had sat here at his desk, reading the letter calmly, taking in the words of pride and congratulations, of how the Dark Lord would surely be pleased, that Lucius had written Narcissa instructing her to increase Draco's monthly allowance. He had read the letter unblinkingly, and once finished, he sat still for a moment, breathing lightly, grey eyes hard and staring into space. Then he had burst up from his chair, knocking it over, the letter crumpled in his fist. Then, on second thought, he had smoothed the wrinkled page out in hands trembling with anger, and then ripped it to shreds and let the pieces fall. In almost the same movement he had lifted his wand from the desk and muttered i"Incendio"/i as the last of the scraps drifted to the floor, and watched, breathing heavily, as they a
ll burst into tiny flames, and settled on the floor as nothing more than a small pile of loose ash.
Damn Potter. He shut the book abruptly, getting up from the table. It was time for bed, he decided. He couldn't keep avoiding sleep; his body couldn't take the stress. Of course, there was always the question of whether his imind/i could take the stress of constant dreams about bloody Potter, but there came a point, Draco reasoned, where you really didn't have much of a choice. He had been nodding off for the past hour, despite numerous Alertness charms.
He stood up, unbuttoning his grey silk shirt, looking around his room. One of the best parts of being Head Boy, Draco reflected, was that he got the biggest room in the Slytherin dorms all to himself. He cast his shirt carelessly over a chair and threw himself fluidly onto the bed.
Potter. Ugh. Couldn't he even go one minute without thinking about bloody Potter? Draco grimaced and turned over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Ever since that day in the infirmary when he had remembered what had happened, he had felt as if a rock was permanently lodged inside his chest, a heavy weight that was always there. It was with him when he woke up in the morning, when he went to classes, when he ate…nothing Draco had tried to distract himself with had helped.
Sighing, Draco closed his eyes and spread a hand over his face. He hadn't gotten much sleep since it had happened—a few hours every couple of nights, he supposed, when his body got so exhausted he couldn't prevent falling asleep. He'd spent every night researching the Divisius curse, trying to find out where his spell had gone wrong. It was a difficult curse to perform, certainly, but he couldn't think of any reason it should ikill/i someone.
He supposed he should let Dumbledore and the rest do the all researching—he knew they were doing it too, and he also knew that they hadn't found anything more than he had. It's not as if it would do him any good even if he did figure out why the spell went wrong—even knowing wouldn't bring Harry back. But Draco had to do isomething/i-—particularly since sleeping was so unpleasant, he needed something to keep him from falling asleep too often.
He never dreamed, now, about anything except Harry Potter. His dreams were strange, disjointed, and always prominently featuring Potter. iScarhead,/i Draco tried to think viciously, but even in thought he couldn't muster up his old conviction. He suppressed a groan of despairing frustration. If he had realized that guilt was this difficult to deal with, perhaps he wouldn't have laughed with his father so often, when he was younger, at those who failed to bear killing gracefully.
He let out a short, hoarse laugh at the irony of his predicament. Six full years of trying to do Potter harm, and now that he'd succeeded—unintentionally, but even so—he regretted it more than anything he'd ever done.
Draco lightly brushed the pale skin on his chest above his heart, where the heaviness lay. The bruises he'd left there were nearly faded, now. Sighing, he let go and let himself drift off into much-needed sleep.
~*~
iHarry looked up at his Uncle Vernon fearfully, knowing that this time, the punishment would be severe.
"I knew it! Me too, Harry, me too!" Uncle Vernon cried in a girl's voice, his hair growing long, brown, and bushy, and his face turning less purple, turning into Hermione's face.
Harry, thoroughly bewildered, looked wildly around and realized he was in his and Ron's bedroom at number twelve, Grimmauld place—of course he was—he had been staying there over the summer since he'd left the Dursleys'.
"No," said Harry quickly. He tried to ignore the nagging feeling that something wasn't normal, hastily pushing the new prefect badge back into Ron's hand. "It's Ron, not me."
