Slytherin Divided
by Luckfire
Ron shivered. He wished Professor Snape would invest his
skills in heating the dungeons, but knew it was a lost
cause. Out of the corner of his eye, Ron noticed a certain
blond figure striding toward him. He groaned inwardly and
braced himself for the onslaught.
"Hello, Weasel," Draco Malfoy sneered. Ron flinched back
slightly and held the table with white knuckles, his eyes
single-mindedly glued to the blackboard.
"Go away, Malfoy," Ron snapped. "Why don't you just sit with
the rest of the scum on the Slytherin side?"
"Weasley, you wouldn't know scum if you were sitting next to
it-oh, wait, you are. Silly me," Malfoy grinned.
"Oh, that was real clever, Malfoy," muttered a low voice
from across the room, the voice's owner rolling their eyes.
Draco spun around, annoyed.
"Who said that?" he demanded, making everyone-even Professor
Snape-turn to face him.
"I did." A dark-haired, sinewy girl stood up and faced Draco
calmly. "Why? Would you like me to repeat it?"
"A Slytherin?!" Ron gaped, along with the rest of the class.
"Yes," she confirmed, sauntering across the room to stand
facing Malfoy. Her robes never touched a single desk. "How
observant of you. And of you, Malfoy. Imagine, I've been
here the entire year, and not once have I ever noticed who
sits next to Ron Weasley," she drawled, her voice dripping
with mock sincerity.
Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Just who do you think you are?"
The girl widened her eyes in surprise. "Don't you know me?
No, of course you don't." She sighed, shaking her head, then
looked him in the eye, put a friendly arm around his
shoulders, and said: "I'm part of the 'scum,' Malfoy, my
prejudiced lamebrain. A Mudblood. And, on behalf of everyone
in Hogwarts who has ever dared incur the wrath of the mighty
Draco Malfoy, I would like to bestow upon you this gift."
As she spoke, she took her arm from his shoulders and
displayed her hands, one covering the other, inviting closer
inspection. As Draco leaned in a bit to see, her bottom hand
clenched and flew at Draco's jaw, striking quick as
lightning. He staggered back a step, surprise evident on his
face but quickly overcome by anger.
The girl swept back to her seat unhindered, and the
Gryffindors burst into a loud cheer.
The story spread quickly, losing nothing in the telling. By
dinner, the mysterious Slytherin had delivered no less than
a concussion to poor Draco, and received nothing in return.
Only a few of those present during the actual episode
remembered the girl's face, but the moment she entered the
Great Hall the whisper spread like brushfire: "That's her,
the one I told you about!"
Taking no notice of the silence her presence left in its
wake, she strode unobtrusively to the end of the Slytherin
table and made a move to sit down. Suddenly the space was
filled by books and an elbow. As she glanced deliberately
down both sides of the table, every opening was instantly
blocked. Taking the message and giving a curt nod, she
took a plate from one of the empty places she wasn't allowed
to sit at and secured her food. She had begun to walk out of the
room, the eyes of the student body still on her, when a
voice called from the Gryffindor table:
"Hey, need somewhere to sit? We've got space." It was Ron
Weasley.
"Thanks, but I've still got my dignity," she replied coldly,
and left.
When the mysterious girl finally returned to the Slytherin
common room, she drew many a cold glare merely by walking
across the floor. But she couldn't even do that
unhindered-not in Slytherin House.
A blond boy stood in front of her, blocking her path,
flanked by two nasty-looking thugs. "You think you're so
smart, don't you?" Draco Malfoy sneered. "So smart I could
puke."
Frazzled, she replied confusedy, "Well, why don't you? I'm
not stopping you. Just aim that way," the girl added,
chucking a thumb at Pansy Parkinson. Pansy gave her a look
to kill. "It might help her looks some." A couple of sixth-
years snickered.
Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Who do you think you are to come
waltzing in here and start pointing fingers?"
The girl's eyes suddenly lost their bewildered look and
became chillingly opaque. "Someone who has seen your stupid,
childish hassling of innocent kids who never did anything to
you. I didn't just 'waltz in here and start pointing
fingers,' as you so *cunningly* put it." With that, she
knocked away a stunned Goyle and strode with measured paces
to her dormitory, locking the door behind her.
The Gryffindors didn't know what to make of this strange
girl who made fools of her fellow Slytherins and then coldly
declined solace among like-minded people.
"I just don't know what to make of the whole thing." Harry
shook his head in resignation. "There's no logic in it."
"Maybe she doesn't think she needs friends," Hermione
suggested from behind a stack of books.
"I think she's nuts," Ron proclaimed, tearing his gaze away
from the fire. "I mean, who in their right mind ticks off a
Slytherin, let alone the whole House?"
Harry smiled. "Malfoy's a Slytherin, and if he's not ticked
off at us I don't know who is."
"But that doesn't mean this girl's any less insane!" Ron
insisted. "I mean, Malfoy's a pain, but he's nothing
compared to having all the Slytherins on your
case-especially if that's your House."
All of a sudden, Neville Longbottom fell into the
room-literally. Picking himself up off the floor, a blush
starting the spread over his face, the poor accident-prone
fifth-year asked, "Has anyone seen my invisible ink? I-I
think I spilled some on the bottle and now I can't find it
anywhere."
Wondering how Neville had managed this, but still feeling
sorry for him in spite of all her homework, Hermione joined
Neville in his search. From the floor, she said, "Actually,
it might be a totally unplanned maneuver. That Slytherin
girl, I mean," she clarified. "After all, who knows how much
bottled-up resentment she must've had to just explode like
that in Potions. I wonder what was the last straw?"
"I just wish I could have seen Snape's face when he tried to
figure out where to deduct the points from!" Ron chuckled,
eliciting smiles from everyone within hearing distance.
A pale boy with bleached-blond hair and three tiny silver
hoops in his right ear lay on the infirmary bed, out cold.
His face held a troubled frown. A bloodstained bandage
encircled his right shoulder. A dark-haired girl sat in the
chair at his bedside. Her brow was creased stubbornly and
her hands, on the arms of the chair, were white-knuckled.
Madam Pomfrey's heels clicked across the floor, then halted
abruptly as she caught sight of the girl. Her expression
softened a little and she clicked over, laying a gentle hand
on the girl's shoulder. She jumped and looked up, her eyes
showing a moment of heartfelt weakness before she blinked it
back. "It's almost dinnertime. He'll be all right until you
get back." The girl nodded slowly and sighed.
"May I eat my dinner here?" she asked hopefully, her eyes
sliding back to the still figure on the bed.
Madam Pomfrey let a sympathetic smile escape on her lips and
said, "Yes, you may. But I don't want it to become a common
occurance."
As the healer's feet clicked back to her office door, the
girl called softly, "Thank you." The feet paused, but the
girl didn't look at her, and they continued.
"Hey, Weasley, what are you so engrossed in the lake for?
Hoping for it to turn into a wishing well, probably, so you
could scrape a few Knuts from the bottom!"
"Ron, no!"
"Why can't you boys just shake hands and stop beating each
other up?" Madam Pomfrey was admonishing her latest
returning patients when the girl entered. Without a sound
she crossed the room and took her place by the side of the
pale boy. On the opposite side of the room, Madam Pomfrey
continued berating her captive audience. "What is the point?
Neither of you win and the both of you practically have
reserved places here. I'm sure that if you put your heads
together you could come up with an easy solution. And just
in case you don't feel well enough for deep thought, I'll
give you a suggestion: Lay off the punches. And if you can't
lay off them, then at least *roll* with the punches; it'll
keep you out of my hair longer!" Finally reaching her
breaking point, she threw up her hands in exasperation and
stormed off to her office.
Things quieted down after that. The two chronic combatants
did their homework while pointedly ignoring each other. The
girl watched the still face before her, unnoticed by either of
the patients.
After an hour or so, Madam Pomfrey poked her head into the
room and announced the end of visiting hours. The girl
nodded and rose, causing the two invalids to look up and
watch as she made her exit.
Just before dinner, Madam Pomfrey arranged for the boys'
dinners to be brought up. The dark-haired girl entered a bit
later, laden with a book bag and three trays, two balanced
on her hands and one floating just in front of her. The
trays she carried she set down before each boy and the third
she took to her now-customary chair.
As she turned away from Ron, he coughed slightly and asked,
"What's your name?"
Pivoting back to look at him, the enigmatic girl said,
"Dulcinea. Didn't the rumor mills mention it?" Ron squirmed
uncomfortably.
"Just Dulcinea? Don't you have a last name to go with that,
Mudblood?" Draco taunted.
"You're pretty cocky for a bedridden wretch, Pureblood. Just
to show that I can be perfectly fair and civil, my last name
is Mackintosh. And if you really have a brain in that head
of yours, you won't question me further." Draco glared at
her back as she marched across the room.
Ron and Draco were only in the infirmary overnight, but
charcoal-eyed Dulcinea swiftly became a permanent accessory
to the sickroom. If she wasn't in class, asleep in bed, or,
occasionally, eating in the Great Hall, she could be found
in her comfortable chair doing homework or just watching the
gentle rise and fall of her friend's slow, steady breathing.
Madam Pomfrey soon found that she could count on Dulcinea to
pitch in whenever she needed help in return for the
uncomplaining, unobtrusive extended visiting hours the girl
enjoyed.
The in-class head-buttings between Draco and Dulcinea
continued stubbornly, until the professors had to forcefully
separate them to opposite sides of the room. The result of
this move was that, while Draco ended up with his fellow
Slytherins in most classes, Dulcinea was placed in the midst
of the Gryffindors during Potions. It seemed that Professor
Snape had devised a way of punishing her for beating on his
favorite student. Seated next to Harry Potter, she tried not
to yawn too obviously as Snape droned on about a new color-
change potion and made cracks about various Gryffindors. It
didn't take a genius to figure out that Snape kept his most-
hated students in a clump near the front on the Gryffindor
side. Dulcinea was the only Slytherin ever to gain such a
place.
Finding herself to be nodding off, Dulcinea jerked her head
up and willed herself to pay attention, promising herself a
nap during next free period, which was right after this one.
The gimmick worked and she squeaked through the class with
her dignity still intact against the almost constant barrage
of Snape's abuse. Somehow, she dragged herself to the
dungeons and into her dorm, half-heartedly dodging cat-calls
and jibes until she collapsed, exhausted, onto her bed.
As Dulcinea awoke she realized just how messed up her life
had become, that she had let herself develop a single-
minded preoccupation with Switch. She mentally slapped
herself, checked the magic-powered clock, and bolted out of
bed and into the hall so as not to miss dinner completely.
She resisted the urge to eat in the infirmary and
determindly set her tray down at the end of the Slytherin
table. Although this odd behavior sent a slight ripple
through the table, Dulcinea's notoriety had slacked off some
after losing a verbal battle with Malfoy, who seemed to be
learning - finally-how to hold his own against his current
rival, and her housemates could now bear her prescence in
silence.
But here and there among the disdainful aloofness, a tiny
spark of resentment and disillusionment was kindled.
Dulcinea knew that there were some who agreed with her and
wished Malfoy would grow up and stop making Slytherin House
look like a bunch of inconsiderate, dimwitted, cowardly
jerks who hung on his every word. Dulcinea herself knew of a
lot of people who didn't fit that description, and who found
it insulting. She actually wondered how some of them had
ever been Sorted into Slytherin in the first place. Although
it would be practically blasphemy to say it, a few of those
in question could be considered Gryffindor material - bold, chivalrous, and moronically selfless. She grinned to herself at the thought of the looks on their faces if she were to tell them that.
Unable to shake the habit and constant knot of worry that
she had developed, Dulcinea found herself checking up on her
best friend for a moment before rushing off the Divination.
His icy blue eyes were closed in deep sleep, and the shock
of hair which he had so carefully dyed a bleached-blond kind
of color was beginning to grow out. His shoulder was newly
rebandaged and looked to be healing. Dulcinea gave him a
last, fond look and swept out before Madam Pomfrey could
object. She had to jog to make it to Divination on time.
Skidding in just before the bell, Dulcinea took an empty
seat near the back and fell into almost a trance to the low,
lilting cadence of Professor Trelawney's dramatic monologue
on basic palmistry. She only snapped out of it when the
professor broke into a businesslike tone and began assigning
partners for practice. Hatefully, Draco and Dulcinea were
paired together due to Trelawney's resolute conviction that
any two people could work out their differences under calm,
normal conditions. Her theory was about to be tested to its
limits.
"Give me your hand," Draco instructed. Dulcinea complied
cautiously, wary of any foul play on Malfoy's part.
"Wow, look at this." Draco exclaimed, to all appearances
sincere. "Your head line and your heart line are almost
parallel. And your life line is deep and long." As if his
point was devastatingly clear, Malfoy leaned back in his
chair and let her hand drop. When the blank look on
Dulcinea's face became a confused one, Draco explained
slowly, as if to a small child, "You're cold and
calculating. Taken directly, your head rules your heart and
your life will be long. And that's just the three main
lines. Didn't you pay any attention at all, Mudblood?"
Malfoy snickered.
Swallowing her pride for the sake of her grade, Dulcinea
gulped. "No. Show me." She didn't meet his eyes and added
quickly, sarcastically, "O Great Divinator."
Suddenly gracious in victory, Draco explained away. Dulcinea
was amazed at the extent of what he knew. Professor
Trelawney couldn't possibly have covered all this, she
thought, scribbling notes. He finished briefing her just
before the bell and she had just enough time to tuck away
her notes and say, "Thanks, Malfoy," before she swept out of
the room in an attempt to make it to Charms, on the far side
of the castle, prior to the beginning of class; if Professor
Flitwick caught her coming in late again she'd have
detention.
Ron started a fight with Draco the next day during a
Quidditch game between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Ravenclaw
was ahead by a hundred and fifty points and the Gryffindor
team was scrambling to catch up.
Suddenly: "Hey, Malfoy, what are you doing here?" Ron called
insolently.
"Checking out the competition - not that you could call it
that." Malfoy yelled back.
"Ron," Hermione hissed, snatching at Ron's arm to keep him
from jumping up and landing himself in the infirmary -
again. "Just calm down. He's trying to get you to start the
fight; don't give in!"
"But that's Harry he just insulted! How am I supposed to
just sit by and do nothing when he's slandering my best
friend? Your best friend. Doesn't it make your blood boil?"
While Hermoine tried to think of something to say to take
Ron's blood off the burner, she slackened her grip slightly
and he pulled away, striding down the bleachers to where
Malfoy was standing, arms crossed and a smug look on his
face.
"So good of you to join me, Weasley," Malfoy said
pleasantly. "It's always nice to see the little people up
close sometimes."
Ron snorted. "Little people? You're not so tall yourself,
Malfoy. Heck, Flitwick could beat you in a fair fight. And
Snape - oof!" Malfoy brought his fist back from the blow he
had delivered to Ron's stomach. Bent over, Ron had barely
regained his breath when Malfoy gave him a sharp uppercut.
