When Harry entered the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione and Ron were sitting near each other, but not on top of each other. This was new. Or old. Hopefully it didn't mean that they were fighting.
Ron looked up then. "Excellent, Harry! Want to play chess?"
Things seemed okay, he guessed. "Yeah," he agreed and sat down at the chess table with Ron by the fire.
Hermione piped up from her book. "Ron says you've been following Malfoy."
Harry's heart flip-flopped again at the name. Did she know? She couldn't. Could she? But she had said following and not visiting or nursing back to health or anything. . .
He nodded and figured he could spill a little of what he knew without giving it all away. "He's up to something for sure."
Hermione shook her head softly. "Here we go again."
Harry moved a chess piece and scowled at her. "He is. I heard him talking about some task. I know it's for Voldemort."
Ron gasped and nearly keeled off his stool.
"Sorry," Harry sighed. "You-Know-Who."
Ron gathered himself back together and jumped back into the chess game.
"How could you tell?" asked Hermione.
Harry moved his rook, but didn't remove his fingers from the piece. "I could just tell, Hermione. By the way he said it."
"So, you didn't actually get any proof," Ron stated, disappointed.
Harry shook his head, "But-"
"That's not really much to go by, Harry," Ron commented. Harry took his hand off the chess piece and Ron made his move. "Checkmate. Listen, I don't trust him either, but, you heard him say task in a suspicious voice. . ."
"That's not exactly comprehensive evidence," Hermione chimed in.
Harry exhaled. He knew this. "I know, but I trust my instinct."
"But your instinct-" Ron started, then stopped immediately. "Er-, you can't-"
"What?" Harry demanded, angrily. "My instinct is what got Sirius killed, right? Go ahead, say it, Ron."
He swallowed. "That's not what I meant."
"He meant to just be sure before you make any rash decisions. It could be a trick."
Harry frowned. Again, he knew they were right.
"And, Harry," Ron added. "Just, involve us if you do. We could help."
Harry nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I will. That's why I'm telling you this."
"Oh Harry," Hermione said, throwing a meaningful look at Ron. "We appreciate that."
Ron looked to her and then to Harry, realizing he was supposed to say something. "Yeah, right! We do. It's-yeah. Thanks for sharing, mate."
Harry tried not to roll his eyes. Ever since Voldemort had returned, Hermione and Ron seemed to tread lightly around Harry's feelings. He knew he shut them out-he shut everyone out-but it annoyed him endlessly to watch his two best friends cast sympathetic looks in his direction. He did not like being treated like some delicate flower. He was more than capable of taking care of himself. He had proven that time and time again and, yet, it seemed that the more he had proved his independence, the more the people around him worried. The more they worried, the more Harry shut them out and the more he shut them out, the more they worried. It was an irritating cycle, and sometimes the only way to avoid it was to avoid his friends, altogether.
"But you don't think he's up to anything," Harry stated.
"He might be, Harry," Hermione offered gently. "But he might not be. It's not enough to say."
"It was always enough before."
"We're not twelve anymore, Harry," she added. Ron stared intently at the chessboard, looking like he was trying to disappear.
Harry wanted to cross his arms in front of his chest and storm out of the room, disproving Hermione's statement. Instead, he settled on huffing impatiently. "You'll see," he grumbled.
Ron and Hermione exchanged a look as Harry scowled down at the chessboard.
ooo
Draco checked his reflection in the infirmary mirror before he left. He had his robes back, thank Merlin, but he looked thinner and paler, if that was possible, than he had last week. The shadows under his eyes had grown steadily throughout the week and he looked like hell. He pulled his green knit hat over his bald spot and nodded at his disgusted looking reflection, which nodded cordially back.
Madame Pomfrey had lent him a burlap sack in which to carry his books. He had considered levitating them back, but she suggested that his magic might not be strong enough for that just yet. And because he didn't want his books falling all over the ground in front of everyone, he took her advice. She hadn't lied to him yet, even if he had lied to her.
Draco left the infirmary and stepped out into hallway. It was a shock to the system to see anything besides stone walls and bright, white linen bed-sheets and metal instruments and medical vials. He headed toward the Slytherin dungeons, breaking out in an almost immediate sweat. The walk alone was exhausting.
He paused outside of the Great Hall and pretended to adjust his belongings, but really he needed a second to catch his breath. That second was all it took for him to be spotted immediately by Pansy Parkinson, who charged at him like a bull and threw her arms around his neck. He stumbled back into the wall, unable to keep his balance.
