Disclaimer: The characters within belong to J.K. Rowling, and not the author of this story. There are spoilers for all seven books, up to the end of the last proper chapter of Deathly Hallows, but the epilogue is disregarded simply because I feel it unfairly curtails our scope for speculation. The paper cranes are based on the popular 'shippy' moment in the Prisoner of Azkaban film.
Author's Note: This story represents a far more cheerful attitude than that I usually adopt – it's really almost fluff, so perhaps I was having a good day when I wrote it. For those of you who don't like that sort of thing, take note that this is Harry/Draco slash. It's not graphic at all, but if you don't like slash, don't read it. To everyone else – read, review, make my day.
The Magic of Paper Cranes
All in all, it could've been worse. Much worse.
I mean – I could have died.
Plenty of other people did, I know; I'm sure that most of them were far better, far nicer than it's ever been in my nature to be. But they were dead. And I was alive. And in the end, that's the only comparison that really matters, isn't it? So many people had died that I didn't know who all of them had been, and I'd be lying if I said that I'd shed any tears over any of them. Except maybe one – Crabbe. He wasn't ever a great friend, but without him and Goyle I didn't really have very much else. And though he pretty much killed himself, I had to feel sorry that he was gone – not that he would've cared at all if I'd been the one to perish in that snarling inferno.
But it was pointless to speculate about who would've mourned me if I had, because I hadn't, which made the whole thing tediously hypothetical. My parents, naturally, would've been distraught – though that wouldn't have prevented their imprisonment; Father, after all, was an escaped convict, and Mother had been harbouring him in their home. They didn't arrest me, for some reason that I can't understand. Maybe because they – whoever they are, now – recognised that I had no choice. Because it's better to be identified as helpless by faceless imbeciles you've never met than incarcerated in Azkaban.
If that last sentence sounded sarcastic, it wasn't supposed to be. Really.
Actually, I suppose that I owed my freedom – as well as my life – to Potter, which should've rankled but somehow didn't. I don't honestly know if I could've lived with myself knowing I'd left an enemy to burn to death – and I'm no hero. I'm not even a good person, but I like to think that I'd have saved him, if the tables had been turned. Maybe I would've; but again, who knows? And if just one other person on the face of the planet knew exactly how much I'd hated my time in the Dark Lord's 'service' and used that fact to keep me free – why should I resent that?
Still, I was in his debt, and that was a situation I couldn't allow to stand. By that I mean that I had to go and see him, and acknowledge that I owed him my life and liberty – not that I'd offer to do anything for him in return. What, exactly, could I give him that would be in any way fair exchange for the gift of my continued existence? Apparently, in some cultures, I'd have to be his bondsman until I repaid the debt by saving his life. Which of course would be never. So I was glad that wizarding Britain wasn't one such society.
Weasley had called me an 'ungrateful git', and that had needled me, though so many other things had not. I just couldn't leave it hanging like that between us, with me owing them – all of them – so much, and not having spoken a single word of the gratitude that I couldn't help but feel. Life, when you have once stared Death in the face, suddenly means so much more than you ever dreamed it could. Undignified though it surely was, I had caught myself on more than one occasion simply grinning, for no reason other than that it was a beautiful day and that I was alive to enjoy it.
That makes me sound a little as if I'd joined the brigade of borderline-unstable people who enjoy skipping through meadows and playing with the bunny rabbits. Believe me; nothing could be further from the truth. Your brain doesn't have to turn into mush before you can appreciate life, you know. And while I was glad that the whole hellish mess that had been the war was over, that doesn't mean that I'd suddenly realised that the winning side had been right all along. What I'd realised, gradually and painfully, in the Dark Lord's service, was that I simply didn't care. The things I'd thought were important weren't; they certainly weren't worth dying for. Is anything?
So I was alone and without conviction in a world that seemed brighter than it ever had before. And the only shadow as far as I could see was that I owed Potter quite a lot. I owed him the end of the war as well as all the rest of it, but then I shared that with everyone else in the world. That didn't make me special. Having my life personally saved by him did, though, and I'd toyed briefly with the idea of selling that to the Prophet before realising that it would be unwise to draw attention to the fact that I'd been working for the Dark Lord. At present, nobody seemed to care, and it seemed better to keep it that way.