He reeled back and then swung a strong smack to the shorter
boy's shoulder and another to his jaw. They traded a few
more blows before one of Ron's managed to drag him off-
balance when Malfoy sidestepped it. Just at that moment,
when Draco was winding up for another punch and Ron was
trying to catch himself, someone stepped in and caught
Malfoy's fist in one hand while righting the unsteady
Weasley with the other.
"Break it up, break it up. This is a Quidditch field, not a
playground." Dulcinea admonished. "Malfoy, you started this.
Go bother someone else." Draco glared at both Ron and
Dulcinea, then stalked off when he remembered the speed with
which she had caught his punch. Dulcinea turned to the
remaining brawler and took him off to an unobtrusive niche
near the edge of the bleachers. A cheer went up on the
Gryffindor side and Ron craned his neck to see what had
happened.
"Hey," Dulcinea's voice brought him back to the situation at
hand. "Don't let Malfoy get to you. He's just an ignorant,
prejudiced, little twerp. Besides, you shouldn't let
yourself be goaded into battles you can't win."
"I can fight just fine," Ron protested indignantly. "I was
doing great until you showed up." He turned on his heel to
go.
"No, you weren't. Your last punch threw you way off-balance
and if Malfoy were any better a strategist, you'd be seeing
a lot more of Madam Pomfrey in the next few days." He turned
back full circle to look at Dulcinea. He wasn't stupid; she
was right.
"So what should I do about it? I mean, it's just fine for
you to go off criticizing me, but do you have a remedy?"
Eyeing the second-youngest Weasley speculatively, Dulcinea
offered, "Meet me in an empty classroom on the third floor,
near the hospital wing - room 406 - at nine o'clock tonight
and I'll see what I can do." And she disappeared around the
end of the row of bleachers.
Ron didn't tell anyone about the peculiar proposition he had
gotten from Dulcinea. After all, she was Slytherin, and he
didn't want anyone to know that he had even spoken with her,
let alone received an offer like that. Not that he really
knew what it was for, but it gave him a sort of shiver.
Thinking rationally later that evening, Ron tried to deduce
the strange girl's intentions and whether they were for good
or ill. On the one had, she had broken up a fight just when
it seemed things would turn against him, and she didn't seem
to be a favorite in her own house. But on the other hand, a
Slytherin was a Slytherin, and just because she was
currently not winning any popularity contests didn't change
the fact that she was Sorted into that house for a reason.
Besides, it could be an elaborate plan to make a fool out of
him. If he didn't show, however, and it wasn't a fraud but
actually something he could use, would Dulcinea think less
of him? Much as the question confused him, Ron forced
himself to answer it. Probably. He didn't know that much
about her, he realized. Thoroughly bewildered, he remained
staring into the fire until Harry tapped his shoulder
lightly. "Are you going to bed or what?"
"I'll be there soon. Don't bother waiting up for me."
When the room had cleared, he made a split-second decision
and went out the portrait hole. It was a long way from
Gryffindor tower to room 406, and Ron got lost twice before
he found the nondescript wooden door. With heartfelt
misgivings, he cracked the door and peeked in.
Inside he discovered a medium-large room. It was almost
bereft of furniture, except for a wooden bench on one wall.
A few small windows adorned another wall.
"You sure took your time, didn't you?" Ron jumped at the
voice. Somehow he had failed to register Dulcinea,
stretching against a wall.
"Why am I here?" Ron asked.
"Your legs brought you."
"I mean, why did you offer to meet me here?"
"You can't fight."
"And how are you supposed to help?"
"I'll teach you. That is, if you want to be taught."
"Taught what? And don't give any more circular answers."
"Whatever you'll learn. Mostly streetfighting, kickboxing,
strategizing, and how to avoid fighting."
"Wait a minute. How to avoid fighting? You're going to teach
me all that, just so that I won't use it? That's just -"
"Do you want to be remembered as the kid who was always
picking fights with everyone? As a bully? You learn what you
must to hold your own, and then hope you don't need it. If
you are going to try out new manuevers on Malfoy, then just
leave right now." She turned back to her stretching
exercises and let Ron choose unhindered.
Ron really didn't want to be there. He felt way out of
place, and none of this seemed very real. He was perfectly
ready to just walk out the door and forget the whole strange
episode. But he didn't. He stayed right where he was.
Surprisingly, Ron somehow wanted to please Dulcinea, and he
knew that if he went through that door he would never have
her respect again. And so he stayed.
"Still here? Well, then, let's get down to business."
Dulcinea gave him a quick once-over and shook her head. "You
can't move in those clothes. Tunicam Mutat!" Suddenly, Ron
was wearing a loose, belted white tunic and matching pants.
Dulcinea's costume was the same. "That's a Japanese gi. Even
though we're not doing martial arts specifically, it's great
for practicing in." She led Ron to the middle of the room.
"We'll start with some basics. Stand like this; no, move
your foot over a bit - that's it. Are you balanced? Good.
Now, try this ..."
Though he couldn't fathom why, Ron returned every night to
study streetfighting with Dulcinea, and became increasingly
better with practice. Harry and Hermione noticed many almost
imperceptible changes in the way he held himself, the way he
moved, but didn't comment - which is not to say that they
didn't wonder what was going on.
Grumbling, Draco entered the infirmary to serve his
detention for turning Neville Longbottom into a squirrel. He
marched to Madam Pomfrey's office and was assigned to
cleaning bedpans, the healer's least favorite duty. He had
collected half of them before he noticed Dulcinea sitting in
her chair, eating lunch. "Hey, Mudblood," he demanded. "How
long have you been here?"
"Longer than you have," she replied around a bite of her
sandwich.
"Oh, of course," Malfoy sneered. "Eating lunch with your
little boyfriend. He's probably the only company you've got.
Eh, Mudblood?"
Dulcinea carefully put down her sandwich and stood up, to
all appearances cool as a cucumber, but her narrowed eyes
and clenched fist belayed that. "Don't speak of things you
know nothing about."
Realizing that he had nettled the unshakeable Dulcinea,
Malfoy pursued the subject. "Enlighten me, O Companion of
Coma Patients. What is it that you know and I don't? Where
does he come from? Which House does he belong to? Who is he?
Your father?" he smirked.
"That's pathetic, Pureblood." Dulcinea scoffed, regaining
her self-control. "I had hoped you could do better than
that."
"You still haven't answered me, Mudblood," Malfoy persisted.
"No, and I won't, because you're not worth it, *Pureblood*,"
she stretched out the last word until it sounded like a
disgusting, malicious insult. "You are scum. And unless you
realize that, you're going to continue being scum for the
rest of your life. Goodbye, Pureblood." Dulcinea grabbed her
tray and stormed out of the infirmary, leaving Malfoy
standing in the middle of the room, laden with bedpans and a
lopsided, doubtful grin spread over his face.
"Oof!"
"You should have been able to block that." Dulcinea chided.
"Try it again." It was the eighth time in an hour that she
had said that.
The two adopted a practiced stance and Dulcinea nodded to
begin. Ron came at her, fists up, and aimed a high kick at
her face. She leaned out of the way, grabbed his foot as it
whizzed past and pulled it toward her, dragging Ron off-
balance. He immediately grounded his foot and leapt back
awkwardly for a chance to regain his equilibrium. Dulcinea
pursued and threw a good punch into his stomach. But halfway
there it was knocked away and replaced by a right cross
going the other way. Dulcinea whistled for a halt.
"That was well done, Weasley." They had been sparring and
drilling for over an hour, and both of their breaths were
coming in gasps. "Break."
Ron dropped onto the bench without a single vestige of grace
and gulped down a swallow of water which he conjured on the
spot. Dulcinea collapsed spread-eagle on the floor. A
friendly, panting silence fell while Ron wiped the sweat
from his forehead and Dulcinea rubbed her bruised jaw.
"You okay?" Ron asked, concerned. "You don't seem to have
been quite yourself lately."
"What are you talking about? I'm fine." She didn't move to
look at Ron as she spoke; it wasn't her way.
"Well, you've seemed kind of distant the last day or so. And
I haven't seen much of you during the day. Have you been
retreating to the Batcave or something?" Ron joked, trying
to elicit a grin from his flattened tutor. Dulcinea, in
addition to the lessons in fighting, had given Ron an
unintentional crash course in American Muggle pop culture,
a hobby of hers. He was fascinated by her descriptions of television, soap operas, heavy metal, and "The National Enquirer."
"No. The Batcave's in Gotham City. Way across the pond."
"The hospital wing?" he asked gently, knowing that he was
treading on a sensitive subject. Dulcinea stiffened, then
sighed and slackened her muscles.
"Yeah." she whispered, suddenly tired. Her guard, so long
upkept and painstakingly maintained, began to crumble under
its own weight.
"Visiting that boy - the one in the coma?" Ron continued
quietly. Dulcinea flinched at the word "coma".
"Yeah." she repeated.
"What's his name? Who is he? You don't have to say
anything," he amended hastily. It was strange talking to
Dulcinea with hardly any barrier between them, and even
stranger talking to her about anything so personal as this.
Dulcinea hesitated. "No personal questions, Weasley," she
growled, standing up again. "Break's over."
"Ron." Hermione said, in a voice that made him look up. She
was flanked by Harry. "Ron, what's going on? What aren't you
telling us?"
It had been a month since Ron had started his training with
Dulcinea, and his friends were wondering about the changes
they saw in him.
"What are you guys talking about?" Ron asked dumbly, a tiny
knot of fear lodging itself in his chest.
"Ron, we know something's up. And we'd like you to trust us
enough to tell us what it is," Harry added sensitively.
"Nothing's going on," Ron lied, hating himself for it.
"Ron, you can tell us. We're your friends." Hermione
repeated, sticking sharp knife in Ron's heart; it just
killed him to have to lie to his best friends!
"Why would you think I haven't told you something?" Ron
stalled, trying to come up with a credible lie.
"Oh, just little things, mostly." Hermione confessed. "You
just act a little more - I don't know - distant? And you
don't slouch as much, or get quite as mad when Malfoy starts
one of his tirades. That was probably the most obvious," she
grinned.
"Is it a girl? C'mon, buddy, spill the beans," Harry smiled,
trying to lighten the mood. Ron flinched a little. "So it is
a girl! Who?"
"Uh," he stalled, wracking his brain for a suitable name.
"Lavender Brown," he said at last, hoping it sounded
plausible, and added quickly, "Don't tell anyone."
Harry winked. "Don't worry, Ron. Your secret's safe with
me."
"And me," Hermione added, crossing her heart.
As they walked away, Ron let out a long, pent-up breath and
felt like sinking into the chair, never to be seen again.
That night, he focused all his frustration into mastering a
difficult new move that Dulcinea had been helping him with,
and was able to do it flawlessly for the first time.
It was a week later during another nightly lesson with
Dulcinea, when they were taking a water-break, that Ron
asked, "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what? Would you rather I didn't let you have a
breather?"
"No, not that. This," he said, gesturing to enfold the whole
room. "Why are you helping me? For that matter, why do you
always go against Malfoy and Snape and all the other
Slytherins? Why bother with any of us?"
Dulcinea had been avoiding his gaze, but she looked at him
sharply at his last question. "Because you're better than
you think you are. And because you obviously can't figure
that out on your own, I'm trying to give your ego a
jumpstart."
"But why bother in the first place? Why not just let us come
to our own conclusions? And why would you make yourself an
outcast in the process?"
Dulcinea shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for a pity
case."
"That doesn't explain why you're helping me, in particular."
"Simple logic. You are an enemy's enemy, which makes you a
friend by default." Neither said anything for a while, and
when the silence had grown thick and awkward, Dulcinea stood
up and said, "C'mon, Weasley, back to the salt mines. I want
to see that kick again..."
Between all of the distracting things going on in her life,
not to mention the late nights, it was no wonder Dulcinea
found herself constantly nodding off in Divination from
sheer exhaustion. The energy levels in the classroom were
practically tangible, and seemed to suck the awareness out
of her. Professor Trelawney had made their new partners
permanent, and it was a good thing. Between Draco's seeming
expertise in the field and Dulcinea's knowledge of
shorthand, she could catch up quickly, and get on with the
lesson. Even though she hated having to get the notes from
someone else, especially Draco, Dulcinea had to admit that
the blond boy could be civil sometimes, though it didn't
hurt that he was showing off.
Draco was just finishing up on the new palmistry technique
they had learned when Professor Trelawney appeared at their
table.
"Please come with me," she said frostily.
Not daring to look at each other, the two partners stood and
followed their professor to the back of the room and past a
dark, velvety curtain, into her office. Trelawney motioned
them onto a big, comfortable sofa which faced a large, oak
desk piled high with papers and a crystal ball and took a seat behind the desk.
"I am well aware of the situation which has arisen between
the two of you," she began, "and I do not appreciate it.
Draco Malfoy, you should allow me to teach my class. I do
not like it when a student takes that responsibility upon
himself. And Dulcinea Mackintosh," her accent drew out the
syllables haltingly, "you should try harder to pay attention
in my class. You cannot always get the notes from your
partner, and I would hate to see your marks begin to slip.
Understood?" she asked, looking from one to the other over
the rims of her glasses. Both nodded. "Dismissed. Tell the
class that I will be out shortly to check their progress."
As the two reappeared in the classroom, Dulcinea noticed a
number of heads snap back to look at their partners' hands.
"Professor Trelawney says she'll be out soon to check on you
guys." Dulcinea announced, her voice carrying.
"Why should we believe you, Gryffindor-lover?" Pansy
Parkinson sneered.
"Because I'm right, lipstick-tooth." Dulcinea shot back.
Pansy pinked and discreetly checked her teeth in a pocket
mirror.
"But why -"
"Because the Mudblood's right, lame-brain. So you better try
to find some meaning in that hand before Trelawney gets out
here." Draco retorted, forestalling the insolent returns.
Draco and Dulcinea made their way by separate routes back to
their table.
"Get some power behind your punch! Pretend I'm Malfoy,"
Dulcinea suggested. Ron knocked her off her feet with his
fist. "Good one. Water break."
As they slumped down on the bench, Ron asked, "Are you going
to the Quidditch game tomorrow?"
She shrugged. "Yeah."
In hopes of taking her by surprise, Ron posed the same
question he had a week before. "Who's the boy in the coma?"
"Don't ask me again, Weasley," she warned, giving Ron a
piercing look.
The rest of the lesson passed in a sweaty, jabbing blur, and
by the end Ron just wanted to fall back into his four-poster
and sleep till noon the next day. Dulcinea was forced to cut
the session a little short when he threw a punch, missed her
by a foot, and went flying.
"Hey, Weasley, let's call it a day, huh?" She gave him a
hand up and made sure he didn't get lost on the way to the
portrait of the Fat Lady, who was asleep and had to be
prodded awake before Ron could mutter the password to her.
