Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. In laymens, I dunnae own it, I'm fessing up, you no sue.
Notes: Right – I couldn't resist posting another one, again hoping to be inspired by the warm welcome. … all sarcasm aside I've only proved that I have no self discipline and that should come as no surprise. A very special thank you to Moose on Mars, my wonderful (and sole) reviewer. At least somebody read the bloody thing.
Chapter 2: History
"Ladies and gentlemen, we will be observing a moment of silence in honor of our missing students and their families. Please, for exactly sixty seconds I expect you all to maintain perfect silence." Binns's reedy voice sliced through the self absorbed fog that lingered on his student's minds with all the efficiency of a dull steak knife through stone. Not that this particular stone needed to be cut because the sixth year students currently occupying the History classroom couldn't be quieter if they were dead.
Two of the Gryffindor's were valiantly holding back sniffles, their dear dear friend Cho Chang, whom they'd spent all of twenty minutes with was dead, what cause for grief and utter devastation. The Ravenclaws, however, were truly upset over the death of their dear prefect, she was going to be Headgirl this year, before she died, she sent a letter to Roger because she was so excited about her knew authoritative position; Roger had told the whole sob story to his housemates when he'd learned of her death the day before yesterday. The whole school had been flabbergasted. They hadn't seen any evidence of Voldemort, they knew logically that Voldemort was back in force, but the fear hadn't settled into the hearts of the young. It hadn't been needling them, eating away at the lining of their stomachs, keeping them from sleep and slowly killing them from the inside out. Until now. Now that the Changs were dead, the students and the faculty were feeling it more strongly than ever before.
There was yet to be the numb retaliation from the government, Cornelius's speech had gone something like 'There must be retribution for this tragedy, it must not go unmarked. Voldemort has been in power for far too long and it is our duty as Wizards, as British citizens, and as Humans to bring him down. Ladies and gentlemen: we are at war." It was amazingly dramatic, but ultimately useless. Minister Fudge had played the wrong hand and his entire administration was taking the blows, pamphlets on self-protection circulated across the country, no one had the courage to leave the house alone: taxes were at an all time high. The war was a disaster.
The silence had become official now, for once in their lives the students gave their full attention to Professor Binns as an oppressive hush fell over the whole school and surrounding country. When it was over, no one felt changed, they didn't feel at all better about Cho's death, or Cedric's death, or the deaths to come, only more accustomed to the moments of silence that would rule their lives for the next year. Roger Davies collapsed on his desk with a great sob. "He must have really loved her." Said Parvati Patil, sympathetically patting his back as she whispered in Lavender Brown's ear. Harry Potter rolled his eyes and remained silent.
Harry was the last person to leave the History classroom, everyone else had gone to discuss the scintillating news, write letters to their families, and perhaps have personal wakes to celebrate the death of the Changs: human funeral rites were a morbid parade, everyone knew this. Ron and Hermione had gone ahead, talking lowly about something riveting Harry was sure; in fact, they were probably muttering about him. Why oh why wasn't their dear Harry more upset, how could he possibly be so cold? Harry wasn't cold, he was upset, he was shocked, he was angry: at himself. He'd given up on wallowing in guilt and self pity, without which he didn't know where he stood, so he fell over. "Watch where you're walking Potter." Of course, the foot that was thrust in front of him didn't help him keep his balance either.
"Malfoy, don't be a prat, you know as well as I that if I ever watched where I was going, your daily entertainment value would decrease by forty-five percent." He didn't question why Malfoy was there, it was just a thing of nature for Draco Malfoy to be where Harry Potter least wanted him to be.
"You're probably right Potter, what amazing luck that on top of being an utter git, you're myopic and clumsy."
Harry pushed himself to his feet and bit back a growl, "Well, I am what I am." He said tensely, and so he was, but that was a conversation for another day. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
"Nothing much. Just a chat Potter." It was said with indifference as Malfoy leaned against the wall. Last year's final confrontation had ended rather poorly for him, and Malfoy would be adding 'giant slug' to the list of things he was adamantly opposed to becoming again. Hopefully, by keeping such altercations private he would finally come out on top against Potter, who seemed to flourish all the more for his public humiliation. "I heard a rumor that you'd killed Cho Chang and was hoping you'd verify it as fact for me." Harry flushed crimson, Malfoy was reminded of the time he'd held their house elf's face in the punch bowl at his seventh birthday; pomegranate juice stained green skin a fascinating color.
"Not that it's any of your information," Harry began tightly, fists clenched at his side, "but no. I didn't kill her, Voldemort did." It occurred to Harry then, that he seemed to have a surplus in evil uncles, both genetic and self appointed. It was a mathematical anomaly really; generally it was only one evil aunt, uncle, or fairy to a child. Not that Vernon Dursley could be considered evil per se, nor Voldemort a fairy; but the Dursleys did rather resemble Sponge and Spider from James and the Giant Peach, and Voldemort the Wicked Witch of the West.
