He had been angry. Of course he had. It was Malfoy, for heaven's sake, he deserved to be hurt for whatever he'd done to Katie. What he did could have killed her, and she was perfectly innocent. She didn't deserve this.
Worse still, the thing was supposed to be delivered to Dumbledore. That was what had made his blood boil the most. The sheer nerve of the Slytherin... He'd been pissing him off since they were both eleven years old, and now, at seventeen? This had gone on for long enough. This was pushing it. He'd thought that Draco was nothing more than a swaggering, obnoxious bully... but clearly he was more than that, now.
He was blindly furious, and yet he felt guilty.
He had never seen Draco cry before. He'd always been so guarded, so introverted, so sure of all of his decisions and stoically rational. Malfoy wasn't known for expressing his emotions, unless that emotion was intense bitterness towards him and his house. Perhaps there was something he had missed? Something that he hadn't observed?
To say that he hadn't been paying attention to Malfoy was an understatement. He'd been paying attention to him in the way that he looked and acted around people, and it vexed Harry to think that he'd been barking up the wrong tree, analysing Malfoy's cleverly disguised mask instead of the real Draco.
His distress in the bathroom haunted him. Somebody was going to kill him... and Harry was pretty sure he knew who. Draco's father was a Death Eater, and Harry was sure that Snape was, too. Both of them always had their beady little eyes on him all the time.
He hated himself for it, but in a way, he could feel Draco's pain. The pressure of constantly being watched, monitored. Harry could deal with it, because as uptight as he could seem, he was generally rather relaxed and cool headed. Malfoy was his polar opposite, in this sense. In more ways than one, he was worried about him. Annoyed, yes. Furious? Definitely. But loathing?... No. Perhaps he didn't hate the guy as much as he'd thought.
His blood had run cold when he'd seen Malfoy twitching on the floor, covered in blood. His instinct hadn't been to run away, or to finish him off. His instinct had been to help.
But was he helping himself and his own ego to make himself feel like a better person? Or had he genuinely felt bad for Malfoy?
"Nobody can help me."
He was familiar with this. Harry didn't like having too much help from people, preferring to be independent and do things alone. He thought he had been bad for this habit, but next to Draco?
Harry didn't even begin to compare.
He wanted to help him, he really, truly did. A chill ran down his spine.
In a way, he felt obliged to help him, partly out of guilt of nearly killing him, partly out of reason that perhaps Malfoy wasn't as bad as he'd thought he was. Perhaps he wasn't such a terrible person. He was frightened, because if the Slytherin really did have goodness at his core, there was still a chance of saving him from what he may become.
Could he bring himself to reach out?
What would Ron say about this? Hermione?
"Filthy little mudblood!" Harry cringed, and the guilt tore him in half. Hermione wouldn't forgive him. Ron would take her side, viciously. Helping Malfoy could lose him two of his best friends, in the long run.
Was it worth it?
A few years ago, he'd have snorted and turned his back in preference of those who were easy to read, easy to deal with. People who gushed over him - as much as he played modest. In a way, he and Draco were two sides of the same coin. Draco wore his Slytherin traits as a symbol of pride, whereas Harry hid them in shame.
He remembered how he'd nearly been sorted into Slytherin. Every now and again, he catches himself thinking about it, how things may have panned out, if Ron hadn't shown blatant disgust towards them, and if Malfoy hadn't been at the Weasley's neck. He used to kick it under the carpet, avoiding thinking about the scary truth that perhaps he'd be strikingly normal and at home in the house. He wouldn't become a villain. He wouldn't become sociopathic... or worse. Slytherin house wouldn't have changed him at all, and it was childish, really, hating them. Sure, they'd had their fair share of dark wizards, but the other houses had produced near enough the same amount of idiots, too, like that fraud, Gilderoy Lockhart, of Ravenclaw House, and - who could forget? - Peter Pettigrew of his own house. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered about what Malfoy would have turned out like, too.
If he had accepted his hand on that very first day.
Perhaps Malfoy would have found a friend in him, and wouldn't have to bottle up so many of his feelings. Perhaps he would have had someone to talk to, to confide in. Perhaps he wouldn't be a fucking Chamber of Secrets himself. Maybe - just maybe - Malfoy was kind-hearted... tender, at the middle. It was at that very moment that Harry realised just how isolated the Slytherin was; he was like a lone wolf, lost in a cold whirlwind of snow on an even colder tundra, with no sense of direction but the looming burden of becoming one with the pack again, or facing death.
Still, Ron and Hermione. God knows where he'd be without them. Probably would have had his head lopped off by a giant chess piece or poisoned himself in the first year.
Even so, he reminded himself that Malfoy was a person too, and that it was Harry's fault that he hadn't picked up on the fact that he clearly had a lot to hide, emotionally. Because Draco did have emotions. He'd been made eerily aware of that.