Just as Ron was closing the portrait hole, Dulcinea
murmured, so low he almost missed it, "Switch. His name's
Switch," but when he turned back to ask about it, the
enigmatic Slytherin had disappeared.
The Quidditch match crept up too slowly, in Draco's opinion.
He had been itching for flight since the moment he woke up,
but the game wasn't until afternoon. The classes may as well
have been slugs for all the speed they exhibited. Even
Divination, his favorite class, was only one of a dozen
slimy blobs.
Draco ate lunch slowly in an attempt to keep his nerves at
bay, and it seemed to work. His afternoon classes showed
much more speed than the morning ones and before he knew it,
Draco was marching into the locker room. Marcus Flint was in
a bloodthirsty mood, and Draco paid close attention to his
"pep" talk, although it could just as well be called a
"threat" talk.
"Now listen up, all of you." Flint scowled. "You had better
win this game. If you don't, the House Cup goes to those
gutless Gryffindors. And we don't want that," he cracked his
knuckles menacingly, "do we? I don't want your best on that
field; I've seen your best, and it's not good enough. I want
whatever you have to give on that field, just so we win the
Cup. Understood?" Swift nods circulated. "Good. Go out there
and kick some Gryffindor ass. Malfoy! Don't catch that damn
Snitch unless we're twenty points up, got it? Otherwise the
Cup's a lost cause."
"Got it, Flint." Draco nodded and sketched a mock-salute
before trotting out to the sidelines with his Nimbus Two-
Thousand-and-One. Flint crushed hands with the Gryffindor
captain - Wood - and Madam Hooch blew the whistle and let
loose the balls. Lee Jordan kept up a running commentary as
usual.
"Angelina Johnson with the Quaffle, she passes it to Katie
Bell. Katie takes it upfield, she shoots it, dodges a
Bludger and - TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!"
Draco cursed quietly and kept one eye on Potter while the
other scoured the field for the elusive Snitch. He couldn't
let Potter see it.
"Alicia Spinnet with the Quaffle, taking it downfield...No,
intercepted by a Slytherin Chaser...Slytherin with the
Quaffle, heading upfield...He shoots - BLOCK IT, WOOD!" The
Chaser feinted right. Oliver Wood shot over to deflect it,
but the Chaser dodged left and easily made the basket. Lee
Jordan cursed colorfully, to Professor McGonagall's outrage.
"Ten points to Slytherin," Lee said glumly as the teams
faced off again. A few Slytherins had to be forcefully
quieted when they began shouting obscenities at the
commentator.
"Slytherin has the Quaffle, a pass - interception by
Angelina Johnson! Angelina with the Quaffle, flying along
the sideline, she's winding up for a pass...LOOK OUT!" Lee
shouted, just as a Bludger zoomed out of nowhere and
violently knocked the Quaffle out of her hand. "The Quaffle
is falling...into Slytherin hands," he moaned. "Slytherin with
the Quaffle, flying right down the center of the field. FRED
WEASLEY IS HIT BY A BLUDGER!" The redheaded boy was rubbing
his side, a grimace of pain on his face, but he ignored any
offer of help, took a good grip on his bat, and chased after
the Bludger that had hit him, knocking it into a Slytherin.
"That's the spirit, Fred! And -" he swore loudly. "Ten
points to Slytherin. The score is Gryffindor ten, Slytherin
twenty. Come on, Gryffindor!"
High in the sky, Draco was still scanning the field. One
more Slytherin goal and he would really be on the job.
Suddenly, something tiny and gold flashed near the ground.
The Snitch! He thought. But what if Potter sees it? Quick as
a flash, Draco swooped under the Firebolt and made for the
Slytherin goal, away from the Snitch. Harry followed, trying
to see what Draco did. The ruse worked, and Malfoy was just
about to resume his high-flying vigil when Lee Jordan's
voice rang out. "Slytherin goal. Gryffindor ten, Slytherin
thirty."
Draco was gone before Lee had finished announcing the score.
Twenty points up, and the Snitch was still, by some miracle,
in the same place it had been before Draco had led Harry on
the wild goose chase. Before anyone could say "Quidditch,"
the Slytherin Seeker was streaking to the other end of the
field, arm outstretched. However, when Harry tried to turn
and follow, his robes caught on his foot, and he lost his
balance. To the fans' dismay, the Gryffindor Seeker was
tangled in his robes, hanging onto his broom with a hand and
a leg.
Draco turned around at just this moment to see what all the
commotion was about. Potter's done it again, he thought,
beginning to turn back around and snatch the Snitch. But he
never did. Somewhere in his mind, he heard an echo of past
conversation.
"You are scum...And if you don't realize that now, you are
going to continue to be scum for the rest of your life."
As if in a dream, and without thinking about what he was
doing, Draco made a hairpin turn and began to dart swiftly
back to the Slytherin goal.
"Damn you, Potter, I almost had the Snitch!" he said angrily
when he was a yard away.
"Move, Malfoy, else I'll fall on you!" Harry called down to
him.
"Don't try to be a hero, you brainless git. Can you get back
onto your broom without killing yourself?"
"What do you think I've been trying to do?" Harry snapped.
"It doesn't work."
Draco sighed imperceptibly. "Well, I guess you'll have to
try to make it onto mine. On the count of three, jump."
"You must be joking."
"One."
"This is insane!"
"Two."
"Damn it, you can't catch!"
"Three!" Harry half jumped, half fell, toward Draco's
waiting broom. And missed it. Draco's quick hand shot out
and grabbed one of Harry's wrists, then the other.
"Pull me up," Harry said through clenched teeth.
"I can't. It'll overbalance the broom and we'll both fall.
I'll try to take us down gently, but I can't promise
anything."
"Just so long as I don't hit with a splat."
"I won't drop you on purpose if you shut up." Draco
manuevered the broom with his knees and they sailed down
smoothly. The second Harry's feet touched the ground, Draco
let go and shot into the air, hoping for a glimpse of the
Snitch. But his miracles seemed to have run out and the tiny
gold ball was nowhere to be seen. Marcus Flint, however,
was. Knowing he was doomed and that Flint would only be
madder if he had to scream at someone flying in the air,
Draco landed his Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One in front of the
irate captain.
"What did you think you were doing?!" Flint yelled. "The
Snitch was there! You saw it! Why didn't you catch it, you
pitiful piece of lard?"
"You stupid oaf," Draco retorted angrily. Whether or not he agreed with his own actions, he would not stand and be
insulted. "You would rather I catch that idiot ball than
save a boy's life. Great morals, mon capitan. Leave me alone
and let me work my own way." He shouldered past Flint and
mounted his broom.
The game went on. The two teams traded goals evenly, and
finally the score was Gryffindor fifty, Slytherin seventy.
And both Seekers caught sight of the Snitch at the same
time. Both dove, the Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One racing to
keep up with the Firebolt. The Slytherin shoved the
Gryffindor out of the way at the last moment, stretched out
his arm, and felt cool metal enclosed in his palm. He had
caught the Snitch.
The Slytherins went wild, and Draco was instantly forgiven
by his entire House for the earlier episode.
By lunch, the story had spread and grown in drama. The only
thing missing from its retelling was the object of
everyone's interest.
Draco had retreated to his dorm directly from the Quidditch
field. He breezed through the almost empty common room and
slammed the door. He didn't come out.
An hour later, a tall, blond man strode through the room,
following Draco's path. He wore an irate expression and
didn't notice the girl sitting at a table near the wall
doing her homework. He slammed the boys' dorm door after
him. A moment later, Dulcinea heard muffled yelling,
followed by a pause in which Draco must have been offering
his defense. Then the yelling resumed. Lucius Malfoy hadn't
approved of his son's defense, and seemed to be launching
into his second wind when a boy's - Draco's - voice raised
itself, an octave too high, in some sort of justification,
but was interrupted by a sharp, resounding slap. Their
voices lowered, Draco's disappeared completely, and Dulcinea
heard only a faint sort of buzz through the walls. After a
minute, Lucius shut the door and left without another word.
Despite herself, Dulcinea felt guilty enough for her
inaction that when Draco hadn't come out by dinner, she
stood and walked slowly to the boys' dorm.
Dulcinea knocked lightly on the door. No one answered, so
she opened it quietly. There was a boy-shaped lump in one of
the beds, and a few tufts of blond hair stuck out from under
the bedspread Draco had pulled up over his head.
She called, "Dinner's starting." A muffled answer came from
the bed which might have been, "I'm not hungry." Drawn by
curiosity, Dulcinea walked into the room, shutting the door
behind her. "What's wrong?" she asked awkwardly.
"Nothing. I'm fine. Go away," came the slightly more
intelligible reply. Instead of leaving, Dulcinea walked to
the foot of the bed and stood there.
"I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers. Why don't
you want to come to dinner?" she interrogated.
"I'm not hungry," the bedridden voice repeated.
"Sure you're not," she said knowledgeably. After a pause,
she added, "Can you at least let me see your face? It's not
easy talking to a disembodied voice, you know." Nothing
happened. Dulcinea was going to repeat herself when the
blanket inched down to reveal a pathetic face. A large,
angry red mark adorned his cheek and he had a bloody gash
across his cheekbone where Lucius' seal ring must have hit.
Dulcinea bit her tongue to keep from reacting too severely.
"If you must know," muttered the beaten apparition, "it was
my fault. I got him mad, and I should be smart enough by now
to keep quiet." He winced, then added, "But that doesn't
make it hurt any less."
Dulcinea had been at a loss for words, but Draco's statement
brought her back into action. Telling him to wait a moment,
she retreived a cold, damp washcloth from the bathroom and
instructed Draco to put it over his face. The boy complied,
and the pain lessened. "Thanks," he mumbled.
An awkward silence followed during which neither one knew
what to say. Finally Dulcinea broke it. She sighed a little.
"I'm no good at this kind of thing. Talking, I mean," she
added with a sideways glance at Malfoy. "What happened?"
Dulcinea risked meeting Draco's gaze. He looked away first.
"My father." Draco said despairingly, speaking in a flat
voice. "He heard about the Quidditch game and came all the
way here just to tell me how disappointed he was with me,
that because I saved Potter I'm traitor to Slytherin House.
That because of me every Slytherin who ever lived is embarrassed to show his face, and Salazar himself is rolling over in his grave. And I talked back..." he trailed off, pressing the cloth against his face to hide his shaking hands.
They were both silent for a time, Draco lost in his
miserable thoughts and Dulcinea embarrassed for both of
them. Malfoy broke the stillness abruptly. "He hit me."
Dulcinea looked up. "I told him I thought he was
overreacting and he slapped me. Hard." Draco wasn't meeting
Dulcinea's glance. There were tears in his gray eyes which
threatened to spill over. "He said if I ever talked back to
him again, that slap would seem like nothing. And he said,
'You know I hate having to hit you, Draco. Why do you make
me do it?' That's the way he is; he nevers means anything he
says...." Draco trailed off and fell silent, leaning back on
the bed. The silence lasted so long that Dulcinea sat up
straighter to see his face. He had fallen asleep, exhausted.
Dulcinea smiled sadly. He looked pathetic and helpless and
abused.
She walked out of the room, quietly closing the door behind
her.
Draco Malfoy was in classes the next day with a bandage on
his cheek. When asked why it was there, he told the
questioner off harshly. No one else bothered him until
Divination.
Divination had become a class when students either relaxed
and had a little fun or tensed up under the strain of taking
a "lame-duck" course - a course which had no actual
practicable value, but one on which they were tested anyway.
Draco almost seemed more at home in Trelawney's tower than
in the Slytherin dungeons, while the incense fumes made
Dulcinea sick to her stomach. Despite the wall-shaking party
in her guts, Dulcinea actually managed to stay awake and
take notes on Professor Trelawney's expoundings on the finer
points of reading the mounds on palms. Afterward, during
their practicing, she found that she was getting fairly
familiar with Malfoy's hand.
"This," she said, pointing, "is your powers of persuasion -
really nice. You have lots of ambition, good money sense,
and the pride of a whole platoon of cheerleaders. But what's
this? Pureblood - you have a heart!" Draco's pale face grew
even paler in anger, until he noticed the friendly smile on
Dulcinea's face. Slowly, his face gained some color and his
lips curved into a smile of their own.
Some things can't be done alone, and some can't be done
without any residual amnesty evaporating. A Lucius Malfoy
recovery is both.
Ron phenominally learned fast, and about the beginning of April, a few days before Easter break, Dulcinea's apparently unlimited supply of knowledge of the fighting arts ran dry. "There's no more I can teach you," she shrugged, sitting down on the bench. "You know everything I do. If you like, though, you can come by any night and practice."
"You're kidding." Ron said with dismay, taking a seat next
to her. "You're not kidding." After a pause, he sighed
lightly and asked, "Now what?"
"Like I said, come in for practice anytime you want," she
shrugged. "Or you can catch up on all the sleep you've
missed."
A small half-smile lit upon Ron's lips for a moment, though
he couldn't say why. It was almost dreamlike, this whole
scene, and he couldn't imagine actually going to bed on time
after all these late nights being beaten up by a girl -
though he had learned enough to give as good as he got. But
something else was niggling at his mind, some other feeling,
one not so easily named. He almost had it, but it began
slipping away. Ron mentally snagged the feeling and brought
it into the light. As he saw it for what it was, Ron's heart
skipped a beat.
"I love you."
The words were past his lips before he had even thought them
in his mind, and the dreamlike quality thickened as Ron saw
Dulcinea look at him sharply. She was not a classic beauty,
but was striking in her appearance. Dark hair, highlighted
with a chestnut hue in the moonlight that fell through the
open window. Her eyes were a dark gray, like charcoal, and
held depths heretofore unplumbed. But close to the surface
was something he had never seen before, not on this face.
Ron watched her lips move as she spoke.
"Love is a strong word. Don't say anything you don't mean."
"I know. I mean it." Ron looked into her eyes once more,
baring his soul to them. "I don't think I knew it until
just now, though, but it's been here for so long that it
must have begun the first day I really saw you. Remember,
that day in Potions when you first stood up to Malfoy? I
think a tiny spark was kindled then." As he spoke the last
word, his mind put a name to that something in her eyes.
Fear. But what could she be afraid of? He thought, puzzled.
Surely not me?
Ron didn't get a chance to ask her about it, because
Dulcinea stood up then and walked out the door, shoving him
away when he tried to stop her. His last glimpse was of her
back receding quickly into the darkness of Hogwarts in the
middle of the night as she ran away.
She threw herself onto her bed, curled into a ball, and
shook. Just shook. No no no no no no no no no no! Her head
pounded, and her lips moved without sound as she mouthed the
chant that went through her mind. I don't, I don't, I don't,
I don't love him! Never never never again! Oh, damn, what a
mess I've gotten myself into. Switch, I could really use a
little help right now. Why'd you have to get yourself stuck
in a coma?!
She sobbed wetly, quietly, into her pillow.