Malfoy nodded imperiously, like all the secrets in the world were locked inside his head and he wanted nothing more than to taunt you with them until you were ready to beat them out. "Really though, when you think about it, you were probably the reason she died. After all, what would Voldemort want with Cho Chang when his target audiences are Mudbloods and Muggle sympathizers?" He shrugged, "To think that Wee Potty Potter is responsible for another death. What will the papers say?"
Harry threw another log on the fire, "You know Malfoy, you probably had more to do with Cho's death than I did. For all I know yours might have been the wand that killed her. Voldemort just uses me as an excuse to find targets and I'll admit that it's rather distracting; if his darling followers want to pin the blame on me that's just fine, all sycophants are entitled to blind acts of stupidity. Or are you claiming to be more than a toady, what does he use you for?" Harry tsked, oddly satisfied.
Malfoy's eyes narrowed and he unconsciously bared his teeth, coiling to strike; but just then Hermione, with her large and embarrassing hair, rounded the corner to glare at Harry. "I've been looking all over for you." She huffed, completely ignoring Malfoy, "You're going to be late to Charms, let's go!" Hermione dragged him away before their conversation could become childish, violent, or worse: both. Malfoy, however, walked casually into class, smoothing his rumpled feathers while noting one crucial thing: Potter had changed.
"Harry, were you fighting with Malfoy again?" her grip on his wrist strongly resembled that of Aunt Petunia's, firm, unrelenting, frantic. "You know that you'll just land yourselves both in detention, Harry if you keep these scuffles up I wouldn't be surprised if you were expelled!"
Yes, to Hermione expulsion was still the end of the world, but he was Harry Potter, spoiled in the extreme by fortune and the Headmaster; he certainly wasn't worried about a petty lowlife like Malfoy. "That depends on how you define fighting." Harry tried in his defense, Hermione always made him feel like a six-year-old.
"For the love of Pete, Harry, I hate to sound like Ron, but it's Malfoy. Do you two do anything but fight? They put you in detention nearly every time you're in the same room, and starting something now isn't smart because you'll have to finish it in Care of Magical Creatures, and you know how bad people are with dealing with Malfoy. Malfoy will only accuse them of favoritism." This all flew out of her mouth in one massive breath as she needlessly hauled him along; Harry's long legs occasionally had to lope after her at a half-run to keep up with her Super-Efficient-Power-Walk, she must have acquired it over the summer, because ordinarily she would have run. Harry marveled at her ability to violently gesture with both hands while somehow still managing to drag him through the halls.
"So, are you proposing that I just go to McGonagall and ask for a detention? Preemptive strike and all that?" Maybe it was the joke, or maybe it was that they arrived to Charms well on time, but Hermione smiled around her violently flushed complexion.
Harry got detention. He didn't even have the decency to wait until Care of Magical Creatures and prove Hermione right, because he and Draco Malfoy had shown up at the exact same time for lunch, and they'd happened to knock into each other. Harry hadn't forgotten the conversation after History, and he didn't think he'd ever forget the implication that he'd killed Cho; granted, he'd considered the possibility in the three days since he'd learned of her death, but he never thought someone would share the opinion. Malfoy hadn't forgotten it either, and while Harry had known what he was saying, he hadn't thought that Malfoy would care or care to remember. So, as he was wont to do, he found himself verbally and physically brawling with Malfoy in the Great Hall; which came as no surprise to any party at the scene; and that was how he came to be pruning roses in Greenhouse four next to Malfoy.
Harry loved roses, they smelled lovely, they looked quite nice around the front porch of Number 4 Privet Drive, and they held an air of magic and mystery that echoed through history as war symbols and quotes, and metaphors for everything from corpses to canyons. But more than he loved roses, Harry hated them. He hated them with a passion. He hated the horrible sunburns he got while tending them in Petunia's garden, which was really his garden in everything but name and gloating rights, he hated their tendency to attract bees that stung him whenever he was forced outside by his uncle, he hated their thorns, especially when Dudley pushed him into the large rose bush near the corner of the porch where he'd carried a bruise on his hip for three weeks. He despised everything associated with roses, just as he would loathe them for Malfoy, because Malfoy was gloating at him with a pair of pruning shears in hand while refusing to work.
Harry wondered at the genius of the situation, locking the two worst stone-throwers in history, together, unsupervised, in a glass house, with pruning shears. Maybe Professor Dumbledore was hoping they'd come to their senses and not kill each other, or maybe they'd be too frightened of the consequences to try. Of course, Harry was sincerely wondering why Malfoy didn't just take his shears and try to slit his throat. Probably because it would be too undignified for a Malfoy to try; staining his almost-too-expensive robes with blood would never do. Harry didn't, however, wonder at why he didn't try it. The simple truth of the matter was that he didn't care enough to want to gut Malfoy, it was easier just to do the job assigned him without complaint.