"Ron?" said Hermione, her eyes bulging, her mouth opening wide and spreading wider and wider, and suddenly she was a giant snake with no eyes, lunging for him…but before he had time to scream, he was in his room at Hogwarts, writing an essay about the Great Goblin Rebellion of 1596.
Harry stared down at the essay, wanting to scream in frustration…something was wrong…he didn't know what, but something just didn't make sense. He shouldn't be here…everything seemed fine but he knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. Suddenly, he felt eyes on him, and he spun around. The room melted around him, turned to mist as he met the cold grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.
"Malfoy," he breathed, feeling a totally incongruous sense of relief at seeing the Slytherin. Vaguely Harry thought that he should be angry or fearful or something at the sight of Malfoy, but all he seemed to be able to think is that whenever Draco appeared, the world made more sense, stopped shifting on him without warning…but that didn't make any sense at all, he thought.
"Draco!" he said, wondering why the other boy wasn't wearing a shirt. He must work out, Harry thought distractedly, then he realized he had called Malfoy aloud by his first name. But the other boy did not respond to the unusual greeting, he just stood still, staring at Harry with a weird, sad look on his face, fists clenched at his sides.
Harry frowned, standing up. "Listen, Malfoy, what are you doing here?"
Malfoy stayed silent, watching him.
"Dammit Malfoy!" Harry shouted, getting angry. Malfoy could obviously see him, why didn't he answer? Images flitted across his memory, and for a strange moment he was sure this had happened before, him talking and Malfoy unable to hear or respond. /IWell,i Harry thought, shaking his head with confusion, /iwhatever is going on here is going to change right now. i
He strode up to him—he'd never tried this before, he thought vaguely, not really knowing where the memory came from. "Malfoy," he said firmly, inches from the other boy's face. Malfoy looked somewhat taken aback at Harry's sudden proximity, his hands unclenched and held up slightly as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them.
"Malfoy, you are going to listen to me," Harry said forcefully, if not unkindly, and punched him in the stomach. Both boys gasped as Harry's hand shot right through Draco's midsection as if it were made of mist, traveling straight through and coming out the other side.
Draco twisted wildly, trying to see where Harry's fist had gone. "Merlin, Potter!" he cried, and Harry caught his breath. He had never been able to hear Draco's voice before.
"Malfoy?" he said, and the blonde head whipped around to stare wide-eyed at Harry. Neither one of them moved, for fear of losing this tenuous new connection.
"Potter—Potter, I'm sorry—" Draco said suddenly, speaking quickly as if rushing to get the words out.
"Listen, Malfoy," Harry interrupted. He felt he didn't have much time. "You've got to get me out of here," he said quickly and intensely, not really knowing what he was saying but knowing he had to make Malfoy understand. "Use all the knowledge you've got. You've got to help me."
"All the knowledge…listen Potter, I've been trying to help you, I've been doing nothing for weeks but looking for how I can fix this," Draco said in what would have been a pleading voice on anyone but a Malfoy.
"Then you haven't been looking in the right places," Harry responded, and leaned forward, but Malfoy was suddenly gone, and Harry blinked. What was he doing? He pulled his hand back from where it was still thrust outwards, trying desperately to hang on to the fading memory of cold grey eyes as he wiggled his fingers to make sure they all still worked.
Wait…why was he standing here staring idly at his hand when he had to finish weeding the garden? Aunt Petunia would be furious if he didn't finish today, and he wouldn't get any dinner for the third night in a row. Hurriedly he crouched down, trying to ignore the harsh sun beating down on his seven-year-old back, and got to work, feeling strangely out of place…/i
~*~
Draco's eyes flew open with a gasp. His heart was beating a thousand times a minute as he stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, remembering where he was. His hands drifted to his midsection and felt solid familiar skin, and suddenly Draco sat bolt upright. "Harry…" he said in a hoarse voice, not even caring how ridiculous he sounded.
Harry Potter was still alive.