Tears streamed down his face, and he let them. No one would
behold his weakness in the middle of the night with the
curtains closed around his bed.
Don't waste your tears, a nasty little voice sneered. She
hates you. Scum, she said. Don't bother wishing, it could
never have been anything anyway, not with a Mudblood. If you
thought yesterday was bad, it would be multiplied a
hundredfold when he heard about *that* scandal.
And he knew it was true, but he also knew his heart and her
eyes. Was it merely a trick of the light, the emotion he had
glimpsed when she smiled at him? It was for her that he had
practically forfeited the House Cup, and for her that he had
won it anyway. He knew he could change if he had her to
stand by him, but he wasn't hoping for much, and it was
better to keep his heart locked up tight than to give it
away to another and say, "Here, take my heart. Break it."
No, that was madness. He would retain his heart, make sure
it stayed in one piece. That was the only thing he could do.
Wasn't it?
Harry still couldn't meet Malfoy's eyes at breakfast, two
days after the Quidditch game. He was embarrassed for any of
a number of reasons: not having been able to keep his seat
on the his Firebolt while doing a simple about-face, being
rescued by Malfoy, of all people, losing the game and,
subsequently, the House Cup. It was the second that really
irked him, but losing the Cup was depressing too. Why
Malfoy? Why couldn't one of the Weasley twins have been
there, or anyone else. Even another Slytherin would have
been preferable. He found it simply amazing that the little
weasel hadn't come over yet to gloat. Perhaps he was going
to today. One look at the Slytherin table, however,
forstalled any other thoughts along those lines. The
Slytherin Seeker was hunched over his eggs, brooding over
something. Harry wondered what it could be, then wondered if
it was him. As if to confirm his suspicions, Malfoy looked
up directly at Harry and frowned before turning back to his
breakfast. Harry filed this away for later thought, then
turned to his friends. Hermione was nose-deep in a book,
putting the final touches on a History of Magic essay that
wasn't due for another three days. Knowing the response he
would receive if he tried to interrupt her work, Harry
turned to Ron for conversation. Just in time to keep him
from falling face-first into his scrambled eggs.
His friend looked at him blearily and mumbled his thanks,
then pushed the plate out of his way, folded his arms on the
table, and went to sleep.
Harry looked around for a companion, but he was at the end
of the table and surrounded by slumbering and studying
people.
Suddenly, one of the huge doors to the Great Hall banged
open, hitting the doorjamb with a thump and waking Ron.
Dulcinea stormed through the opening, snatched three muffins
from the Slytherin table, and stormed out. The door slammed
behind her.
"Something's got her riled," Harry commented, trying to
start up a conversation with his newly awakened friend. But
Ron just stared at the door, his expression hurt and angry
at the same time.
Without meaning to, Harry's gaze fell on Malfoy. The other
boy's face was wistful and dejected. Full of mixed-up
thoughts, Harry stared at his plate, where no more mysteries
could possibly arise.
Divination was a difficult task, in far more ways than one.
Draco tried to keep his feelings bottled up, and Dulcinea
was just striving to pass the pop quiz Professor Trelawney
had just discharged on her unsuspecting class. She was going
through the room one by one and choosing a random line or
mound for examination by the other partner.
It took forever for her to come to their desk. "Dulcinea,
tell be about...the heart line," she decided. Draco's heart
thumped painfully as he held out his hand for inspection,
willing it to be steady. Dulcinea gingerly took it and
traced the heart line, obviously wanting to make sure she
was exactly correct before she spoke.
"It's thin, long, and deep. That means that Pureblood here
is unswerving and true in love, that he doesn't make
commitments on a whim. And when he does give his heart away,
it's for keeps."
Draco's stomach did a somersault. That was him, exactly. He tuned back into the real world just in time to hear Professor Trelawney's voice telling him which mound to read. He held Dulcinea's hand in his and tried to concentrate on the lump of flesh in question. It was the one that was supposed to predict purpose in life, and Dulcinea's had interested him, from a purely academic standpoint, since he'd first read it.
"A heartbreaker," he summed up simply, watching Trelawney
write down his grade instead of meeting Dulcinea's eyes. He
forgot that he was still holding her hand until she
carefully withdrew it and began fiddling with her quill.
Both of them were nervous and ill-at-ease, and the bell at
the end of class was a blessing.
Just as difficult for Dulcinea was Potions. Professor Snape
still kept her tucked away among the Gryffindors, and this
was far too close to Ron for comfort. She sat directly
behind him, next to Harry Potter, and could practically
count his pores, they were that close. She managed to feign
indifference while watching him at the same time. His red
hair was disheveled and his robes were a tight fit, making
it easy to see that he was well-muscled and broad-shouldered for all his youthful appearance. Dulcinea found that she could call up his face before her inner eye without any difficulty, and wondered again what her mind wasn't telling her. She saw the Weasley red hair, beautiful coffee-colored eyes, and freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks. A carefree, fun-loving face, but one which could become clouded and serious in the blink of an eye.
Superimposed over Ron's face, and just as easily conjured
up, came her one-time rival's delicate features. Completely
the opposite of blunt, sweet Ron, Draco was pale, thin, and
sharp. His face was like a diluted watercolor, but with more
clarity. Once described as "pasty-faced," Draco had put that
crude description to shame. He was pale as a vampire, with
white-blond hair and dove-gray eyes. His overall expression
was shrewd, cunning, and faintly elven. Where Ron's jaw was
squared bluffly, Draco's came to a devilish point. They were
totally at odds with each other in every way, and Dulcinea
was torn.
The second Potions was over, she darted out the door and
away from the other Slytherins and the Gryffindors - two in
particular - and raced to the hospital wing. She fell into
her chair and watched Switch's breathing while she tried to
sort out her heart.
Draco was feeling heartsick and frustrated, and the mix made
him quick-tempered and volatile. He prowled the grounds like
a panther on the hunt, looking for a fight. The fight came
to him.
Ron, deep in thought, bumped head-on into Malfoy.
"Watch it," Draco snapped.
"Maybe I wouldn't trip over you if you were taller,
shortstuff," Ron retorted.
Draco gasped. "Why, Weasley, what would your mommy say if
she heard you? That's sure to start a fight, and she
wouldn't be able to pay the medical bill if anything
happened to you."
Under different circumstances, Ron could have walked away
with dignity. But not today; today he had caught Dulcinea
looking at Malfoy with stars in her eyes, and it tore him
apart. He was being handed a perfect opportunity for revenge
on a silver platter, and he seized it with both hands.
His first punch was clumsy, and Malfoy landed one on his
arm. For awhile, the Slytherin seemed to be winning, but
Dulcinea's training had not fallen on deaf ears. The nights
of practice and drills had instilled in Ron certain fighting
instincts, and these kicked in quickly. While he was still
reeling from an unexpected jab, Ron grabbed Malfoy's shirt
collar and dragged him to the ground. He had the upper hand,
and used it well. Draco took some serious punishment in
Ron's first sally, but after that he managed to hold his own
to some extent. It wasn't until Ron had him pinned to the
ground and growled, "Stay away from her," that Draco really
noticed that the redhead was much more aggresive than usual.
"Who?" he asked.
"What do you mean, 'who?'" Ron said angrily, panting.
"Dulcinea, who else would it be? Let her alone, Malfoy.
She's mine."
Draco's face became snow white in a mixture of fury and
shock. "What are you talking about, you overgrown lout?
She's not yours to claim."
"I suppose you think you love her." Ron's voice had risen a
notch in volume, and Draco could see he was trying hard to
resist the urge to punch him.
Carefully keeping eye contact with Ron, Draco's gray eyes
softened as he proclaimed, "I do love her." Ron's face
looked shell-shocked as he let Draco up.
"But I do too," he said mournfully.
Something clicked in Draco's mind, and he leapt to his feet,
catlike, breaking into a fast walk toward the front entrance
of the school. He knew what he had to do.
"Where are you going?" Ron called.
"I have to find Dulcinea," he said over his shoulder,
speeding to a run. He careened through the halls, looking
for her. She wasn't in the Slytherin commons, and she wasn't
in any classes. He was beginning to despair when it hit him.
The hospital wing. Cursing himself for a fool, Draco
sprinted back the way he'd come and skidded to halt at the
infirmary doors. He opened one and looked in.
There was Dulcinea, in her usual place, staring at the same
strange boy. He coughed to let her know he was there and
closed the door behind him. She seemed to brace herself,
gripping the armrests until her knuckles were white. Draco
walked around the boy's bed until he was across from her,
his footsteps sounding far too loud in the empty room.
"Dulcinea," he began, the words rushing out in a torrent, "I
know we haven't really gotten along very well this year,
but, for what it's worth, I'm sorry." Dulcinea's death-grip
on the chair lessened, and she looked up to Draco's face,
her eyes compelling and sorrowful. He continued quakily,
shaken by that raw emotion. "I'm sorry I called you a
Mudblood, and I'm sorry I wouldn't leave you alone, and I'm
sorry I had to wait this long to say it. Thank you for
helping me out when I needed it, and I owe you one. Anything
you need, just tell me."
Dulcinea seemed to brace herself. "Then spit it out. In
perfect honesty, tell me exactly why you came here. I know
it wasn't just to apologize," she added. She knew what she
would hear, and she hoped she could take it without tears.
She drew herself up as Draco started to answer. Her question
seemed to have knocked him a bit, but he hadn't taken advantage of the chair behind him yet, so she knew it wasn't too bad.
He finally took a deep breath, looked her in the eyes, and
said softly, "Dulcinea, I love you. I have since I don't
know when, but I haven't been able to admit it until just
recently, even to myself. I know I'm probably wasting my
time," he added hastily, "but I just thought that - Oh, I
don't know! Maybe you'd say I'm not, or even that I am,
because not knowing is ripping me apart!" he sank into the
chair at last and buried his face in his hands.
That's just what Weasley said, she thought abstractly.
"You're not wasting your time," Dulcinea's voice whispered
aloud. "I'll prove it. Room 406 at nine o'clock." But when
Draco looked up, she had left. He sat there for a long time,
watching the coma boy's expressionless face.
Ron came again for practice that evening, though tenatively. He had been skipping practice since...that night. He didn't know how Dulcinea would react, and he almost wished that he had held his tongue and not told her how he felt. Things suddenly seemed so complicated with the utterance of three simple words. Oddly enough, Dulcinea wasn't there when he arrived.
He waited for a few minutes, then began stretching out and
warming up. He was practicing his accuracy with a punching
bag Dulcinea had taught him to transfigure from a beanbag,
when the door opened. Ron turned, expecting Dulcinea, but
found himself face-to-face with...Malfoy?!
"What are you doing here?" Ron asked, too surprised to be
angry.
"I was about to ask you the same thing, Weasel. Dulcinea
told me to meet her here." Draco also seemed a bit miffed.
"What are you talking about, Malfoy? As if Dulcinea could
stand you," Ron scoffed.
"Look who's talking, Weasel. You're not exactly Mr.
Congeniality yourself."
Ron opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment the door
opened once more and this time Dulcinea stepped through.
Suddenly, Ron wanted to say so many things at once, that he
couldn't say any of them. Draco, on the other hand, was a
bit more fluent, if not exactly poetic.
"What the hell's going on?" the Slytherin said pointedly,
obviously not having lost his edge for being lovestruck.
"It's a simply complicated scenario," Dulcinea began calmly,
but both boys noticed the telltale clenching of her fist.
She wasn't feeling nearly as relaxed as she let on. "It's
called a love triangle. See, both of you say you love me -"
she faltered a little on the word 'love' "- and, well, I
guess I love both of you back. Equally." She gave them each
a long, hard stare, as if to drive her point home by pure
force if nothing else. "I love you, Pureblood." The name
seemed nothing more than a pet name now. "And I love you,
Weasley. And I can't choose between you. I can't. Love is a
strong word, but it matches how I feel. I don't know what to
do about it." Her fist unclenched, and Dulcinea just looked
at them, open to ideas. It was a long time before anyone
spoke.
"Weasley," Draco said finally, breaking one of the most
uncomfortable - and active - silences in Hogwarts history. "You
can have her."
"What are you talking about?" Ron asked apprehensively.
"I mean I'm withdrawing from the race. I still love you, as
much as ever," Draco explained to Dulcinea, his eyes
pleading and yet hardened. "But you could never be happy
with both of us, and I'm just not your type. Besides,
Weasley needs you more than I do."
Ron said gruffly, "Thanks, Malfoy. Only I can't -" But they
never found out what Ron couldn't do, because Draco left
almost as soon as he had finished speaking. Dulcinea sat a
moment longer, yawned, and said she was going to bed. Such a
mundane statement didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the
scene, but Ron's head was already swimming and it didn't
make much difference to him anyway.
The next morning, Draco woke slowly. He'd had an odd dream,
but he couldn't remember it now. He shivered. For some
reason, he'd fallen asleep on top of his covers, and hadn't
changed out of the clothes he had worn yesterday. Why - and
then he remembered. Dulcinea...Weasley..."I love you,
Pureblood"..."You can have her"...almost flying through the
halls in his haste...collapsing on the bed...
He didn't notice for a moment or two the tiny roll of
parchment he held in his hand. He didn't remember that.
Curious, he flattened it out and read it.
Pureblood-
That was noble. Chivalry is not quite dead, it seems. I
applaud it and love you all the more for it. However, I
can't let you do it. If you love me that much, it would kill
me for you to have to pretend you felt nothing while I rode
off into the sunset with one of your worst enemies. That is
why I've left. Don't bother trying to overtake me, because I
won't tell you where I've gone or how I'm traveling. I hate
to leave you, Pureblood, but I have to. Take care of Switch
for me. Try to understand; sometimes you have to be cruel to
be kind.
I love you,
Dulcinea
Draco was dumbstruck. It took him a few minutes to digest
the contents of the note, but once it had sunk in, action
followed. He dug under his bed until he found his Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One, went to the window and opened it, then
flew out into the cool dawn air.
She couldn't have gotten too far, he reasoned, if she'd only
left last night. If she had gone by air, she would have had to take one of the school brooms, which were Cleansweep 5's, easily outstripped by any Nimbus. There was, of course, her tremendous head start, but Draco was obstinate. He would find her, even if it took him a week, or a month.
Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. He didn't believe
it. He would find her and somehow things would turn out for
the best. At least, that's what he told himself.
finis
Author's Note: Constructive criticism is appreciated, but
flames double as rat bedding. FYI: I never meant it to be
romance, honest. It was supposed to end with a shoot-out-
type fight between Ron and Draco, but took an interesting
twist. I apologize now for any mischaracterization. Check out my website: http://flamingweasels.com
Disclaimer: All characters, places, things, and the basic
Harry Potter concept are (c) JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, etc.