The only thing I could do to make the shadow go away was to go and thank him properly. Obviously, the simple words wouldn't really be much payment for a life saved, but I hoped it'd mean something, seeing as I'd rarely – if ever – had a civil word for him before. And I'd have to be civil. It wouldn't do at all if I insulted him in the same breath as thanking him. Once, I'd have had to restrain myself from saying something unpleasant to him. Now I could barely think of an example of what I ought not to say. Perhaps, once I saw him face-to-face, the old rivalry would flare up again, but to tell the truth it had never seemed quite so dead.
I went to the house in London that I knew his godfather had left him; it wasn't secret any more. Well, it was supposed to be, but really, practically everyone knew about it. A small gaggle of photographers, in somewhat unusual Muggle dress, were clustered on the other side of the road, watching the door avidly as though they imagined that they could open it by sheer force of will. They took a few pictures of me as I approached, perhaps for want of anything else to do. I winced, imagining the possible headlines some bored hack could come up with faced with such pictures – but there was no point in worrying about that. It wasn't as if anyone took the Prophet seriously any more.
I knocked on the door and waited, trying to ignore the sound of camera flashes from behind me. Maybe if you're famous you get used to this sort of thing, much as you get used to midges. It took a while for the door to be answered, and to be honest I got a bit annoyed. In a way, I had come planning to humble myself – or, at least, to admit that I'd needed someone else's help, which amounted to pretty much the same thing. The fact that Potter couldn't even be bothered to answer the door to me seemed a bit obnoxious – a bit like something I'd do.
Eventually the door was opened by a house-elf, which didn't surprise me because I already knew Potter had one, though I hadn't realised that he'd managed to convince it to like working for him. I hadn't realised that was possible – ours had always looked miserable as hell. The elf made a low bow, as if it sensed that it was in the presence of a pure-blood wizard. Then it said, "You is Miss Cissy's son?" Dumbstruck, I nodded. Until then, I'd forgotten that the elf had originally belonged to the Blacks – my mother's family. "Kreacher will take you to Master." That statement was unpleasantly reminiscent of the time when I'd served a 'Master', as abjectly as any house-elf, but I said nothing.
I followed the elf into the house, wondering as I did whether it was allowing me in because I was a Black or because Potter had given it instructions regarding me. Had he expected me to come here? Did he imagine I'd come along to worship him, or something? I should've been angry, but I was only curious. There were questions I wanted to ask Potter – though I imagined that everyone would've liked to ask him something – and not least of these was: did you know that I'd feel compelled to thank you for what you did? Did you always know that I wasn't really ungrateful?
The elf flung open a door and announced, "Master Harry, you has a visitor." Then it scuttled away, and for the first time I noticed that it was wearing something – some sort of jewellery – around its neck. Was Potter then so rich that even his house-elves wore ornaments?
"Thanks, Kreacher," Potter called at the elf's departing back. Then he looked at me. "You." He said it quietly, with a sort of sigh in his voice, as though he'd expected me to appear at the same time as hoping I wouldn't. "I suppose it was stupid of me to think you'd let me keep it, really," he continued. "Not that I need it now or anything. It'd be selfish to keep it as a trophy, seeing as I've already got mine back." I frowned at him, wondering what he was talking about – had victory softened his brain? He must have noticed my confusion, because he explained, "Your wand, Malfoy? I thought that was what you'd come for?"
I stared, wondering how he could possibly have got my intentions so wrong. What would I have wanted with the wand he'd won from me? It could never be mine again, not unless I took it from him after defeating him in a duel. I'd never had much luck with wands, it seemed; for a short time, I'd been the master of a wand more powerful than any in the world – and completely unaware of it. Though if I'd found out sooner, I'd probably be dead, so perhaps unlucky isn't quite the word.
"No," I said, shortly, not wishing to allow the full explanation to pass my lips. "That wasn't what I'd come for." Now he frowned and looked wary, and I knew why. When he'd thought he knew my intentions, he hadn't been worried; did he imagine now that I was here to kill him? "It's just – I mean – well, you saved my life in that fire. I never said – never admitted – I should've thanked you for it, really." It was an effort just to get the words out, and they sounded so pitiful and inadequate that I almost wanted to strangle myself.