"You're back!" she screeched, clinging to his neck, before suddenly recoiling and wiping her hands on the sides of her robes. "You aren't contagious anymore, are you?" She wrinkled her pig nose.
Draco considered this for a moment. "I might be," he coughed loudly. She took a step back and made a face, muttering a cleaning charm on her arms and robes.
She shook her head. "I've never heard of anyone being in the hospital for a week for the flu, but I guess it's true . . ."
Draco shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "It was pretty bad. But I toughed it out."
Her eyes shone with admiration. "You're so brave," she gushed.
"I try," he replied, stepping away from the wall and trying to at least look like he could stand on his own two feet.
"You look like absolute shit, Draco," she commented, wrinkling her face again, her black hair hanging around her face.
"Well, for someone who nearly died . . ."
She gaped dramatically. "Died?" she asked in horror.
Draco bowed his head with the humble look of an injured war hero. "It's a miracle that I'm even standing here." He sighed. "Initially she thought I'd be a month at least. "
Pansy stopped and narrowed her eyes. "A month?" she asked, doubtfully.
Whoops. Maybe he'd pushed it a bit. But backing down now would admit defeat. "Hard to believe, I know." He coughed again and shook his head, sadly.
Draco was suddenly aware of two green owl eyes blinking at him skeptically. Harry Potter's arms were crossed as he leaned casually on the door frame of the Great Hall.
Pansy was still staring at him. "What kind of flu lasts a month?" she squawked.
Draco turned from her to sneer at Potter. He swallowed. Potter wouldn't tell. He swore. Loyalty through threats. And if he did...
"The, uh-" Draco began, scowling nervously and trying to ignore Potter. Potter took that moment to stride self-importantly into their conversation. Why couldn't he just go away?
"Eavesdropping as usual, Scarhead?" Draco hissed.
Potter flashed them both a big smile and rubbed his hands together, as if he were getting to work on an exciting project. Draco hated him. Hated him.
"Thought I heard Pomfrey mention something about the Mediterranean Virus, right?" he commented, silkily.
Draco narrowed his eyes at him. "I wouldn't know. I don't make a habit out of spying on patients. Or other students who are having private conversations, of which I'm clearly not a part." What was Potter doing? Draco had thought for sure that Potter was going to rat him out. Or make some comment, especially after being called Scarhead by an enemy in a conspicuous green hat. It was what Draco would have done. But he was quickly realizing that was not a solid basis on which to form assumptions about Potter. Know thine enemy.
"Pretty sure that's what it was," Potter addressed Pansy, conversationally. She gave him a baleful look then looked to Draco for confirmation.
Not sure whether to be elated that Potter was defending him, or suspicious about his unpredictable behavior, Draco chose the middle road. He twisted his face up in confusion like something smelled bad. "Oh, chatted about my condition with the school nurse, did you?" Draco drawled. "Sounds to me like a breach of confidentiality."
Potter shrugged. "I overheard her," he replied, smoothly. "Might not have been about you."
Draco narrowed his eyes further. He wanted Pansy to think it was him, obviously. Potter was good. Draco didn't like it. "Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't," he snarled at Potter.
Pansy rolled her eyes. "Well, was it?" she demanded.
Damn. Potter had given him an easy out, and his pride had gotten in the way, as usual.
"Sorry, Pansy, if I'm not so keen on people discussing my private medical affairs, without my written consent."
Potter shrugged. "Whatever. Shove off, Malfoy," he added, casually.
"No-you shove off!" Draco retorted, sounding like a six year old.
Potter grinned wider and sauntered off. He really was insufferable. The worst. The way he strutted about, spying on everybody, never minding his own damn business, and acting like a brown-nosing know-it-all to top it off.
"Wow, Draco," Pansy said softly. "The Mediterranean Virus," she shook her head. "That's supposed to be really nasty."
The Mediterranean Virus. Where had Potter come up with that? The Idiot who Lived was never that quick on the uptake in class, but that had been a fine show of spontaneity, Malfoy grudgingly admitted.
"Yeah, well," he muttered. "I'm still not a hundred per cent."
"Like I said," she repeated. "You look like shit. What's the hat for anyway?"
"Uh, er," he stuttered, his hands flying protectively up to his head. "Cold head. You know, humans lose forty per cent of their body heat through their heads. Can never be too careful when you're getting over a virus."
She nodded. "Why don't you just use a warming spell?"