He contemplated all of this as he stood in the bathroom, watching Draco's blood spiralling out across the water like a bed of crimson flowers. He was soaked in his blood. It was all he could smell, all he could feel, sticking to his skin. His hands flexed as he recovered the memory, that moment when he was there, with him on the floor, cradling his head as he sobbed in pain, his hands applying pressure to the wounds. The way Draco's eyes screamed for help and comfort was something that he couldn't just shake off.
"And you, Potter... You wait here for me." Cold fury. Harry had paled, knowing better than to disobey. It didn't occur to him to resist. It didn't even occur to him to tell Myrtle to shut up as she wailed and sobbed with what seemed to be increasingly evident delight. Too shocked. Too numb, processing what had just happened.
Something ached deep within him. What had he done? Why had the Half Blood Prince betrayed him? The book had done so well up until this point. But now...? It was like owning a pet that had turned very suddenly savage.
The door flew open again. Here we go.
Calmly, the door closed, and Harry was on edge again. It was the potion master's bleak, wintry coolness and composure that frightened him most, of all things.
"Go." He said, frigidly, sternly to Myrtle, who promptly made herself sparse via the toilet. The silence that descended afterwards made Harry's ears numb with the ringing.
"I didn't mean it to happen," He began, though however gently, his panicked voice still caused a deafening echo around the watery bathroom, "I didn't know what that spell did." His voice was thick with anxiety, and he swallowed back all of his regret, stomaching it for the time being, so as not to collapse.
Snape ignored him, harshly, doing no favours for Harry's increasing instability. It would seem that Snape almost got a kick out of watching him fail miserably.
"Apparently I underestimated you, Potter," Harry's gut churned, "Who would have thought you knew such Dark Magic? Who taught you that spell?"
Snape was getting at something. Harry could feel it. The dark haired boy narrowed his eyes in minimal defiance, wondering what the hell was going on. There was concern glittering in Snape's beetle-shell black eyes as he stared at him down his sharp, hooked nose.
"I - read about it somewhere."
"Where?"
"It was - a library book," Harry lied through his teeth, too frightened of the truth, and he cringed away even more at the look on Snape's face; he knew that Snape was away that he was lying to him. Nonetheless, he continued, sheepishly, since he had already started the lie and couldn't turn back, "I can't remember what it was call-"
"Liar." Snape was blunt and cynical, and had clearly had enough. Harry's throat went dry, his eyes widening.
Oh no, not again-
The purple book violently thrashed through his thoughts, strongly swimming to the front of his mind, the cover emblazoned 'Advanced Potion Making'. As it opened, Harry recalled tracing his finger over the handwritten signature; The Half-Blood Prince. The image became hazy again, and consciousness came back to him.
He blinked several times, unable to turn his head to look away from Snape's eyes, and yet they were too unbearable to delve into. Harry's adams apple bobbed in his throat, and he felt like that scared eleven year old boy again. Even if he was catching up to Snape's formidable height, the cloaked professor seemed to tower over him like a great, ominous shadow. There was a knowing glint in his eyes, and Harry knew that he had seen it.
"Bring me your schoolbag," Snape said in his soft-spoken tone, "And all of your schoolbooks. All of them. Bring them to me here. Now."
His legs jarred for a moment, before his mind willed them to move (if he valued his life) and he ran, pumped full of adrenaline, like a bull in a china shop towards Gryffindor Tower. Most people that passed him gaped at the state of him, covered in water and blood.
If they only knew whose blood it was.
He could smell Draco all over him. Draco, and guilt. He felt like a murderer, running away from the scene, and he tried his very best to ignore the swarm of questions that followed him like wasps.
"What happened?"
"Is that blood?"
"Why are you covered in blood?"
"Are you okay?"
"Did he hurt someone?"
"Where did he come from?"
"Is everything alright?"
All he could think of was Snape's reactions. He'd seen the grim look on his face when reading his thoughts... But what about when he saw the actual book? What if he confiscated it? What would Slughorn say...? That he was a fraud? Like Lockhart? Harry felt attached to the book so much already. He couldn't stand the thought of it being taken away, even if it had caused him to severely hurt someone - to hurt Draco - it was still precious to him. He felt like the book was his friend, that this Half Blood Prince was his friend, guide, mentor... perhaps even slightly parental. He couldn't lose it.
He wouldn't lose it.
He was suddenly faced with a disgruntled and disturbed Ron.
"Where've you-? Why are you soaking...? Is that blood." Ron's eyes were wide and full of concern. Despite the questions - which Harry was slightly annoyed at - he was glad that he had Ron to care about him.
He was solemnly reminded of Malfoy, who had nobody. He clenched his jaw.
"I need your book." Harry panted, "Your potions book... quick; give it to me..." He held out his hands, adrenaline wearing off and causing him to feel quite sick and out of breath.