Potter laughed, a dry laugh that I guessed was more motivated by surprise than mirth. "I didn't expect that," he snorted. "Guess I sold you short." Then he waved his hand in an expansive, it-doesn't-matter gesture. "In a way, you saved mine," he said, more seriously. I wondered what he could mean. Then he went on: "I could never have killed Voldemort without your mother's help. If she hadn't told him I was dead, he'd never have let down his guard. And if I hadn't saved your life in the Room, she wouldn't have helped me." He sighed deeply. "She loves you, you know," he added, as if there was any chance I could have missed that.
I hadn't understood all of what he'd said; only that my mother had in some way saved Potter's skin. And I understood something he hadn't said, too – that he was envious. And though I'd always wanted to have something over him, something he would be jealous of, it didn't really occur to me to gloat. Reminding him that his mother was dead and mine was alive seemed like too low a blow, even for me. "That's just natural," I said. "She's my mother." I thought of what she'd been like the last time I'd visited her, and shuddered. "For the moment, anyway," I murmured.
"Azkaban changes people," Potter admitted. "If I'd been in charge, only the murderers would've gone there." He sighed. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a wand, which he offered to me. "I know you said you didn't come here to ask for it, but you might as well have it," he said. "I don't really need another one any more." As well he might not, as the master of the Elder Wand! I reached out a hand and took back my poor, rejected piece of polished hawthorn. It felt different to the way I remembered it – capture changed wands as well as people, it seemed.
"Thank you," I said, quietly. "I don't know if it'll ever work properly for me again, though." He looked a little troubled, as though that hadn't really occurred to him before. It was strange, this possibility that the wand I'd thought of as mine might well be mine no longer. As if a friend I'd had since I was eleven had suddenly abandoned me and decided he preferred someone else's company. But this betrayal would be worse, because a wand is more than a friend – it's a part of you, an extension of you. So if that part now pays allegiance to someone else, then you've lost something you can never quite regain.
Without any warning, Potter said, "I'm sorry things didn't work out differently." Still reflecting on the fate of my wand, I didn't realise quite what he meant. "If you'd taken Dumbledore's offer…"
Now I understood. I cut him off, saying, "No point, Potter. What's done is done, and I don't think it could ever have happened differently. In the end, I was just about brave enough to be what I was supposed to be. I never could've summoned the courage to be – well, whatever it was Dumbledore wanted me to be." I stopped, surprised; I hadn't intended to say that much. But of course it was all true. I'd have hated fighting, whichever side I was on; the path I'd picked was the one I'd thought would be easiest – though I wondered, now, if that were true.
He shrugged. "Perhaps," he said. "Though you're right that there's no point in thinking too much about it now. There's the future to think of." It seemed to me that he wasn't keen to think of the future at all; odd, considering how perfect his life was supposed to be. Perhaps realising that I'd noticed his lack of enthusiasm, he explained, "I've never had a future without Voldemort in it. I suppose it'll take a bit of time to adjust." So, after the celebrations had died down, he was wondering what use the world would have for him now? Or was it simply that any job, any life, would seem like an anti-climax?
"Probably everyone needs some time to adjust," I said, wondering if the words might be seen as an attempt to comfort him. They were true enough, though; certainly I needed time to come to terms with the fact that I didn't really believe the things I'd thought I did – that I wasn't the person I'd always thought myself to be. "And I think people will understand if you take a bit of a holiday. I mean, you only saved the world and everything."
He grinned, as if he'd needed me to remind him of that. "That makes it sound much cooler than it really was," he laughed. "Of course, things like that usually do." That he could use the word 'usually' in reference to saving the world seemed almost incredible to me; though, really, it probably was business as usual for him. But now the world didn't need saving any more. How was he to cope with a quiet life? For that matter, how was I? How was anyone?
His obvious good humour, combined with my curiosity, encouraged me to ask, "Was it you who stopped them from arresting me for what I'd done?"