"Because then I wouldn't be making a fashion statement," he smirked, winking.
"Oh believe me," she smiled. "You're not."
He scowled and pulled his hat over his ears. "Bitch."
She pushed him in the chest and he tried to hold his balance. "You know you missed me."
It was true. He had. He momentarily forgot what he had hurried back for. The task. Draco silently cursed himself for wasting time, and felt the damned anxiety flood back instantly. "Yeah." He forced out a smile. " I missed all you arseholes, stuck in there with nothing but Pomfrey and a Potions textbook for company."
"And Potter."
"Yeah." Ugh. Potter. He hoisted his burlap sack back over his shoulder.
"Nice bag," she commented, making a rude, gagging sound. "Is that another fashion statement?"
He raised his eyebrows and tossed it about his shoulder coyly.
Pansy gave him another playful shove which nearly knocked the wind out of him. She really needed to stop doing that.
He straightened and gave her a smug look. "See you around, Pans."
She waved to him and loped off. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the walk back, slowing his pace down so that he was barely shuffling his feet.
Draco turned into the next corridor, a narrow dimly lit passageway that was lined interchangeably with large, metal suits of armor and torchlight. He followed his stunted shadow through the corridor, the burlap sack making a shapeless lump of a shadow where there should have been an angled shoulder.
Shuffle, shuffle.
Draco kept his head straight ahead, peering to his side with only his eyes.
Swish, swish.
Draco was now positive that he heard footsteps matching his own. His heart caught in his throat for moment, before he noticed a flash of tattered red trainers in his peripheral vision. He stopped and turned. The trainers vanished. He shook his head, certain he had seen them, his throat growing hot and dry. "You've got to be kidding me."
It appeared Draco was alone in the hallway, but he knew better than to trust appearances. He narrowed his eyes and lunged, suddenly, into thin air, in the direction of where he had spotted the trainers. He hit the ground with a crack and dropped his burlap sack of books. Draco cursed at the pain that shot through his arms and body. Desperate ire suddenly filled him and he pounded the stone floor with his bare hands. "Potter!" he gasped in a strangled voice. "You absolute psychopath! Stop following me!"
Feeling pained and furious and hating that he was being stared at by someone he couldn't see, Draco's mind flooded with red-hot rage. He could barely see in front of him. He was exhausted and he needed to get started on his task, but he could barely stay on his own two feet. Draco grabbed his burlap sack and dragged himself across the stone floor, crawling into a small space behind a knight, who grumbled and stepped aside for him.
"Pardon me," Draco muttered politely in a small voice, before curling up in the hole and crossing his arms like a confused, petulant child. He knew he looked like an idiot, but he couldn't even think anymore. He was really, really teetering on the brink of madness.
He started shivering then, even though he didn't feel cold. He stared straight ahead of him. Maybe he hadn't actually seen Potter's filthy shoes. Could he have imagined it? It seemed so real. Perhaps he really was alone. In which case, he was utterly deranged and it was all hopeless.
"Potter," he whispered from his upright fetal position, his arms wrapped around his knees. "Please. If you are here, please. I just-I just need to know."
The knight creaked as he turned to gaze at Draco through his faceless mask. Great. Even suits of armor thought he was loony.
"I," he faltered. He was about to start begging. "I promise," he swallowed, pulling his wand out of his pocket, setting it on the floor and raising his hands in defeat. "I won't hex you. I just need to know."
Nothing.
"Please!" he squeaked. "No house points, just." He pulled his knees closer and stared at the empty hallway, his eyes wide. "This is insanity," he whispered into his arm.
Just then, a flash of red give way to dirty jeans and the rest of Potter as he pulled off his Invisibility Cloak, looking sheepish and worried.
"You son of a bitch," Draco croaked, overcome with relief.
Potter raised his hands up, defensively. "I-I wasn't following you!"
"Liar!" Draco hissed, still grasping his knees, too affronted to feel humiliated.
Potter stepped closer, but Draco wasn't moving. Potter scrunched his face up in concern and spoke quietly. "I mean it. I'm not going to tell you what I was doing, because it's not your business, but I wasn't following you."
Draco felt like he was going to cry or vomit.
"If I was, I wouldn't have just revealed myself. I didn't have to do that, you know."
I wouldn't have, Draco thought to himself for what felt like the millionth time that week.
"Malfoy, are you okay?" Potter murmured, sounding like he was truly concerned.