However, Dulcinea Mackintosh and Switch are mine, as of 7
June 2000. I also claim the spell 'Tunicam Mutat'. No
copyright infringement is intended. Don't sue. Rock on.
by Luckfire
Ron shivered. He wished Professor Snape would invest his
skills in heating the dungeons, but knew it was a lost
cause. Out of the corner of his eye, Ron noticed a certain
blond figure striding toward him. He groaned inwardly and
braced himself for the onslaught.
"Hello, Weasel," Draco Malfoy sneered. Ron flinched back
slightly and held the table with white knuckles, his eyes
single-mindedly glued to the blackboard.
"Go away, Malfoy," Ron snapped. "Why don't you just sit with
the rest of the scum on the Slytherin side?"
"Weasley, you wouldn't know scum if you were sitting next to
it-oh, wait, you are. Silly me," Malfoy grinned.
"Oh, that was real clever, Malfoy," muttered a low voice
from across the room, the voice's owner rolling their eyes.
Draco spun around, annoyed.
"Who said that?" he demanded, making everyone-even Professor
Snape-turn to face him.
"I did." A dark-haired, sinewy girl stood up and faced Draco
calmly. "Why? Would you like me to repeat it?"
"A Slytherin?!" Ron gaped, along with the rest of the class.
"Yes," she confirmed, sauntering across the room to stand
facing Malfoy. Her robes never touched a single desk. "How
observant of you. And of you, Malfoy. Imagine, I've been
here the entire year, and not once have I ever noticed who
sits next to Ron Weasley," she drawled, her voice dripping
with mock sincerity.
Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Just who do you think you are?"
The girl widened her eyes in surprise. "Don't you know me?
No, of course you don't." She sighed, shaking her head, then
looked him in the eye, put a friendly arm around his
shoulders, and said: "I'm part of the 'scum,' Malfoy, my
prejudiced lamebrain. A Mudblood. And, on behalf of everyone
in Hogwarts who has ever dared incur the wrath of the mighty
Draco Malfoy, I would like to bestow upon you this gift."
As she spoke, she took her arm from his shoulders and
displayed her hands, one covering the other, inviting closer
inspection. As Draco leaned in a bit to see, her bottom hand
clenched and flew at Draco's jaw, striking quick as
lightning. He staggered back a step, surprise evident on his
face but quickly overcome by anger.
The girl swept back to her seat unhindered, and the
Gryffindors burst into a loud cheer.
The story spread quickly, losing nothing in the telling. By
dinner, the mysterious Slytherin had delivered no less than
a concussion to poor Draco, and received nothing in return.
Only a few of those present during the actual episode
remembered the girl's face, but the moment she entered the
Great Hall the whisper spread like brushfire: "That's her,
the one I told you about!"
Taking no notice of the silence her presence left in its
wake, she strode unobtrusively to the end of the Slytherin
table and made a move to sit down. Suddenly the space was
filled by books and an elbow. As she glanced deliberately
down both sides of the table, every opening was instantly
blocked. Taking the message and giving a curt nod, she
took a plate from one of the empty places she wasn't allowed
to sit at and secured her food. She had begun to walk out of the
room, the eyes of the student body still on her, when a
voice called from the Gryffindor table:
"Hey, need somewhere to sit? We've got space." It was Ron
Weasley.
"Thanks, but I've still got my dignity," she replied coldly,
and left.
When the mysterious girl finally returned to the Slytherin
common room, she drew many a cold glare merely by walking
across the floor. But she couldn't even do that
unhindered-not in Slytherin House.
A blond boy stood in front of her, blocking her path,
flanked by two nasty-looking thugs. "You think you're so
smart, don't you?" Draco Malfoy sneered. "So smart I could
puke."
Frazzled, she replied confusedy, "Well, why don't you? I'm
not stopping you. Just aim that way," the girl added,
chucking a thumb at Pansy Parkinson. Pansy gave her a look
to kill. "It might help her looks some." A couple of sixth-
years snickered.
Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Who do you think you are to come
waltzing in here and start pointing fingers?"
The girl's eyes suddenly lost their bewildered look and
became chillingly opaque. "Someone who has seen your stupid,
childish hassling of innocent kids who never did anything to
you. I didn't just 'waltz in here and start pointing
fingers,' as you so *cunningly* put it." With that, she
knocked away a stunned Goyle and strode with measured paces
to her dormitory, locking the door behind her.
The Gryffindors didn't know what to make of this strange
girl who made fools of her fellow Slytherins and then coldly
declined solace among like-minded people.
"I just don't know what to make of the whole thing." Harry
shook his head in resignation. "There's no logic in it."
"Maybe she doesn't think she needs friends," Hermione
suggested from behind a stack of books.
"I think she's nuts," Ron proclaimed, tearing his gaze away
from the fire. "I mean, who in their right mind ticks off a
Slytherin, let alone the whole House?"
Harry smiled. "Malfoy's a Slytherin, and if he's not ticked
off at us I don't know who is."
"But that doesn't mean this girl's any less insane!" Ron
insisted. "I mean, Malfoy's a pain, but he's nothing
compared to having all the Slytherins on your
case-especially if that's your House."
All of a sudden, Neville Longbottom fell into the
room-literally. Picking himself up off the floor, a blush
starting the spread over his face, the poor accident-prone
fifth-year asked, "Has anyone seen my invisible ink? I-I
think I spilled some on the bottle and now I can't find it
anywhere."
Wondering how Neville had managed this, but still feeling
sorry for him in spite of all her homework, Hermione joined
Neville in his search. From the floor, she said, "Actually,
it might be a totally unplanned maneuver. That Slytherin
girl, I mean," she clarified. "After all, who knows how much
bottled-up resentment she must've had to just explode like
that in Potions. I wonder what was the last straw?"
"I just wish I could have seen Snape's face when he tried to
figure out where to deduct the points from!" Ron chuckled,
eliciting smiles from everyone within hearing distance.
A pale boy with bleached-blond hair and three tiny silver
hoops in his right ear lay on the infirmary bed, out cold.
His face held a troubled frown. A bloodstained bandage
encircled his right shoulder. A dark-haired girl sat in the
chair at his bedside. Her brow was creased stubbornly and
her hands, on the arms of the chair, were white-knuckled.
Madam Pomfrey's heels clicked across the floor, then halted
abruptly as she caught sight of the girl. Her expression
softened a little and she clicked over, laying a gentle hand
on the girl's shoulder. She jumped and looked up, her eyes
showing a moment of heartfelt weakness before she blinked it
back. "It's almost dinnertime. He'll be all right until you
get back." The girl nodded slowly and sighed.
"May I eat my dinner here?" she asked hopefully, her eyes
sliding back to the still figure on the bed.
Madam Pomfrey let a sympathetic smile escape on her lips and
said, "Yes, you may. But I don't want it to become a common
occurance."
As the healer's feet clicked back to her office door, the
girl called softly, "Thank you." The feet paused, but the
girl didn't look at her, and they continued.
"Hey, Weasley, what are you so engrossed in the lake for?
Hoping for it to turn into a wishing well, probably, so you
could scrape a few Knuts from the bottom!"
"Ron, no!"
"Why can't you boys just shake hands and stop beating each
other up?" Madam Pomfrey was admonishing her latest
returning patients when the girl entered. Without a sound
she crossed the room and took her place by the side of the
pale boy. On the opposite side of the room, Madam Pomfrey
continued berating her captive audience. "What is the point?
Neither of you win and the both of you practically have
reserved places here. I'm sure that if you put your heads
together you could come up with an easy solution. And just
in case you don't feel well enough for deep thought, I'll
give you a suggestion: Lay off the punches. And if you can't
lay off them, then at least *roll* with the punches; it'll
keep you out of my hair longer!" Finally reaching her
breaking point, she threw up her hands in exasperation and
stormed off to her office.
Things quieted down after that. The two chronic combatants
did their homework while pointedly ignoring each other. The
girl watched the still face before her, unnoticed by either of
the patients.
After an hour or so, Madam Pomfrey poked her head into the
room and announced the end of visiting hours. The girl
nodded and rose, causing the two invalids to look up and
watch as she made her exit.
Just before dinner, Madam Pomfrey arranged for the boys'
dinners to be brought up. The dark-haired girl entered a bit
later, laden with a book bag and three trays, two balanced
on her hands and one floating just in front of her. The
trays she carried she set down before each boy and the third
she took to her now-customary chair.
As she turned away from Ron, he coughed slightly and asked,
"What's your name?"
Pivoting back to look at him, the enigmatic girl said,
"Dulcinea. Didn't the rumor mills mention it?" Ron squirmed
uncomfortably.
"Just Dulcinea? Don't you have a last name to go with that,
Mudblood?" Draco taunted.
"You're pretty cocky for a bedridden wretch, Pureblood. Just
to show that I can be perfectly fair and civil, my last name
is Mackintosh. And if you really have a brain in that head
of yours, you won't question me further." Draco glared at
her back as she marched across the room.
Ron and Draco were only in the infirmary overnight, but
charcoal-eyed Dulcinea swiftly became a permanent accessory
to the sickroom. If she wasn't in class, asleep in bed, or,
occasionally, eating in the Great Hall, she could be found
in her comfortable chair doing homework or just watching the
gentle rise and fall of her friend's slow, steady breathing.
Madam Pomfrey soon found that she could count on Dulcinea to
pitch in whenever she needed help in return for the
uncomplaining, unobtrusive extended visiting hours the girl
enjoyed.
The in-class head-buttings between Draco and Dulcinea
continued stubbornly, until the professors had to forcefully
separate them to opposite sides of the room. The result of
this move was that, while Draco ended up with his fellow
Slytherins in most classes, Dulcinea was placed in the midst
of the Gryffindors during Potions. It seemed that Professor
Snape had devised a way of punishing her for beating on his
favorite student. Seated next to Harry Potter, she tried not
to yawn too obviously as Snape droned on about a new color-
change potion and made cracks about various Gryffindors. It
didn't take a genius to figure out that Snape kept his most-
hated students in a clump near the front on the Gryffindor
side. Dulcinea was the only Slytherin ever to gain such a
place.
Finding herself to be nodding off, Dulcinea jerked her head
up and willed herself to pay attention, promising herself a
nap during next free period, which was right after this one.
The gimmick worked and she squeaked through the class with
her dignity still intact against the almost constant barrage
of Snape's abuse. Somehow, she dragged herself to the
dungeons and into her dorm, half-heartedly dodging cat-calls
and jibes until she collapsed, exhausted, onto her bed.
As Dulcinea awoke she realized just how messed up her life
had become, that she had let herself develop a single-
minded preoccupation with Switch. She mentally slapped
herself, checked the magic-powered clock, and bolted out of
bed and into the hall so as not to miss dinner completely.
She resisted the urge to eat in the infirmary and
determindly set her tray down at the end of the Slytherin
table. Although this odd behavior sent a slight ripple
through the table, Dulcinea's notoriety had slacked off some
after losing a verbal battle with Malfoy, who seemed to be
learning - finally-how to hold his own against his current
rival, and her housemates could now bear her prescence in
silence.
But here and there among the disdainful aloofness, a tiny
spark of resentment and disillusionment was kindled.
Dulcinea knew that there were some who agreed with her and
wished Malfoy would grow up and stop making Slytherin House
look like a bunch of inconsiderate, dimwitted, cowardly
jerks who hung on his every word. Dulcinea herself knew of a
lot of people who didn't fit that description, and who found
it insulting. She actually wondered how some of them had
ever been Sorted into Slytherin in the first place. Although
it would be practically blasphemy to say it, a few of those
in question could be considered Gryffindor material - bold, chivalrous, and moronically selfless. She grinned to herself at the thought of the looks on their faces if she were to tell them that.
Unable to shake the habit and constant knot of worry that
she had developed, Dulcinea found herself checking up on her
best friend for a moment before rushing off the Divination.
His icy blue eyes were closed in deep sleep, and the shock
of hair which he had so carefully dyed a bleached-blond kind
of color was beginning to grow out. His shoulder was newly
rebandaged and looked to be healing. Dulcinea gave him a
last, fond look and swept out before Madam Pomfrey could
object. She had to jog to make it to Divination on time.
Skidding in just before the bell, Dulcinea took an empty
seat near the back and fell into almost a trance to the low,
lilting cadence of Professor Trelawney's dramatic monologue
on basic palmistry. She only snapped out of it when the
professor broke into a businesslike tone and began assigning
partners for practice. Hatefully, Draco and Dulcinea were
paired together due to Trelawney's resolute conviction that
any two people could work out their differences under calm,
normal conditions. Her theory was about to be tested to its
limits.
"Give me your hand," Draco instructed. Dulcinea complied
cautiously, wary of any foul play on Malfoy's part.
"Wow, look at this." Draco exclaimed, to all appearances
sincere. "Your head line and your heart line are almost
parallel. And your life line is deep and long." As if his
point was devastatingly clear, Malfoy leaned back in his
chair and let her hand drop. When the blank look on
Dulcinea's face became a confused one, Draco explained
slowly, as if to a small child, "You're cold and
calculating. Taken directly, your head rules your heart and
your life will be long. And that's just the three main
lines. Didn't you pay any attention at all, Mudblood?"
Malfoy snickered.
Swallowing her pride for the sake of her grade, Dulcinea
gulped. "No. Show me." She didn't meet his eyes and added
quickly, sarcastically, "O Great Divinator."
Suddenly gracious in victory, Draco explained away. Dulcinea
was amazed at the extent of what he knew. Professor
Trelawney couldn't possibly have covered all this, she
thought, scribbling notes. He finished briefing her just
before the bell and she had just enough time to tuck away
her notes and say, "Thanks, Malfoy," before she swept out of
the room in an attempt to make it to Charms, on the far side
of the castle, prior to the beginning of class; if Professor
Flitwick caught her coming in late again she'd have
detention.
Ron started a fight with Draco the next day during a
Quidditch game between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Ravenclaw
was ahead by a hundred and fifty points and the Gryffindor
team was scrambling to catch up.
Suddenly: "Hey, Malfoy, what are you doing here?" Ron called
insolently.
"Checking out the competition - not that you could call it
that." Malfoy yelled back.
"Ron," Hermione hissed, snatching at Ron's arm to keep him
from jumping up and landing himself in the infirmary -
again. "Just calm down. He's trying to get you to start the
fight; don't give in!"
"But that's Harry he just insulted! How am I supposed to
just sit by and do nothing when he's slandering my best
friend? Your best friend. Doesn't it make your blood boil?"
While Hermoine tried to think of something to say to take
Ron's blood off the burner, she slackened her grip slightly
and he pulled away, striding down the bleachers to where
Malfoy was standing, arms crossed and a smug look on his
face.
"So good of you to join me, Weasley," Malfoy said
pleasantly. "It's always nice to see the little people up
close sometimes."
Ron snorted. "Little people? You're not so tall yourself,
Malfoy. Heck, Flitwick could beat you in a fair fight. And
Snape - oof!" Malfoy brought his fist back from the blow he
had delivered to Ron's stomach. Bent over, Ron had barely
regained his breath when Malfoy gave him a sharp uppercut.