Suddenly serious, he stopped laughing and looked at me with strange intensity. "What you'd done?" he repeated, frowning. "I saw you, Malfoy. You didn't enjoy what you were doing; you were frightened – and I think I'd probably have been frightened if I were in your place. You're hardly a danger to society." He sighed. "I used to think you were evil, but I began to realise that you weren't. And that you didn't deserve to be sent to Azkaban. It was only fair, really. Only justice." Of course; only a Gryffindor would believe in justice. Everyone else managed to swallow the eternal truth that life isn't fair, but somehow Gryffindors always managed to choke on it.
"What about my mother?" I asked, though the question was more rhetorical than anything. "Was that justice?" Then I shrugged. "Not that I blame you. I – strange as it might seem to you, I came here to thank you, not to take you to task. Just to let you know that I – well, that I'm not ungrateful." That accusation had stung, and I hadn't quite realised how much until I came to defend myself.
"I never said you were," Potter protested. "That was Ron. He seemed to think that, 'cause we'd saved you from burning to death, you ought to start fighting for our side or something. I wouldn't've expected that, of you or of anyone." He looked down for a moment, before looking back at me and shaking his head. "Anyway, I accept you're not ungrateful. S'pose having to come here, to me, and admit I'd helped you was a bit hard on your pride. That's why I didn't expect it. But you're welcome, nonetheless." He smiled a little, and I smiled back, thinking that I'd hated this man for years because of a few opinions that now meant less than nothing to me.
"Doesn't mean I like you, or anything," I said. The words sounded a bit childish, but I guessed that he'd know what I meant.
Potter laughed. "I don't expect you do," he said, good-humouredly. "But you'll find it easier to, now you don't feel like you owe me anything." I was surprised by how well he seemed to know how I'd been feeling. Perhaps it was obvious.
"Maybe," I shrugged, though I hadn't really thought about seeing him again. I'd had to thank him, had to show my gratitude, but now that was done, surely there was nothing more that needed to be said between us? "So, I'll be seeing you, then?" I said, somewhat tentatively, as though I cared whether we'd ever meet again – which of course I didn't.
He rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he said, emphasising quite how much he didn't care either, in a way that strangely made me think he did. Then he stood up. "Goodbye Malfoy," he said, in a tone that spoke of exasperation. It was almost rude, but it sparked in me some grudging respect. He was dismissing me, but I got the sense that, in a way, he liked me. And, that being so, maybe it wouldn't be too odd if I started to like him back.
Whatever I'd thought, whatever he'd said, I didn't really expect to see him again. Not on purpose, anyway. So when he turned up at the manor unannounced, I was surprised to say the least. The place was undergoing renovations – I could barely stand to look at it any more, the house where I'd grown up. It seemed to seep the aura of the Dark Lord from every pore, as though I'd never truly escape him. And I wasn't going to stand for that. The manor was mine, down to the last albino peacock, and I'd be damned before I'd let anyone frighten me away from it.
I knew he was there – well, I knew someone was there – before I saw him, the gate wards having decided he wasn't a threat and let him in. And then there was a knock at the front door and I went to answer it myself, not having a house-elf to do that sort of thing for me any more. When I opened it and saw him standing there, I couldn't help it; I started to laugh. It was just too bizarre for me to find him on my doorstep; almost like I'd stepped into someone else's life. He didn't look particularly offended, not even when I said, haughtily, "So what d'you want, then?"
"Thought I'd come and have a look 'round your place," he said, shrugging. "Seeing as you've already poked your nose around my house." For a moment, he almost smiled, and then he seemed to remember that he wasn't really supposed to like me. "How's the wand, by the way?" he added, as an afterthought.
My wand had been somewhat temperamental, though not as bad as I'd feared. It seemed more like we had to get to know each other again than that it preferred Potter. I suppose I'd have hated him if he'd usurped my wand, but as it seemed he hadn't, perhaps it was safe to like him after all. "Not bad," I replied. "Moody at times, but it's getting better." He looked relieved, as if he'd been aware that such a thing would be a barrier between us. Though why he – or I, for that matter – should be worried about that was beyond me.
"Good to hear it," he said, and I thought that he might be sincere. Then he all but forced his way past me into the hall, looking around in undisguised fascination. "I've been here before, of course," he remarked, breezily, as though that capture hadn't been at all horrific for him. "But I didn't really have time to have a good look at the place." He smiled at a picture of one of my ancestors, who looked sternly and disapprovingly back at him. Then he turned back to me and said, idly, "I never thanked you. For refusing to identify us. For not gloating. You know."