Draco stared at his knees and spoke quietly. "Look at me carefully, Potter. Then tell me how you'd like me to answer that question."
Potter did stop then and looked. Draco's long, limber frame was folded up on a dirty stone floor as he hid behind a suit of armor. He was dressed in expensive robes, clutching a burlap sack with that out-of-place knit cap pulled over a gashed bald spot. He trembled, staring forward, refusing to meet Potter's pitying gaze.
Potter shook his head and took another step toward Draco. He extended one hand to him.
Draco stared at his hand for a moment like it was poison.
"Come on," Potter said. "I've seen you a lot worse than this."
Draco scowled, but he didn't have enough energy to protest. He tentatively released his knees and reached out one bone-white hand, holding it oddly in the air, fingers limp.
"Your freshly laundered robes are getting filthy," Potter added.
Draco sighed and took his hand, then, allowing Potter to pull him to his feet. When he did, he felt the blood rush to his head, and he staggered slightly, grasping at the knight to stay upright. The knight stayed still, however, and didn't make any noise.
Potter picked up Draco's burlap sack of books and handed it to him.
Thanks, Draco thought, but his pride wouldn't allow him to speak. He grunted, mouth closed, instead.
They stood there, awkwardly for a moment, looking in opposite directions before Potter spoke.
"Whatever you have planned . . . " Potter steeled himself with a deep breath and looked away. "It's destroying you."
Did he know? Could he know? Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .
Potter looked at Draco then. Draco continued to stare at the wall, wild-eyed. His knees felt like they would give out on him any moment. His heart was pounding and threatening to explode out of his chest. His fingers clenched the knight's metal armor for dear life. Potter couldn't know. He just suspected. Draco slowly chanced a horrified look at Potter.
"Don't," Potter shook his head, softly. "Don't do it."
Suddenly Draco released his death grip on the knight and shoved Potter in the chest, hard. "You don't know anything!" he shouted, stumbling back and gasping. "You think you know everything, but you don't!"
"It's not too late-don't be an idiot!" Potter protested, anger quickly replacing the concern on his face.
Too late. Too late? "That's not what you said before!" Draco yelled, confused.
"What?" Potter mouthed, before it hit him. "Oh, that damned dream, right?" He threw his arms up, exasperated. "Well, maybe that's what I meant!"
"You're not making any sense!" Draco shrieked, sweating. "You said it was too late!"
Potter shook his head, unable to grasp the train of the conversation. "That wasn't real, stupid! I'm telling you now that it's not too late!"
Draco needed to leave. He needed to leave NOW. He was saying too much, but he wasn't sure he could stop. "You're wrong!" he yelled, suddenly pointing his wand at Harry. This conversation had to end, it HAD to stop. He took a deep controlled breath. "Leave me alone," he spoke low, trying to incite fear into Potter. "I mean it. Or I swear to you, I'll-"
Potter, never one to back down—the damn fool, carried on. "Or you'll what? What, Malfoy?" he challenged, drawing his own wand on Draco.
Draco could hardly breathe. He looked at the steady wand in Potter's hand and the one shaking in his own. The walls were closing in on him. The hallway was growing dark, hot. Why didn't the stupid git understand? He had to go, he had to leave, he-
Draco let out an odd little moan as tears sprang to his eyes. Why the hell was he crying? Why did he have no fucking control over himself? He turned on his heel and began running down the hallway, away from Potter.
He made it into the next corridor and barely into the stairs that lead down to the dungeons before he collapsed, clutching for the railing in the staircase, and not finding one. Wait. This seemed familiar. But maybe there had never been a railing in the stairwell to the dungeons. He couldn't remember. No, of course there had never been a railing. Just like it wasn't too late.
But it was too late! There was no turning back. With loyalty to the Dark Lord, Draco had everything to gain and nothing to lose. He had made his decision. Real Potter was wrong. Dream Potter was right. It was too late.
Draco felt trapped. And confused. He needed help, but he was completely alone. Logically, he knew he wasn't going to be making any great strides on the Vanishing Cabinet that night, but that didn't stop the voice in his head from demanding that he hurry, hurry, hurry.
With panicked clarity, he realized it was time for his second plan. Over the last several days in the infirmary, Draco had intensely researched incomplete charms, focusing on his new favorite charm, The Sleeping Charm, Somnicorpus.
The Draught of Peace was completely out of the question, Madame Pomfrey had told him, until January, at least. He had to remain on a diet of white bread, rice and other bland foods until January as well. No alcohol. Which left Draco with one other option-a crass and self-administered sleeping charm that he had promised not to use for the remainder of his stay in the Infirmary.