"But what about the Half Blood-"
Oh, shut up, Ron! Just give me your copy of the book!
"I'll explain later!"
Ron - luckily - got the message and hastily produced the book, which Harry snatched up with a brief thanks, before sprinting off towards the common room. He tore his way into the room, seized his bag, and dived back out, frightening some of the students who had just finished their dinner. He threw himself past them, and barrelled down along the corridor, too focused on his ridiculous goal to hide the fucking book.
He knew Snape had seen it. He knew this was futile, but he would do anything to try. It was better to try, because god knows, it may actually work. This was a risk worth taking.
Holding the real book close to his chest, he closed his eyes and began to clear his mind, pacing back and forth in front of the tapestry of the dancing trolls.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, bollocks, fuck, arse- I need a place to hide my book. I need a place to hide my book. I need-
He heard the stones move, and opened his eyes, almost tripping over his feet when he finally saw his old friend; The Room of Requirement.
Perfect.
He chucked himself inside, slamming the door shut behind him. He slid down the wall, catching his breath, before his panic slipped away, and awe took over.
He was standing in a room the size of a cathedral, the hall piled up from floor to ceiling with countless objects that had been hidden from the rest of the world by previous generations of Hogwarts inhabitants, shafts of light filing into the room from equally massive windows. He gaped in wonder, wandering around the city of thingamabobs and whatchamacallits. Some of it glittered. Some of it looked very valuable.
Ah... shit. Where do I hide the bastard thing?
Harry recollected his purpose, and wound around the heaps of clutter, frantically searching for somewhere safe to hide what was arguably his most prized possession. He soon spotted an old, rickety closet, the doors of which appeared as though they had had some sort of corrosive acid hurled at them, and he yanked one of the doors open, recoiling away slightly when he saw the long dead skeleton of some five legged animal in a cage. He stuffed the book behind it and shut the door.
He paused.
Still not good enough.
He placed an old bust in front of the wardrobe, dressed it up with a dusty old wig and a tattered tiara. Noticeable enough for him to find it again, now.
Much better.
He admired his spot, committing it to his memory before running again, realising that he didn't have much time left, and certainly did not want to keep Snape waiting. He bombed towards the door, then out of it, slamming it behind him again, making sure that it turned back into stone before leaving, sprinting flat-out towards the bathrooms, cramming Ron's copy of Advanced Potion Making into his bag before composing himself, and heading back into the bathroom. Snape was waiting, ever patiently, for him.
The Potions Master held out his hand, wordlessly, for the schoolbag, and Harry handed it over, with a face that outwardly projected innocence. His chest seared with pain.
Again, he reminded himself of Malfoy. Another wave of guilt.
Harry chewed his lip in anticipation, watching Snape analyse the contents of his bag, extracting his books and examining them, one by one. There were a few judgmental eyebrow quirks here and there, though Harry chose to ignore them.
A wise choice, on his behalf.
"This is your copy of Advanced Potion Making, is it, Potter?"
"Yes." Harry managed, still catching his breath.
"You're quite sure of that, are you, Potter?"
"Yes." Said Harry, with a touch more defiance.
"This is the copy of Advanced Potion Making that you purchased from Flourish and Blotts?"
The fuck are you getting at?
"Yes." Harry gritted his teeth, though tried to control his facial expressions.
"Then why," Snape began, "does it have the name 'Roonil Wazlib' written inside the front cover?"
Oh, shit.
"That's my nickname." Harry provided quickly, and his heart skipped a beat.
"Your nickname." Snape repeated, criticizingly.
He's not buying it, Harry. He is not buying it.
"Yeah... That's what my friends call me."
"I understand what a nickname is." Snape uttered, coolly. Harry resisted the urge to slap himself. He looked down.
Close your mind. Close your mind... Don't think of anything...
He hadn't learnt how to do it properly anyway. Useless.
"You know what I think, Potter?" Snape said, very quietly, "I think that you are a liar and a cheat and that you deserve detention with me every Saturday until the end of term. What do you think, Potter?"
Honestly, I could think of nothing fucking worse than sitting in an office with you, you greasy git-
"I - I don't agree, sir." He was very reluctant to meet Snape's gaze.
"Well, we shall see how you feel after your detentions," Said Snape, "Ten o'clock, Saturday morning, Potter. My office."
What...? But that's...!
"But sir," Pleaded Harry, suddenly desperate, "Quidditch... The last match of the..."
"Ten o'clock," Whispered Snape, with a sardonic, yellowed smile. "Poor Gryffindor... Fourth place this year, I fear..."
He left the bathroom without another word, black cape billowing out behind him. Harry was left in almost the same spot Draco had been in, looking into the cracked mirror with dread.
You fucked up, Harry.
Yeah, I know.