I stared. From what I remembered, I'd been terrified that I was about to see people I'd known for years killed and thrown aside. That would've been too awful. When they'd tortured the Mudblood – even that had been too much. "I couldn't bear to help them," I replied, shortly. "You don't need to thank me for anything. It's not like I let you go on purpose, or anything like that. And I was too frightened to gloat." That was true, and I didn't mind admitting to fear any more. Surely anyone would've been frightened if they'd been in my position. Hadn't Potter actually said that?
"Always knew you had some sort of common decency, deep down," he said, though I imagined he was lying.
I laughed anyway. "Shhh, don't tell anyone!" He stared at me in surprise, as if I was the last person on earth he'd imagined would make a joke. Then he smiled, slowly, and from the look in his eyes I guessed that he was reassessing me once again. Uncomfortable under his gaze, I headed off deeper into the house, and motioned to him to follow. A loud series of bangs drifted down the stairs from where the contractors were doing their work. "Having bits of the old place torn down," I explained to Potter, who seemed puzzled.
"Nice to start afresh with a bit of demolition work," was all he said, once again showing more understanding than I'd have expected from him. We idled around the parts of the house that were still standing, each of which almost immediately threw images into my mind of various atrocities. I could've done without the reminders, but I wasn't moving out of the manor just because it had once been used as a base by the undoubtedly insane Dark Lord.
Eventually we wound up in the room my father had used as a study; a room that held no spectres for me. I'd been sitting there when I'd heard his knock; I liked spending time there, and I'd have slept there if I could. He collapsed in one of the chairs without so much as a by-your-leave. I ignored his rudeness; to tell the truth, I'd pretty much got used to it. His company wasn't at all taxing – it was almost pleasant – and against my will, against what had once seemed like a law of nature, it seemed I liked spending time with him. What had the world come to?
"So, what do you think?" I asked, just for something to say. It wasn't as if his opinion of the manor was important to me. But hadn't he said he'd come here to look around the house? He looked at me a little vacantly, as if, when we'd been touring the rooms, his mind had been on something other than fireplaces and tapestries and rooms full of antique furniture. A little irritated, I prompted, "The house, Potter? You know, the thing you said you came to see? Some people would charge you for showing you around like that!"
He laughed. "Maybe you should start," he suggested. "I bet lots of people would want to have a look around." That was probably true, though most of them would only be interested in seeing the rooms in which the Dark Lord had plotted and tortured. Perhaps seeing the hardness in my expression, Potter relented and said, "It's a nice house. Bit big for my tastes, but then I wasn't brought up to live in a palace."
"Really? A little prince like you?" It had been meant as a joke, nothing more, but I saw the pain flicker across his face and wondered what memory could have caused it. Afraid that I'd hurt him – a prospect that I'd have welcomed, once – I said, "I didn't mean–"
"I know." He sighed. "It's nothing."
Somehow I doubted that. "It didn't look like nothing," I said, noticing that he refused to meet my eye.
"Forget it." It was almost a command, and I was so shocked to be spoken to like that in my own home – again! – that I completely failed to find anything to say to him. Then the tense lines of his face relaxed a little. "I'm sorry, Draco," he said, and I found that, though my name sounded odd on his tongue, it didn't sound wrong. It seemed that he realised what he'd said, because he blushed slightly at his impertinence. "I–" he began, but didn't get any further than that monosyllable.
I interrupted him. "It's all right, Harry," I replied, and I meant both that I didn't mind his reticence and that it was fine for us to use first names, now. I wondered if that meant we were friends, and then I wondered if it would be wrong for me to hope that it did.
A loud crashing noise came from upstairs, as if everything breakable had been dropped all at once. I was tempted to dig out my father's cane and thrash the useless contractors with it, but then I'd only have had to find someone else to finish the job. Harry took this as his cue to leave, rising and saying, ruefully, "I imagine I'm just in the way right now."
"Yes; it's ever so difficult to murder incompetent staff when there are witnesses hanging around," I replied, and was pleased to see that he laughed rather than took me seriously. "I'll show you out, first, but then they'll be for it." Not that I could do very much to them; if I did, I'd never be able to hire any sort of building help ever again. Shaking my head, I walked to the door with Harry, and when we parted I said, "See you," and he just said, "Yes." As if there'd never been any doubt of it.