He reeled back and then swung a strong smack to the shorter
boy's shoulder and another to his jaw. They traded a few
more blows before one of Ron's managed to drag him off-
balance when Malfoy sidestepped it. Just at that moment,
when Draco was winding up for another punch and Ron was
trying to catch himself, someone stepped in and caught
Malfoy's fist in one hand while righting the unsteady
Weasley with the other.
"Break it up, break it up. This is a Quidditch field, not a
playground." Dulcinea admonished. "Malfoy, you started this.
Go bother someone else." Draco glared at both Ron and
Dulcinea, then stalked off when he remembered the speed with
which she had caught his punch. Dulcinea turned to the
remaining brawler and took him off to an unobtrusive niche
near the edge of the bleachers. A cheer went up on the
Gryffindor side and Ron craned his neck to see what had
happened.
"Hey," Dulcinea's voice brought him back to the situation at
hand. "Don't let Malfoy get to you. He's just an ignorant,
prejudiced, little twerp. Besides, you shouldn't let
yourself be goaded into battles you can't win."
"I can fight just fine," Ron protested indignantly. "I was
doing great until you showed up." He turned on his heel to
go.
"No, you weren't. Your last punch threw you way off-balance
and if Malfoy were any better a strategist, you'd be seeing
a lot more of Madam Pomfrey in the next few days." He turned
back full circle to look at Dulcinea. He wasn't stupid; she
was right.
"So what should I do about it? I mean, it's just fine for
you to go off criticizing me, but do you have a remedy?"
Eyeing the second-youngest Weasley speculatively, Dulcinea
offered, "Meet me in an empty classroom on the third floor,
near the hospital wing - room 406 - at nine o'clock tonight
and I'll see what I can do." And she disappeared around the
end of the row of bleachers.
Ron didn't tell anyone about the peculiar proposition he had
gotten from Dulcinea. After all, she was Slytherin, and he
didn't want anyone to know that he had even spoken with her,
let alone received an offer like that. Not that he really
knew what it was for, but it gave him a sort of shiver.
Thinking rationally later that evening, Ron tried to deduce
the strange girl's intentions and whether they were for good
or ill. On the one had, she had broken up a fight just when
it seemed things would turn against him, and she didn't seem
to be a favorite in her own house. But on the other hand, a
Slytherin was a Slytherin, and just because she was
currently not winning any popularity contests didn't change
the fact that she was Sorted into that house for a reason.
Besides, it could be an elaborate plan to make a fool out of
him. If he didn't show, however, and it wasn't a fraud but
actually something he could use, would Dulcinea think less
of him? Much as the question confused him, Ron forced
himself to answer it. Probably. He didn't know that much
about her, he realized. Thoroughly bewildered, he remained
staring into the fire until Harry tapped his shoulder
lightly. "Are you going to bed or what?"
"I'll be there soon. Don't bother waiting up for me."
When the room had cleared, he made a split-second decision
and went out the portrait hole. It was a long way from
Gryffindor tower to room 406, and Ron got lost twice before
he found the nondescript wooden door. With heartfelt
misgivings, he cracked the door and peeked in.
Inside he discovered a medium-large room. It was almost
bereft of furniture, except for a wooden bench on one wall.
A few small windows adorned another wall.
"You sure took your time, didn't you?" Ron jumped at the
voice. Somehow he had failed to register Dulcinea,
stretching against a wall.
"Why am I here?" Ron asked.
"Your legs brought you."
"I mean, why did you offer to meet me here?"
"You can't fight."
"And how are you supposed to help?"
"I'll teach you. That is, if you want to be taught."
"Taught what? And don't give any more circular answers."
"Whatever you'll learn. Mostly streetfighting, kickboxing,
strategizing, and how to avoid fighting."
"Wait a minute. How to avoid fighting? You're going to teach
me all that, just so that I won't use it? That's just -"
"Do you want to be remembered as the kid who was always
picking fights with everyone? As a bully? You learn what you
must to hold your own, and then hope you don't need it. If
you are going to try out new manuevers on Malfoy, then just
leave right now." She turned back to her stretching
exercises and let Ron choose unhindered.
Ron really didn't want to be there. He felt way out of
place, and none of this seemed very real. He was perfectly
ready to just walk out the door and forget the whole strange
episode. But he didn't. He stayed right where he was.
Surprisingly, Ron somehow wanted to please Dulcinea, and he
knew that if he went through that door he would never have
her respect again. And so he stayed.
"Still here? Well, then, let's get down to business."
Dulcinea gave him a quick once-over and shook her head. "You
can't move in those clothes. Tunicam Mutat!" Suddenly, Ron
was wearing a loose, belted white tunic and matching pants.
Dulcinea's costume was the same. "That's a Japanese gi. Even
though we're not doing martial arts specifically, it's great
for practicing in." She led Ron to the middle of the room.
"We'll start with some basics. Stand like this; no, move
your foot over a bit - that's it. Are you balanced? Good.
Now, try this ..."
Though he couldn't fathom why, Ron returned every night to
study streetfighting with Dulcinea, and became increasingly
better with practice. Harry and Hermione noticed many almost
imperceptible changes in the way he held himself, the way he
moved, but didn't comment - which is not to say that they
didn't wonder what was going on.
Grumbling, Draco entered the infirmary to serve his
detention for turning Neville Longbottom into a squirrel. He
marched to Madam Pomfrey's office and was assigned to
cleaning bedpans, the healer's least favorite duty. He had
collected half of them before he noticed Dulcinea sitting in
her chair, eating lunch. "Hey, Mudblood," he demanded. "How
long have you been here?"
"Longer than you have," she replied around a bite of her
sandwich.
"Oh, of course," Malfoy sneered. "Eating lunch with your
little boyfriend. He's probably the only company you've got.
Eh, Mudblood?"
Dulcinea carefully put down her sandwich and stood up, to
all appearances cool as a cucumber, but her narrowed eyes
and clenched fist belayed that. "Don't speak of things you
know nothing about."
Realizing that he had nettled the unshakeable Dulcinea,
Malfoy pursued the subject. "Enlighten me, O Companion of
Coma Patients. What is it that you know and I don't? Where
does he come from? Which House does he belong to? Who is he?
Your father?" he smirked.
"That's pathetic, Pureblood." Dulcinea scoffed, regaining
her self-control. "I had hoped you could do better than
that."
"You still haven't answered me, Mudblood," Malfoy persisted.
"No, and I won't, because you're not worth it, *Pureblood*,"
she stretched out the last word until it sounded like a
disgusting, malicious insult. "You are scum. And unless you
realize that, you're going to continue being scum for the
rest of your life. Goodbye, Pureblood." Dulcinea grabbed her
tray and stormed out of the infirmary, leaving Malfoy
standing in the middle of the room, laden with bedpans and a
lopsided, doubtful grin spread over his face.
"Oof!"
"You should have been able to block that." Dulcinea chided.
"Try it again." It was the eighth time in an hour that she
had said that.
The two adopted a practiced stance and Dulcinea nodded to
begin. Ron came at her, fists up, and aimed a high kick at
her face. She leaned out of the way, grabbed his foot as it
whizzed past and pulled it toward her, dragging Ron off-
balance. He immediately grounded his foot and leapt back
awkwardly for a chance to regain his equilibrium. Dulcinea
pursued and threw a good punch into his stomach. But halfway
there it was knocked away and replaced by a right cross
going the other way. Dulcinea whistled for a halt.
"That was well done, Weasley." They had been sparring and
drilling for over an hour, and both of their breaths were
coming in gasps. "Break."
Ron dropped onto the bench without a single vestige of grace
and gulped down a swallow of water which he conjured on the
spot. Dulcinea collapsed spread-eagle on the floor. A
friendly, panting silence fell while Ron wiped the sweat
from his forehead and Dulcinea rubbed her bruised jaw.
"You okay?" Ron asked, concerned. "You don't seem to have
been quite yourself lately."
"What are you talking about? I'm fine." She didn't move to
look at Ron as she spoke; it wasn't her way.
"Well, you've seemed kind of distant the last day or so. And
I haven't seen much of you during the day. Have you been
retreating to the Batcave or something?" Ron joked, trying
to elicit a grin from his flattened tutor. Dulcinea, in
addition to the lessons in fighting, had given Ron an
unintentional crash course in American Muggle pop culture,
a hobby of hers. He was fascinated by her descriptions of television, soap operas, heavy metal, and "The National Enquirer."
"No. The Batcave's in Gotham City. Way across the pond."
"The hospital wing?" he asked gently, knowing that he was
treading on a sensitive subject. Dulcinea stiffened, then
sighed and slackened her muscles.
"Yeah." she whispered, suddenly tired. Her guard, so long
upkept and painstakingly maintained, began to crumble under
its own weight.
"Visiting that boy - the one in the coma?" Ron continued
quietly. Dulcinea flinched at the word "coma".
"Yeah." she repeated.
"What's his name? Who is he? You don't have to say
anything," he amended hastily. It was strange talking to
Dulcinea with hardly any barrier between them, and even
stranger talking to her about anything so personal as this.
Dulcinea hesitated. "No personal questions, Weasley," she
growled, standing up again. "Break's over."
"Ron." Hermione said, in a voice that made him look up. She
was flanked by Harry. "Ron, what's going on? What aren't you
telling us?"
It had been a month since Ron had started his training with
Dulcinea, and his friends were wondering about the changes
they saw in him.
"What are you guys talking about?" Ron asked dumbly, a tiny
knot of fear lodging itself in his chest.
"Ron, we know something's up. And we'd like you to trust us
enough to tell us what it is," Harry added sensitively.
"Nothing's going on," Ron lied, hating himself for it.
"Ron, you can tell us. We're your friends." Hermione
repeated, sticking sharp knife in Ron's heart; it just
killed him to have to lie to his best friends!
"Why would you think I haven't told you something?" Ron
stalled, trying to come up with a credible lie.
"Oh, just little things, mostly." Hermione confessed. "You
just act a little more - I don't know - distant? And you
don't slouch as much, or get quite as mad when Malfoy starts
one of his tirades. That was probably the most obvious," she
grinned.
"Is it a girl? C'mon, buddy, spill the beans," Harry smiled,
trying to lighten the mood. Ron flinched a little. "So it is
a girl! Who?"
"Uh," he stalled, wracking his brain for a suitable name.
"Lavender Brown," he said at last, hoping it sounded
plausible, and added quickly, "Don't tell anyone."
Harry winked. "Don't worry, Ron. Your secret's safe with
me."
"And me," Hermione added, crossing her heart.
As they walked away, Ron let out a long, pent-up breath and
felt like sinking into the chair, never to be seen again.
That night, he focused all his frustration into mastering a
difficult new move that Dulcinea had been helping him with,
and was able to do it flawlessly for the first time.
It was a week later during another nightly lesson with
Dulcinea, when they were taking a water-break, that Ron
asked, "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what? Would you rather I didn't let you have a
breather?"
"No, not that. This," he said, gesturing to enfold the whole
room. "Why are you helping me? For that matter, why do you
always go against Malfoy and Snape and all the other
Slytherins? Why bother with any of us?"
Dulcinea had been avoiding his gaze, but she looked at him
sharply at his last question. "Because you're better than
you think you are. And because you obviously can't figure
that out on your own, I'm trying to give your ego a
jumpstart."
"But why bother in the first place? Why not just let us come
to our own conclusions? And why would you make yourself an
outcast in the process?"
Dulcinea shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for a pity
case."
"That doesn't explain why you're helping me, in particular."
"Simple logic. You are an enemy's enemy, which makes you a
friend by default." Neither said anything for a while, and
when the silence had grown thick and awkward, Dulcinea stood
up and said, "C'mon, Weasley, back to the salt mines. I want
to see that kick again..."
Between all of the distracting things going on in her life,
not to mention the late nights, it was no wonder Dulcinea
found herself constantly nodding off in Divination from
sheer exhaustion. The energy levels in the classroom were
practically tangible, and seemed to suck the awareness out
of her. Professor Trelawney had made their new partners
permanent, and it was a good thing. Between Draco's seeming
expertise in the field and Dulcinea's knowledge of
shorthand, she could catch up quickly, and get on with the
lesson. Even though she hated having to get the notes from
someone else, especially Draco, Dulcinea had to admit that
the blond boy could be civil sometimes, though it didn't
hurt that he was showing off.
Draco was just finishing up on the new palmistry technique
they had learned when Professor Trelawney appeared at their
table.
"Please come with me," she said frostily.
Not daring to look at each other, the two partners stood and
followed their professor to the back of the room and past a
dark, velvety curtain, into her office. Trelawney motioned
them onto a big, comfortable sofa which faced a large, oak
desk piled high with papers and a crystal ball and took a seat behind the desk.
"I am well aware of the situation which has arisen between
the two of you," she began, "and I do not appreciate it.
Draco Malfoy, you should allow me to teach my class. I do
not like it when a student takes that responsibility upon
himself. And Dulcinea Mackintosh," her accent drew out the
syllables haltingly, "you should try harder to pay attention
in my class. You cannot always get the notes from your
partner, and I would hate to see your marks begin to slip.
Understood?" she asked, looking from one to the other over
the rims of her glasses. Both nodded. "Dismissed. Tell the
class that I will be out shortly to check their progress."
As the two reappeared in the classroom, Dulcinea noticed a
number of heads snap back to look at their partners' hands.
"Professor Trelawney says she'll be out soon to check on you
guys." Dulcinea announced, her voice carrying.
"Why should we believe you, Gryffindor-lover?" Pansy
Parkinson sneered.
"Because I'm right, lipstick-tooth." Dulcinea shot back.
Pansy pinked and discreetly checked her teeth in a pocket
mirror.
"But why -"
"Because the Mudblood's right, lame-brain. So you better try
to find some meaning in that hand before Trelawney gets out
here." Draco retorted, forestalling the insolent returns.
Draco and Dulcinea made their way by separate routes back to
their table.
"Get some power behind your punch! Pretend I'm Malfoy,"
Dulcinea suggested. Ron knocked her off her feet with his
fist. "Good one. Water break."
As they slumped down on the bench, Ron asked, "Are you going
to the Quidditch game tomorrow?"
She shrugged. "Yeah."
In hopes of taking her by surprise, Ron posed the same
question he had a week before. "Who's the boy in the coma?"
"Don't ask me again, Weasley," she warned, giving Ron a
piercing look.
The rest of the lesson passed in a sweaty, jabbing blur, and
by the end Ron just wanted to fall back into his four-poster
and sleep till noon the next day. Dulcinea was forced to cut
the session a little short when he threw a punch, missed her
by a foot, and went flying.
"Hey, Weasley, let's call it a day, huh?" She gave him a
hand up and made sure he didn't get lost on the way to the
portrait of the Fat Lady, who was asleep and had to be
prodded awake before Ron could mutter the password to her.
