Potter glares from across the table. He always does this, and it always annoys me to no end. Doesn't he realise that we're on his side, now? Doesn't he realise that I could easily have been the most favoured of all the Death Eaters, and that I could have been content in that position?
Doesn't the idiot understand the reason that I chose instead to risk my life by disobeying instructions and then spying for his damned Order?
Of course not. He's oblivious.
"Fuck you, Malfoy," Potter says instead. "Just because the Order trusts you doesn't mean that I have to."
It's not the Order's trust I care about.
It's the same every time. Whenever Severus, Potter and I gather for a 'meeting', Potter ends up stomping away the moment we've delivered our intelligence. He acts as if it's taken every ounce of his being just to sit still in our presence for that long, and I hate him for that. I can't imagine how someone can go through all we've been through in the past few years and still be that juvenile.
Even so – even though I'm often mostly glad for the disappearance of that air of petulance once he's left – I always watch him go somewhat wistfully. This time in particular, my chest feels vaguely tight. It's as if the air is being constricted from my lungs. My heart slows.
I refuse to contemplate the reason for my reaction.
Severus rises from the chair beside me, but I only catch the movement out of the corner of my eye. I'm too busy watching the now-empty doorway through which Potter has disappeared. I think that I subconsciously expect him to return and admit that he's wrong.
As if that would ever happen. He's a Gryffindor to the core, after all, and they never admit to a single fault.
"He's not coming back, Draco," Severus says in a low voice. "We should leave."
I know that he's gone. I know I won't see him again until something necessitating another meeting happens within the Death Eater ranks. And I'm glad of it, of course. I hate being in Potter's presence as much as he dislikes having me around. I do, really.
Yet I can't help but imagine that the hatred in his eyes has lessened over time. I imagine that he might, sometime soon, speak to me as if I am his ally rather than his enemy.
I dream about all the other ways our meetings could end, none of which involve him departing the earliest moment that he can do so in good conscience. Some of the images that flash through my mind make me shiver, and I'm glad that Potter never really tried his hand at Legilimency.
As long as I don't admit it aloud, he'll probably never know. He's not particularly perceptive.
On the other hand, I imagine that Severus probably suspects the nature of what runs through my mind. He has always been a more capable Legilimens than I am an Occlumens (though I'm unlikely to admit that, either).
It's probably better that he knows, though. I hate the way Severus looks at me when he thinks I'm not watching, as if I'm the solution to his problems. I am the problem, half the time, and he just can't see it. I hate that there's something in the world that's capable of blinding him. He always seemed infallible, when I was younger. I don't like having my illusions shattered.
Severus offers me a hand to help me out of my seat. I hate that I need his help. I hate that the pain that shoots down my leg when I apply my weight to it makes me stumble. His touch lingers a little longer than is perhaps necessary, under the pretence of steadying me as I limp away from the chair, glaring at it as if it's to blame for my situation.
It's not though. Even I – I who was brought up to think myself ultimately blameless for everything – know the truth of it. This is my fault. Mine and Severus's, for both wanting what we can't have.
We may be spies, concealing our thoughts from the outside world, but we can neither of us fool the other.
He can't hide the fact that he wishes that I wouldn't shake his hand off. I can't hide the fact that I wish it was another's hand holding mine to begin with.
We are at an impasse. Thankfully, though, we are both good at pretending at normality.
When we arrive back at Spinner's End, it is as if nothing has happened. I let myself believe that illusion, at least until the next meeting.
~FIN~