And as he walked down the path towards the metal gates, I realised that I was watching him closely. Too closely. I knew why, of course, and I cursed myself. This was not just inconvenient, it was stupid. As I stared, as he turned on his heel and vanished into thin air, I knew that I'd been fooling myself all along. And that I wouldn't ever go and see him again. Because friendship, strange as it might sound, was all very well. But the other – I couldn't let those ideas take root. If he ever found out… the consequences didn't bear thinking about.
I ought to have realised that he wouldn't let me get away with avoiding him, but I'd been counting on him not caring enough to bother. Which, it seemed, had been a mistake. He turned up in the evening, a few days after the builders had finished their work and been unceremoniously shoved out of the door, leaving me with a sinking feeling that all I'd achieved was to make the house look different. Maybe the haunting memories had sunk into the very stone of the place, and nothing I could do would wash them away, or wipe away the shadows of the blood that had spilled here.
In some way, I'd known it was him before I went to open the door. Who else would it be? My 'friends' from school had scattered to the four winds or been locked away; none of them would come to call on me. The only person it could've been was Harry, and when I opened the door I found that I was right. He looked annoyed, and perhaps a little injured, as if he'd been counting on me coming to see him before now. I didn't understand why it mattered so much to him. He was the one with a multitude of other friends, after all.
"You're avoiding me." He said, flatly, as if he knew it so absolutely that there was no point in arguing. "Why?" I didn't quite know how to answer the question. There was the truth, of course, but I really didn't want to have to resort to that. I had no idea what he'd do or say if I told him. It wouldn't sound good at all if I said: actually, I caught myself wondering what you look like naked, and thought it'd be best if we didn't see each other any more. It was true, but it wasn't something I wanted to admit.
"It's been, what, two weeks?" I said, deciding to play the 'oblivious' card. "Don't you have tonnes of other people to talk to?"
He scowled. "I wanted to talk to you," he snapped, and though I supposed it was a compliment, it didn't sound like one at all. "And you've been avoiding me. What did I do?" He looked a little worried, as if afraid that he'd managed to offend me last time we'd spoken, though nothing could be further from the truth.
"Nothing," I said, wearily. "It's just – nothing you need to worry about." And I hoped it would stay that way. He didn't look satisfied, but he didn't press, perhaps in recognition of my discretion last time we'd talked. "If you want to talk, maybe you should come in," I suggested, stepping back away from the door to make room for him. He frowned at me but stepped inside anyway, making his way boldly down the hallway and leaving me to shut the door. I followed him as he headed to my father's study, and watched him sink down into the chair he'd sat in before.
He nodded to the chair on the other side of the desk, and I sat, feeling as if this was his house and I was a rather unwelcome guest. I wanted to find something to say to him, but there just didn't seem to be anything. Short of blurting everything out and frightening him away, there was nothing I could say. Harry, on the other hand, seemed absolutely at his ease, pulling a piece of paper from a pile on the desk and folding it this way and that. I watched him, puzzled yet fascinated, and when he'd finished, I stared at the finished article – a small paper replica of a bird, balanced delicately in the palm of his hand.
"It's a crane," he said, by way of explanation. "Look, if you pull the tail…" He did so, and the bird's wings flapped as if of their own accord. Obviously either of us could've done something far more impressive with magic, but the 'crane', as he'd called it, was amazing for something that had been made simply by folding paper. He smiled at me, and for the first time it seemed that he'd completely forgotten that we'd ever been enemies. "Want me to show you how to do it?" he asked, and there was absolutely no hint of superiority in his tone.
Not wanting to seem too eager, I shrugged and said, "If you want to." My competitive streak wouldn't let me leave it at that, though, so I added, "If you can do it, it can't be that hard, can it?" He rolled his eyes at me, evidently not choosing to dignify that comment with an answer. I stood up and moved my chair around to the other side of the desk to join him, bringing a piece of paper with me, trying to look as if I was ready to learn. It might be a childish way to pass the time, but at least it wasn't awkward.