Just as Ron was closing the portrait hole, Dulcinea
murmured, so low he almost missed it, "Switch. His name's
Switch," but when he turned back to ask about it, the
enigmatic Slytherin had disappeared.
The Quidditch match crept up too slowly, in Draco's opinion.
He had been itching for flight since the moment he woke up,
but the game wasn't until afternoon. The classes may as well
have been slugs for all the speed they exhibited. Even
Divination, his favorite class, was only one of a dozen
slimy blobs.
Draco ate lunch slowly in an attempt to keep his nerves at
bay, and it seemed to work. His afternoon classes showed
much more speed than the morning ones and before he knew it,
Draco was marching into the locker room. Marcus Flint was in
a bloodthirsty mood, and Draco paid close attention to his
"pep" talk, although it could just as well be called a
"threat" talk.
"Now listen up, all of you." Flint scowled. "You had better
win this game. If you don't, the House Cup goes to those
gutless Gryffindors. And we don't want that," he cracked his
knuckles menacingly, "do we? I don't want your best on that
field; I've seen your best, and it's not good enough. I want
whatever you have to give on that field, just so we win the
Cup. Understood?" Swift nods circulated. "Good. Go out there
and kick some Gryffindor ass. Malfoy! Don't catch that damn
Snitch unless we're twenty points up, got it? Otherwise the
Cup's a lost cause."
"Got it, Flint." Draco nodded and sketched a mock-salute
before trotting out to the sidelines with his Nimbus Two-
Thousand-and-One. Flint crushed hands with the Gryffindor
captain - Wood - and Madam Hooch blew the whistle and let
loose the balls. Lee Jordan kept up a running commentary as
usual.
"Angelina Johnson with the Quaffle, she passes it to Katie
Bell. Katie takes it upfield, she shoots it, dodges a
Bludger and - TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!"
Draco cursed quietly and kept one eye on Potter while the
other scoured the field for the elusive Snitch. He couldn't
let Potter see it.
"Alicia Spinnet with the Quaffle, taking it downfield...No,
intercepted by a Slytherin Chaser...Slytherin with the
Quaffle, heading upfield...He shoots - BLOCK IT, WOOD!" The
Chaser feinted right. Oliver Wood shot over to deflect it,
but the Chaser dodged left and easily made the basket. Lee
Jordan cursed colorfully, to Professor McGonagall's outrage.
"Ten points to Slytherin," Lee said glumly as the teams
faced off again. A few Slytherins had to be forcefully
quieted when they began shouting obscenities at the
commentator.
"Slytherin has the Quaffle, a pass - interception by
Angelina Johnson! Angelina with the Quaffle, flying along
the sideline, she's winding up for a pass...LOOK OUT!" Lee
shouted, just as a Bludger zoomed out of nowhere and
violently knocked the Quaffle out of her hand. "The Quaffle
is falling...into Slytherin hands," he moaned. "Slytherin with
the Quaffle, flying right down the center of the field. FRED
WEASLEY IS HIT BY A BLUDGER!" The redheaded boy was rubbing
his side, a grimace of pain on his face, but he ignored any
offer of help, took a good grip on his bat, and chased after
the Bludger that had hit him, knocking it into a Slytherin.
"That's the spirit, Fred! And -" he swore loudly. "Ten
points to Slytherin. The score is Gryffindor ten, Slytherin
twenty. Come on, Gryffindor!"
High in the sky, Draco was still scanning the field. One
more Slytherin goal and he would really be on the job.
Suddenly, something tiny and gold flashed near the ground.
The Snitch! He thought. But what if Potter sees it? Quick as
a flash, Draco swooped under the Firebolt and made for the
Slytherin goal, away from the Snitch. Harry followed, trying
to see what Draco did. The ruse worked, and Malfoy was just
about to resume his high-flying vigil when Lee Jordan's
voice rang out. "Slytherin goal. Gryffindor ten, Slytherin
thirty."
Draco was gone before Lee had finished announcing the score.
Twenty points up, and the Snitch was still, by some miracle,
in the same place it had been before Draco had led Harry on
the wild goose chase. Before anyone could say "Quidditch,"
the Slytherin Seeker was streaking to the other end of the
field, arm outstretched. However, when Harry tried to turn
and follow, his robes caught on his foot, and he lost his
balance. To the fans' dismay, the Gryffindor Seeker was
tangled in his robes, hanging onto his broom with a hand and
a leg.
Draco turned around at just this moment to see what all the
commotion was about. Potter's done it again, he thought,
beginning to turn back around and snatch the Snitch. But he
never did. Somewhere in his mind, he heard an echo of past
conversation.
"You are scum...And if you don't realize that now, you are
going to continue to be scum for the rest of your life."
As if in a dream, and without thinking about what he was
doing, Draco made a hairpin turn and began to dart swiftly
back to the Slytherin goal.
"Damn you, Potter, I almost had the Snitch!" he said angrily
when he was a yard away.
"Move, Malfoy, else I'll fall on you!" Harry called down to
him.
"Don't try to be a hero, you brainless git. Can you get back
onto your broom without killing yourself?"
"What do you think I've been trying to do?" Harry snapped.
"It doesn't work."
Draco sighed imperceptibly. "Well, I guess you'll have to
try to make it onto mine. On the count of three, jump."
"You must be joking."
"One."
"This is insane!"
"Two."
"Damn it, you can't catch!"
"Three!" Harry half jumped, half fell, toward Draco's
waiting broom. And missed it. Draco's quick hand shot out
and grabbed one of Harry's wrists, then the other.
"Pull me up," Harry said through clenched teeth.
"I can't. It'll overbalance the broom and we'll both fall.
I'll try to take us down gently, but I can't promise
anything."
"Just so long as I don't hit with a splat."
"I won't drop you on purpose if you shut up." Draco
manuevered the broom with his knees and they sailed down
smoothly. The second Harry's feet touched the ground, Draco
let go and shot into the air, hoping for a glimpse of the
Snitch. But his miracles seemed to have run out and the tiny
gold ball was nowhere to be seen. Marcus Flint, however,
was. Knowing he was doomed and that Flint would only be
madder if he had to scream at someone flying in the air,
Draco landed his Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One in front of the
irate captain.
"What did you think you were doing?!" Flint yelled. "The
Snitch was there! You saw it! Why didn't you catch it, you
pitiful piece of lard?"
"You stupid oaf," Draco retorted angrily. Whether or not he agreed with his own actions, he would not stand and be
insulted. "You would rather I catch that idiot ball than
save a boy's life. Great morals, mon capitan. Leave me alone
and let me work my own way." He shouldered past Flint and
mounted his broom.
The game went on. The two teams traded goals evenly, and
finally the score was Gryffindor fifty, Slytherin seventy.
And both Seekers caught sight of the Snitch at the same
time. Both dove, the Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One racing to
keep up with the Firebolt. The Slytherin shoved the
Gryffindor out of the way at the last moment, stretched out
his arm, and felt cool metal enclosed in his palm. He had
caught the Snitch.
The Slytherins went wild, and Draco was instantly forgiven
by his entire House for the earlier episode.
By lunch, the story had spread and grown in drama. The only
thing missing from its retelling was the object of
everyone's interest.
Draco had retreated to his dorm directly from the Quidditch
field. He breezed through the almost empty common room and
slammed the door. He didn't come out.
An hour later, a tall, blond man strode through the room,
following Draco's path. He wore an irate expression and
didn't notice the girl sitting at a table near the wall
doing her homework. He slammed the boys' dorm door after
him. A moment later, Dulcinea heard muffled yelling,
followed by a pause in which Draco must have been offering
his defense. Then the yelling resumed. Lucius Malfoy hadn't
approved of his son's defense, and seemed to be launching
into his second wind when a boy's - Draco's - voice raised
itself, an octave too high, in some sort of justification,
but was interrupted by a sharp, resounding slap. Their
voices lowered, Draco's disappeared completely, and Dulcinea
heard only a faint sort of buzz through the walls. After a
minute, Lucius shut the door and left without another word.
Despite herself, Dulcinea felt guilty enough for her
inaction that when Draco hadn't come out by dinner, she
stood and walked slowly to the boys' dorm.
Dulcinea knocked lightly on the door. No one answered, so
she opened it quietly. There was a boy-shaped lump in one of
the beds, and a few tufts of blond hair stuck out from under
the bedspread Draco had pulled up over his head.
She called, "Dinner's starting." A muffled answer came from
the bed which might have been, "I'm not hungry." Drawn by
curiosity, Dulcinea walked into the room, shutting the door
behind her. "What's wrong?" she asked awkwardly.
"Nothing. I'm fine. Go away," came the slightly more
intelligible reply. Instead of leaving, Dulcinea walked to
the foot of the bed and stood there.
"I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers. Why don't
you want to come to dinner?" she interrogated.
"I'm not hungry," the bedridden voice repeated.
"Sure you're not," she said knowledgeably. After a pause,
she added, "Can you at least let me see your face? It's not
easy talking to a disembodied voice, you know." Nothing
happened. Dulcinea was going to repeat herself when the
blanket inched down to reveal a pathetic face. A large,
angry red mark adorned his cheek and he had a bloody gash
across his cheekbone where Lucius' seal ring must have hit.
Dulcinea bit her tongue to keep from reacting too severely.
"If you must know," muttered the beaten apparition, "it was
my fault. I got him mad, and I should be smart enough by now
to keep quiet." He winced, then added, "But that doesn't
make it hurt any less."
Dulcinea had been at a loss for words, but Draco's statement
brought her back into action. Telling him to wait a moment,
she retreived a cold, damp washcloth from the bathroom and
instructed Draco to put it over his face. The boy complied,
and the pain lessened. "Thanks," he mumbled.
An awkward silence followed during which neither one knew
what to say. Finally Dulcinea broke it. She sighed a little.
"I'm no good at this kind of thing. Talking, I mean," she
added with a sideways glance at Malfoy. "What happened?"
Dulcinea risked meeting Draco's gaze. He looked away first.
"My father." Draco said despairingly, speaking in a flat
voice. "He heard about the Quidditch game and came all the
way here just to tell me how disappointed he was with me,
that because I saved Potter I'm traitor to Slytherin House.
That because of me every Slytherin who ever lived is embarrassed to show his face, and Salazar himself is rolling over in his grave. And I talked back..." he trailed off, pressing the cloth against his face to hide his shaking hands.
They were both silent for a time, Draco lost in his
miserable thoughts and Dulcinea embarrassed for both of
them. Malfoy broke the stillness abruptly. "He hit me."
Dulcinea looked up. "I told him I thought he was
overreacting and he slapped me. Hard." Draco wasn't meeting
Dulcinea's glance. There were tears in his gray eyes which
threatened to spill over. "He said if I ever talked back to
him again, that slap would seem like nothing. And he said,
'You know I hate having to hit you, Draco. Why do you make
me do it?' That's the way he is; he nevers means anything he
says...." Draco trailed off and fell silent, leaning back on
the bed. The silence lasted so long that Dulcinea sat up
straighter to see his face. He had fallen asleep, exhausted.
Dulcinea smiled sadly. He looked pathetic and helpless and
abused.
She walked out of the room, quietly closing the door behind
her.
Draco Malfoy was in classes the next day with a bandage on
his cheek. When asked why it was there, he told the
questioner off harshly. No one else bothered him until
Divination.
Divination had become a class when students either relaxed
and had a little fun or tensed up under the strain of taking
a "lame-duck" course - a course which had no actual
practicable value, but one on which they were tested anyway.
Draco almost seemed more at home in Trelawney's tower than
in the Slytherin dungeons, while the incense fumes made
Dulcinea sick to her stomach. Despite the wall-shaking party
in her guts, Dulcinea actually managed to stay awake and
take notes on Professor Trelawney's expoundings on the finer
points of reading the mounds on palms. Afterward, during
their practicing, she found that she was getting fairly
familiar with Malfoy's hand.
"This," she said, pointing, "is your powers of persuasion -
really nice. You have lots of ambition, good money sense,
and the pride of a whole platoon of cheerleaders. But what's
this? Pureblood - you have a heart!" Draco's pale face grew
even paler in anger, until he noticed the friendly smile on
Dulcinea's face. Slowly, his face gained some color and his
lips curved into a smile of their own.
Some things can't be done alone, and some can't be done
without any residual amnesty evaporating. A Lucius Malfoy
recovery is both.
Ron phenominally learned fast, and about the beginning of April, a few days before Easter break, Dulcinea's apparently unlimited supply of knowledge of the fighting arts ran dry. "There's no more I can teach you," she shrugged, sitting down on the bench. "You know everything I do. If you like, though, you can come by any night and practice."
"You're kidding." Ron said with dismay, taking a seat next
to her. "You're not kidding." After a pause, he sighed
lightly and asked, "Now what?"
"Like I said, come in for practice anytime you want," she
shrugged. "Or you can catch up on all the sleep you've
missed."
A small half-smile lit upon Ron's lips for a moment, though
he couldn't say why. It was almost dreamlike, this whole
scene, and he couldn't imagine actually going to bed on time
after all these late nights being beaten up by a girl -
though he had learned enough to give as good as he got. But
something else was niggling at his mind, some other feeling,
one not so easily named. He almost had it, but it began
slipping away. Ron mentally snagged the feeling and brought
it into the light. As he saw it for what it was, Ron's heart
skipped a beat.
"I love you."
The words were past his lips before he had even thought them
in his mind, and the dreamlike quality thickened as Ron saw
Dulcinea look at him sharply. She was not a classic beauty,
but was striking in her appearance. Dark hair, highlighted
with a chestnut hue in the moonlight that fell through the
open window. Her eyes were a dark gray, like charcoal, and
held depths heretofore unplumbed. But close to the surface
was something he had never seen before, not on this face.
Ron watched her lips move as she spoke.
"Love is a strong word. Don't say anything you don't mean."
"I know. I mean it." Ron looked into her eyes once more,
baring his soul to them. "I don't think I knew it until
just now, though, but it's been here for so long that it
must have begun the first day I really saw you. Remember,
that day in Potions when you first stood up to Malfoy? I
think a tiny spark was kindled then." As he spoke the last
word, his mind put a name to that something in her eyes.
Fear. But what could she be afraid of? He thought, puzzled.
Surely not me?
Ron didn't get a chance to ask her about it, because
Dulcinea stood up then and walked out the door, shoving him
away when he tried to stop her. His last glimpse was of her
back receding quickly into the darkness of Hogwarts in the
middle of the night as she ran away.
She threw herself onto her bed, curled into a ball, and
shook. Just shook. No no no no no no no no no no! Her head
pounded, and her lips moved without sound as she mouthed the
chant that went through her mind. I don't, I don't, I don't,
I don't love him! Never never never again! Oh, damn, what a
mess I've gotten myself into. Switch, I could really use a
little help right now. Why'd you have to get yourself stuck
in a coma?!
She sobbed wetly, quietly, into her pillow.