Harry hissed when the soft flesh of his arm came into vicious contact with a rose thorn, knowing that it would itch for days and being absolutely helpless at stopping it. McGonagall had chosen her punishment carefully and wisely, this was a task that was delicate, it took time, patience, caution, and a certain amount of concentration that scrubbing a bathroom floor simply didn't require. Harry was also quite confident that if her roses got ruined, Helena Sprout would have no compunctions about using their mutilated bodies as fertilizer for the next generation of the horrendous plants.
"All right there Potter?" Malfoy asked snidely, amazingly content in his role of watching while Harry worked. It was entirely too amusing that the 'savior' of the free world was doing house work, amusing and strangely gratifying.
Harry thought it was a strange question, if Malfoy was being sarcastic and wasn't at all concerned for his well being, which he clearly wasn't, he should have said something like 'Don't hurt yourself Potter.' Not that Malfoy probably gave a damn about semantics. "Not at all Malfoy." Harry returned dryly. He very pointedly did not wish to converse.
"I always knew you were meant for servitude."
Harry didn't wish to exploit the irony of that statement, he was potting roses, Malfoy was kissing the hem of a geriatric corpse's robe. Servitude indeed. "It would go faster if you helped a bit."
"Why should I wish for this to go faster? I could curl up here and take a lovely nap, and you'd still do all the work because you're too pathetic to say 'bugger off.'"
"Bugger off, Malfoy." Harry viciously snipped off a sickly branch, "if you're not going to do anything, then go away." Harry stopped listening then and went back to the roses; suddenly his name felt like a horrible coincidence as he was in fact potting a young rose bush. He was destined to do these sorts of things for the rest of his life wasn't he? Grunt work like potting roses and killing bad guys, it was messy and tiring. Like there was a line of Death Eaters waiting to be killed and buried instead of a line of rose bushes waiting to be pruned and re-potted; Harry sighed, he really hated roses.
Malfoy squirmed. Watching Potter work was heaven for the first fifteen minutes, amusing for the second, and absolutely horrendous for the next two hours. It was fine for momentary purposes, but consoling himself with the thought that he was quite possibly the only person in the world who had seen Harry Potter do manual labor with the ability to fully appreciate it could only last so long. The truth was that Malfoy was irritated with Potter's ability to ignore him, he was Draco Malfoy, and had never been ignored. He was constantly stimulated as a child, toys and friends were lavished upon him like he was the heir to the world, and in a way he was. Quite simply, Draco had never been bored, and was incapable of amusing himself. Potter was so engrossed in his work, Draco felt as if he wasn't there at all, and it was frustrating him immensely, so he slid off the counter top that his rear was currently occupying and looked distastefully at the roses in front of him.
Draco had been working for nearly thirty minutes before Harry finally spoke up. "Sorry about your tooth," he said; Draco grimaced.
Madam Pomfrey had seen them both in the hospital wing during Care of Magical Creatures and hadn't let them out until it was long over. She'd been forced to re-set Harry's nose and clear out a concussion, and she'd fixed Draco's cracked rib with minimal trouble, but re-rooting Draco's loose tooth had caused him a full five minutes of pain. Harry didn't like causing people pain, never mind that it was gratifying as hell to punch Malfoy's teeth in, but he'd been made to sit and watch the extremely bloody process while Malfoy squirmed and thrashed. Professor Dumbledore had asked her to leave the bruises and minor scrapes in place. "No you're not."
Harry shrugged, Malfoy could think whatever he liked, especially given that Harry was currently suffering from a rather painful black eye, swollen nose, and extremely bruised torso, but he did feel mildly guilty about the tooth. Dudley had once knocked one of his teeth out. Fortunately it was a baby tooth, but Harry was convinced his jaw was broken it hurt so bad, the nerves were still intact when it got ripped out and Harry had to squish his toes up in his over-large trainers to keep from crying behind the school trash cans. Vernon handed him a bag of ice and told him to stay in the closet 'You provoked him, you deserve everything you got and more, leave my Duddykins alone.'
"Sorry about your nose."
"No you're not." Malfoy grinned wolfishly, then winced as his bruised and swollen mouth was stretched unpleasantly. Harry smiled to himself, and they worked in silence until dawn.
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A/N: You have reached the End of Chapter 2, very weird actually, first confrontation with Malfoy obviously. It's a bit sad at that – not my favorite bit of dialogue. Interesting to note however that as I was re-reading the books (in preparation for Book 6 of course), I noticed that in the first book Draco's name popped up more often than Ron's.
I realize reading back through these first chapters that they're BLOODY SHORT! I'm making amends shortly (no pun intended).