I watched carefully as he demonstrated each fold, certain that I'd never remember the whole thing. After a long series of repetitive steps, most of which I'd already forgotten, another paper crane sat in his hand. He placed it beside the first and looked at me. "So, d'you think you can manage it?" he asked, throwing down the challenge. I couldn't say no; I wouldn't ever have been able to face him again if I'd admitted defeat so easily.
So I made a complete mess of it instead, and let him laugh at me because it seemed to make him happy. Not that I cared about that, or anything. It occurred to me that, if he'd ever laughed so openly at me before, I'd have attempted murder. Now it didn't seem like such a bad thing after all. Eventually he stopped laughing and took me in hand, going through the whole thing fold by fold, reaching over to adjust my hands if it turned out that I was doing it wrong – which was reasonably often. After a while, the crane was done, and I put it beside the other two, conscious of the fact that it looked nowhere near as good.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" I asked, as if it was somehow more impressive than anything else he'd ever done.
"Hermione taught me," he said. "It helped pass the time while we were hiding out in our tent in the rain. I was every bit as bad at it as you, the first time I tried." Perhaps I should've been offended, but he was right; it hadn't exactly gone brilliantly. I looked at the cranes on the desk, and had to fight down the urge to laugh at myself. I was pathetic; I couldn't even make a replica bird out of paper properly. An idea struck me, and I drew my wand and waved it over the cranes, which spread their wings and began to fly around the room. Mine seemed to lean to one side.
Harry laughed. "Oh, very impressive," he said, watching them as they circled his head.
"Not bad for someone who nearly failed Charms, eh?" I said, as a paper wing brushed past my face. I'd blamed that on him, at the time, for breaking my concentration while I was in the middle of performing a charm. Somehow it didn't seem very important any more. I'd survived a war; what did it matter if my grades weren't all they could've been?
"Not bad at all," he said, softly, and I suddenly became conscious of the fact that he was very close to me – my hands were practically in his lap. "Draco." He looked right at me now, his eyes boring into mine; I all but leapt backwards, tipping the chair over and landing in a heap on the floor as I tried to avoid looking at him. For a moment he simply stared at me – I could feel his gaze even if I didn't dare meet it – and then he sighed, deeply and unhappily. "I think I know now why you've been avoiding me," he murmured.
Startled, I struggled to my feet, and actually looked at him. Since his prevailing emotion was not revulsion, I thought he must be wrong. "No, you don't," I snapped back, no longer denying the charge. "You don't know anything about it. And I want to keep it that way." I'd kept my problem a secret since I was thirteen; I was hardly about to tell him. "It's not your problem. It's mine." That was as far as I was willing to go with candour and honesty.
"Oh." Harry looked puzzled for a moment, and then enlightenment dawned in his eyes. "Oh." I froze, petrified, because in that syllable had been a hint of understanding. For all my reserve, he knew. Though, somehow, he didn't seem particularly upset… After a moment, he said, quietly, "What if I told you it wasn't a problem?" My jaw didn't drop, but the three paper cranes fell out of the air. He couldn't mean what I thought he meant. Could he? "Or that I'd had similar thoughts myself?" he added, as if to render his meaning utterly clear.
"You haven't," I replied, the words rising mechanically to my lips. "You can't have." It was too good to be true, a cruel dream. He was spoken for; he had a girlfriend, of all things. How the hell could he be in any way interested in me?
"No?" The single word sounded mocking, teasing; looking at his expression, I was no longer in any doubt that he was telling the truth, though I still didn't understand how that could be so. It would have been very easy simply to fall on him then and there, but I wanted to know first. Perhaps he read that in my eyes, because he said, "Ginny is – was – damn it, I care for her. I thought I loved her, but it seems that maybe I'm not the person I thought I was." Well, I knew that feeling.
"And this uncertainty dates from when exactly?" I asked, aware that my voice was cold, indifferent almost – but I had to know. Needed to be reassured that I wasn't being used.
He smiled, standing up and coming closer to me. This time I did not back away. "When you turned up on my doorstep," he said, as if ashamed of himself. "It was as if I'd never seen you before. Well, I had, but every time I'd looked at you, I just saw the bratty eleven-year-old whose hand I refused to shake." I thought back to that moment and smiled ruefully. I'd made a lot of mistakes the first time I approached Harry Potter. Maybe this time around the fates would be kinder. I heard him sigh. "Then I actually saw you, and I felt something that – I knew I wasn't supposed to feel."