Tears streamed down his face, and he let them. No one would
behold his weakness in the middle of the night with the
curtains closed around his bed.
Don't waste your tears, a nasty little voice sneered. She
hates you. Scum, she said. Don't bother wishing, it could
never have been anything anyway, not with a Mudblood. If you
thought yesterday was bad, it would be multiplied a
hundredfold when he heard about *that* scandal.
And he knew it was true, but he also knew his heart and her
eyes. Was it merely a trick of the light, the emotion he had
glimpsed when she smiled at him? It was for her that he had
practically forfeited the House Cup, and for her that he had
won it anyway. He knew he could change if he had her to
stand by him, but he wasn't hoping for much, and it was
better to keep his heart locked up tight than to give it
away to another and say, "Here, take my heart. Break it."
No, that was madness. He would retain his heart, make sure
it stayed in one piece. That was the only thing he could do.
Wasn't it?
Harry still couldn't meet Malfoy's eyes at breakfast, two
days after the Quidditch game. He was embarrassed for any of
a number of reasons: not having been able to keep his seat
on the his Firebolt while doing a simple about-face, being
rescued by Malfoy, of all people, losing the game and,
subsequently, the House Cup. It was the second that really
irked him, but losing the Cup was depressing too. Why
Malfoy? Why couldn't one of the Weasley twins have been
there, or anyone else. Even another Slytherin would have
been preferable. He found it simply amazing that the little
weasel hadn't come over yet to gloat. Perhaps he was going
to today. One look at the Slytherin table, however,
forstalled any other thoughts along those lines. The
Slytherin Seeker was hunched over his eggs, brooding over
something. Harry wondered what it could be, then wondered if
it was him. As if to confirm his suspicions, Malfoy looked
up directly at Harry and frowned before turning back to his
breakfast. Harry filed this away for later thought, then
turned to his friends. Hermione was nose-deep in a book,
putting the final touches on a History of Magic essay that
wasn't due for another three days. Knowing the response he
would receive if he tried to interrupt her work, Harry
turned to Ron for conversation. Just in time to keep him
from falling face-first into his scrambled eggs.
His friend looked at him blearily and mumbled his thanks,
then pushed the plate out of his way, folded his arms on the
table, and went to sleep.
Harry looked around for a companion, but he was at the end
of the table and surrounded by slumbering and studying
people.
Suddenly, one of the huge doors to the Great Hall banged
open, hitting the doorjamb with a thump and waking Ron.
Dulcinea stormed through the opening, snatched three muffins
from the Slytherin table, and stormed out. The door slammed
behind her.
"Something's got her riled," Harry commented, trying to
start up a conversation with his newly awakened friend. But
Ron just stared at the door, his expression hurt and angry
at the same time.
Without meaning to, Harry's gaze fell on Malfoy. The other
boy's face was wistful and dejected. Full of mixed-up
thoughts, Harry stared at his plate, where no more mysteries
could possibly arise.
Divination was a difficult task, in far more ways than one.
Draco tried to keep his feelings bottled up, and Dulcinea
was just striving to pass the pop quiz Professor Trelawney
had just discharged on her unsuspecting class. She was going
through the room one by one and choosing a random line or
mound for examination by the other partner.
It took forever for her to come to their desk. "Dulcinea,
tell be about...the heart line," she decided. Draco's heart
thumped painfully as he held out his hand for inspection,
willing it to be steady. Dulcinea gingerly took it and
traced the heart line, obviously wanting to make sure she
was exactly correct before she spoke.
"It's thin, long, and deep. That means that Pureblood here
is unswerving and true in love, that he doesn't make
commitments on a whim. And when he does give his heart away,
it's for keeps."
Draco's stomach did a somersault. That was him, exactly. He tuned back into the real world just in time to hear Professor Trelawney's voice telling him which mound to read. He held Dulcinea's hand in his and tried to concentrate on the lump of flesh in question. It was the one that was supposed to predict purpose in life, and Dulcinea's had interested him, from a purely academic standpoint, since he'd first read it.
"A heartbreaker," he summed up simply, watching Trelawney
write down his grade instead of meeting Dulcinea's eyes. He
forgot that he was still holding her hand until she
carefully withdrew it and began fiddling with her quill.
Both of them were nervous and ill-at-ease, and the bell at
the end of class was a blessing.
Just as difficult for Dulcinea was Potions. Professor Snape
still kept her tucked away among the Gryffindors, and this
was far too close to Ron for comfort. She sat directly
behind him, next to Harry Potter, and could practically
count his pores, they were that close. She managed to feign
indifference while watching him at the same time. His red
hair was disheveled and his robes were a tight fit, making
it easy to see that he was well-muscled and broad-shouldered for all his youthful appearance. Dulcinea found that she could call up his face before her inner eye without any difficulty, and wondered again what her mind wasn't telling her. She saw the Weasley red hair, beautiful coffee-colored eyes, and freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks. A carefree, fun-loving face, but one which could become clouded and serious in the blink of an eye.
Superimposed over Ron's face, and just as easily conjured
up, came her one-time rival's delicate features. Completely
the opposite of blunt, sweet Ron, Draco was pale, thin, and
sharp. His face was like a diluted watercolor, but with more
clarity. Once described as "pasty-faced," Draco had put that
crude description to shame. He was pale as a vampire, with
white-blond hair and dove-gray eyes. His overall expression
was shrewd, cunning, and faintly elven. Where Ron's jaw was
squared bluffly, Draco's came to a devilish point. They were
totally at odds with each other in every way, and Dulcinea
was torn.
The second Potions was over, she darted out the door and
away from the other Slytherins and the Gryffindors - two in
particular - and raced to the hospital wing. She fell into
her chair and watched Switch's breathing while she tried to
sort out her heart.
Draco was feeling heartsick and frustrated, and the mix made
him quick-tempered and volatile. He prowled the grounds like
a panther on the hunt, looking for a fight. The fight came
to him.
Ron, deep in thought, bumped head-on into Malfoy.
"Watch it," Draco snapped.
"Maybe I wouldn't trip over you if you were taller,
shortstuff," Ron retorted.
Draco gasped. "Why, Weasley, what would your mommy say if
she heard you? That's sure to start a fight, and she
wouldn't be able to pay the medical bill if anything
happened to you."
Under different circumstances, Ron could have walked away
with dignity. But not today; today he had caught Dulcinea
looking at Malfoy with stars in her eyes, and it tore him
apart. He was being handed a perfect opportunity for revenge
on a silver platter, and he seized it with both hands.
His first punch was clumsy, and Malfoy landed one on his
arm. For awhile, the Slytherin seemed to be winning, but
Dulcinea's training had not fallen on deaf ears. The nights
of practice and drills had instilled in Ron certain fighting
instincts, and these kicked in quickly. While he was still
reeling from an unexpected jab, Ron grabbed Malfoy's shirt
collar and dragged him to the ground. He had the upper hand,
and used it well. Draco took some serious punishment in
Ron's first sally, but after that he managed to hold his own
to some extent. It wasn't until Ron had him pinned to the
ground and growled, "Stay away from her," that Draco really
noticed that the redhead was much more aggresive than usual.
"Who?" he asked.
"What do you mean, 'who?'" Ron said angrily, panting.
"Dulcinea, who else would it be? Let her alone, Malfoy.
She's mine."
Draco's face became snow white in a mixture of fury and
shock. "What are you talking about, you overgrown lout?
She's not yours to claim."
"I suppose you think you love her." Ron's voice had risen a
notch in volume, and Draco could see he was trying hard to
resist the urge to punch him.
Carefully keeping eye contact with Ron, Draco's gray eyes
softened as he proclaimed, "I do love her." Ron's face
looked shell-shocked as he let Draco up.
"But I do too," he said mournfully.
Something clicked in Draco's mind, and he leapt to his feet,
catlike, breaking into a fast walk toward the front entrance
of the school. He knew what he had to do.
"Where are you going?" Ron called.
"I have to find Dulcinea," he said over his shoulder,
speeding to a run. He careened through the halls, looking
for her. She wasn't in the Slytherin commons, and she wasn't
in any classes. He was beginning to despair when it hit him.
The hospital wing. Cursing himself for a fool, Draco
sprinted back the way he'd come and skidded to halt at the
infirmary doors. He opened one and looked in.
There was Dulcinea, in her usual place, staring at the same
strange boy. He coughed to let her know he was there and
closed the door behind him. She seemed to brace herself,
gripping the armrests until her knuckles were white. Draco
walked around the boy's bed until he was across from her,
his footsteps sounding far too loud in the empty room.
"Dulcinea," he began, the words rushing out in a torrent, "I
know we haven't really gotten along very well this year,
but, for what it's worth, I'm sorry." Dulcinea's death-grip
on the chair lessened, and she looked up to Draco's face,
her eyes compelling and sorrowful. He continued quakily,
shaken by that raw emotion. "I'm sorry I called you a
Mudblood, and I'm sorry I wouldn't leave you alone, and I'm
sorry I had to wait this long to say it. Thank you for
helping me out when I needed it, and I owe you one. Anything
you need, just tell me."
Dulcinea seemed to brace herself. "Then spit it out. In
perfect honesty, tell me exactly why you came here. I know
it wasn't just to apologize," she added. She knew what she
would hear, and she hoped she could take it without tears.
She drew herself up as Draco started to answer. Her question
seemed to have knocked him a bit, but he hadn't taken advantage of the chair behind him yet, so she knew it wasn't too bad.
He finally took a deep breath, looked her in the eyes, and
said softly, "Dulcinea, I love you. I have since I don't
know when, but I haven't been able to admit it until just
recently, even to myself. I know I'm probably wasting my
time," he added hastily, "but I just thought that - Oh, I
don't know! Maybe you'd say I'm not, or even that I am,
because not knowing is ripping me apart!" he sank into the
chair at last and buried his face in his hands.
That's just what Weasley said, she thought abstractly.
"You're not wasting your time," Dulcinea's voice whispered
aloud. "I'll prove it. Room 406 at nine o'clock." But when
Draco looked up, she had left. He sat there for a long time,
watching the coma boy's expressionless face.
Ron came again for practice that evening, though tenatively. He had been skipping practice since...that night. He didn't know how Dulcinea would react, and he almost wished that he had held his tongue and not told her how he felt. Things suddenly seemed so complicated with the utterance of three simple words. Oddly enough, Dulcinea wasn't there when he arrived.
He waited for a few minutes, then began stretching out and
warming up. He was practicing his accuracy with a punching
bag Dulcinea had taught him to transfigure from a beanbag,
when the door opened. Ron turned, expecting Dulcinea, but
found himself face-to-face with...Malfoy?!
"What are you doing here?" Ron asked, too surprised to be
angry.
"I was about to ask you the same thing, Weasel. Dulcinea
told me to meet her here." Draco also seemed a bit miffed.
"What are you talking about, Malfoy? As if Dulcinea could
stand you," Ron scoffed.
"Look who's talking, Weasel. You're not exactly Mr.
Congeniality yourself."
Ron opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment the door
opened once more and this time Dulcinea stepped through.
Suddenly, Ron wanted to say so many things at once, that he
couldn't say any of them. Draco, on the other hand, was a
bit more fluent, if not exactly poetic.
"What the hell's going on?" the Slytherin said pointedly,
obviously not having lost his edge for being lovestruck.
"It's a simply complicated scenario," Dulcinea began calmly,
but both boys noticed the telltale clenching of her fist.
She wasn't feeling nearly as relaxed as she let on. "It's
called a love triangle. See, both of you say you love me -"
she faltered a little on the word 'love' "- and, well, I
guess I love both of you back. Equally." She gave them each
a long, hard stare, as if to drive her point home by pure
force if nothing else. "I love you, Pureblood." The name
seemed nothing more than a pet name now. "And I love you,
Weasley. And I can't choose between you. I can't. Love is a
strong word, but it matches how I feel. I don't know what to
do about it." Her fist unclenched, and Dulcinea just looked
at them, open to ideas. It was a long time before anyone
spoke.
"Weasley," Draco said finally, breaking one of the most
uncomfortable - and active - silences in Hogwarts history. "You
can have her."
"What are you talking about?" Ron asked apprehensively.
"I mean I'm withdrawing from the race. I still love you, as
much as ever," Draco explained to Dulcinea, his eyes
pleading and yet hardened. "But you could never be happy
with both of us, and I'm just not your type. Besides,
Weasley needs you more than I do."
Ron said gruffly, "Thanks, Malfoy. Only I can't -" But they
never found out what Ron couldn't do, because Draco left
almost as soon as he had finished speaking. Dulcinea sat a
moment longer, yawned, and said she was going to bed. Such a
mundane statement didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the
scene, but Ron's head was already swimming and it didn't
make much difference to him anyway.
The next morning, Draco woke slowly. He'd had an odd dream,
but he couldn't remember it now. He shivered. For some
reason, he'd fallen asleep on top of his covers, and hadn't
changed out of the clothes he had worn yesterday. Why - and
then he remembered. Dulcinea...Weasley..."I love you,
Pureblood"..."You can have her"...almost flying through the
halls in his haste...collapsing on the bed...
He didn't notice for a moment or two the tiny roll of
parchment he held in his hand. He didn't remember that.
Curious, he flattened it out and read it.
Pureblood-
That was noble. Chivalry is not quite dead, it seems. I
applaud it and love you all the more for it. However, I
can't let you do it. If you love me that much, it would kill
me for you to have to pretend you felt nothing while I rode
off into the sunset with one of your worst enemies. That is
why I've left. Don't bother trying to overtake me, because I
won't tell you where I've gone or how I'm traveling. I hate
to leave you, Pureblood, but I have to. Take care of Switch
for me. Try to understand; sometimes you have to be cruel to
be kind.
I love you,
Dulcinea
Draco was dumbstruck. It took him a few minutes to digest
the contents of the note, but once it had sunk in, action
followed. He dug under his bed until he found his Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One, went to the window and opened it, then
flew out into the cool dawn air.
She couldn't have gotten too far, he reasoned, if she'd only
left last night. If she had gone by air, she would have had to take one of the school brooms, which were Cleansweep 5's, easily outstripped by any Nimbus. There was, of course, her tremendous head start, but Draco was obstinate. He would find her, even if it took him a week, or a month.
Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. He didn't believe
it. He would find her and somehow things would turn out for
the best. At least, that's what he told himself.
finis
Author's Note: Constructive criticism is appreciated, but
flames double as rat bedding. FYI: I never meant it to be
romance, honest. It was supposed to end with a shoot-out-
type fight between Ron and Draco, but took an interesting
twist. I apologize now for any mischaracterization. Check out my website: http://flamingweasels.com
Disclaimer: All characters, places, things, and the basic
Harry Potter concept are (c) JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, etc.
However, Dulcinea Mackintosh and Switch are mine, as of 7
June 2000. I also claim the spell 'Tunicam Mutat'. No
copyright infringement is intended. Don't sue. Rock on.