Now he looked almost miserable, as if his admission was causing him physical pain. Why it should do so, when he knew he was talking to someone who shared his so-called 'abnormality', I didn't know. And to tell the truth, I didn't care why he was unhappy. I just cared about stopping him from being so. Laughing inside at the irony of it, I held out my hand to him again, and this time he didn't refuse to take it. When our skin met, I half-expected sparks to fly from our entwined hands. Maybe one of the wings on one of the cranes twitched slightly, but otherwise – nothing.
Well, not nothing. As I drew him in further, and our bodies collided, and our lips touched, I felt something like sparks, like fireworks. His eyes flickered closed and I pulled him in closer, as close as I could, deepening the kiss and feeling in his response that he had not made a mistake – and neither had I. Whatever either of us might have thought we were, we found out the truth at that moment. Or, at least, I did. And the truth was that there was nothing else that could feel like this, that everything was changed and could never go back to the way it had been before – and that I wouldn't have wanted it to, even if it could.
I ran into her in Diagon Alley; I was surprised, but she wasn't, which suggested that she'd deliberately waylaid me. Looking at her, I felt a mix of pity and anger – because I'd stolen what she'd had, and because she couldn't let go. It would have been ridiculous for me to be afraid. We were in a street full of people, and if it had come to blows I could have killed her easily. And yet I was afraid, not because of what she might do, but because of what she might say. I'd not kept my 'problem' a secret for five years just for fun; to be what Harry and I were – well, it wasn't really acceptable, to say the least.
She stared back at me almost hungrily, and I knew that she was wondering how it was that I'd managed to steal Harry. And I couldn't answer that for her because I didn't know myself. Her steady, persistent gaze made me uncomfortable, and eventually I simply said, "I'm sorry." In a way, I meant it; not that I wouldn't have done exactly the same thing again, but that I wished that we hadn't had to hurt her. It wasn't that I exactly minded trampling other people into the mud to get what I wanted, but I remembered the old saying: hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Ginny was the 'woman scorned', and I was not particularly keen to taste her fury.
Though nothing about the situation really seemed funny, no sooner had the words left my mouth than she laughed, harshly. "That's easy for you to say," she snapped, bitterness obvious in her tone. Then she sighed. "But it's not you I ought to be angry with. He won't apologise. Just keeps saying that he 'didn't mean for it to happen this way', and that he 'never wanted to hurt me.' But 'sorry'? That, never!" She scowled, her face a picture of chagrin and pride.
"Would you have wanted him to lie to you?" I asked, gently, hoping to get her to calm down and go away. "To pretend that everything was fine, when really–" I stopped there. If I finished the sentence as it ought to be finished, she would surely lose her temper. When really he was thinking of me all the time. "I mean, isn't honesty better?"
"No," she said, levelly. "You don't understand. I don't know why I expected you to." But I did, better than she could have guessed. She would rather have kept Harry, even if their relationship had been founded on nothing but lies, because anything was better than nothing. "It wasn't really your fault," she added, now. "I shouldn't blame you. And yet, somehow, I do." Because it was easier to blame me than to find fault with Harry. Because it was easier to hate me – I was already the enemy.
"Blame who you like," I said, coldly. "It won't change anything." My change of tone surprised her, and she backed up a few paces, looking at me as if she'd forgotten who I was. If she'd expected sympathy, then she'd misjudged her man badly. She stepped away hurriedly and left me without another word. It occurred to me that maybe she'd wanted to frighten me into giving Harry up, but she'd just realised that that wasn't about to happen.
As I watched her go, I thought for a moment and wondered why she'd expected an apology. What had we done, Harry and I, that we needed to apologise for? Were we supposed to beg forgiveness for something that neither of us could help? I sighed, heavily. It would've been easier if I'd fallen for almost anyone else under the sun. But then, I didn't want anyone else. The irony of the situation hit me full force as I thought about Ginny and the troubles that were sure to come – and I couldn't help it; I started to laugh. It was stupid and almost certainly undignified, but then – love does make fools of us all, you know.