The problem was, it was a sleeping charm and Draco couldn't very well go around sleeping all the time. That had proven to be both unproductive and obvious. An incomplete charm, however, might do exactly what Draco wanted: Relax his body and mind, but leave him awake and coherent. If he could mold this balance to perfection, then he would never have to waste ingredients and time brewing relief potions.
He was slightly concerned about the high risk of dependency of which Madame Pomfrey had warned him, but as long as he got the balance right, then what would be the big deal? He wouldn't be sleeping all of the time and he could function normally, get work done and still wear himself out by bedtime. And if he couldn't, well, that's what a complete sleeping charm could be used for, should the need arise. But again, that was doubtful. Plus, this was all temporary until he was finished with his task, anyway. Then, back to normal.
Draco carefully threw a weak protective shield around himself, then, sitting on the cold, stone steps that lead down to the dungeons, he pointed his wand at himself and focused on his desired effect.
"Somnicorpus," he said, impulsively. He felt the familiar warm buzz permeate through the shield and hit him in the chest. Now he just had to make sure he remained awake.
He felt his limbs tingle and relax and his mind meld into slow moving liquid. His lips parted as his jaw unclenched and he leaned against the wall of the stairwell, enjoying the omnipresent relaxation that the charm provided. He felt blood swell toward his groin, which would have been unusual had he not read that the sleep aids cause increased desire for sexual activity. He wasn't really sure why that mattered, though, when people fell asleep after receiving them. Everyone except for himself, of course, who was smart and cunning and reaping all of the benefits of this experimental charm without any of the consequences.
Draco gave a slight shake of his head. He felt relatively alert. Functional. A little off-caliber, kind of fuzzy, not very sharp, but in control. Which was what he needed. Breathing a sigh of relief, and feeling particularly smug, he snatched up his burlap sack and made slow, controlled steps within a reasonable pace, all the way down the stairs toward the Slytherin Common Room.
ooo
"Hello?" A dark hand waved past his face. "Earth to Malfoy."
He blinked and looked up. He was perched, cross legged on a plush, green and silver couch in the Slytherin Common Room with the contents of his burlap sack strewn across his lap. He had been hunched over a piece of parchment, scribbling intently for the last half hour. Blaise was waving his hand in front of his face and laughing. Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy and Millicent Bulstrode, his usual study group, were also there, lounging on green couches in front of a warm fire with cups of tea and textbooks.
Draco chewed on his nail, disinterestedly. "Huh?"
Blaise and Pansy exchanged an amused look. "Draco," she clucked. "Are you with us?"
He yawned and stretched, tearing his eyes away from his genius sketches of the Vanishing Cabinet, ideas that had never occurred to him until then. Ideas that were certain to work.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Distracted."
Blaise rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that much is obvious."
"Draco, I hope you aren't chugging the Draught of Peace again," Pansy remarked, haughtily.
He grinned at her loosely and shook his head, his bangs falling over his veiled gray eyes. "Definitely not."
His gaze lingered on her for a few seconds longer until she shifted uncomfortably and narrowed her eyes. "Did Pomfrey give you cough syrup or something?"
Draco laughed. "Yeah, actually, she did." He looked back down at the parchment in his lap. "That must be it." He was in a good mood. He was exhausted, yes, but he could deal with his friends' comments. They had no idea what he had done, and wouldn't believe it anyway if someone told them. As if a Malfoy would be dabbling in sleeping charms. It was laughable, albeit true . . .
Draco drew an arrow from the Vanishing Cabinet on his parchment to an algorithm he had been using to develop a theory for how the cabinet had been damaged in the first place. He had carefully combed through an advanced Arithmancy text and was now scribbling notes madly, trying to find a proof for the algorithm that would confirm his theory. He was on the brink of something great, he just needed to focus. He had to write. He had to record his ideas, because they were coming to him in fleeting grasps, nearly complete, ephemeral thoughts that would be lost forever unless he got them on parchment before they vanished. He had the solution. He knew he had it. He just needed to find it, hone it, develop it-
"Draco!" Pansy shrieked, ripping the quill out of his hands.
He stilled, hand frozen as though the quill were still there, ready to fire away.
"The . . . the," he frowned, trying to remember the end of his last thought. It was escaping him quickly, as if he were trying to grasp the last remnants of a dream. And then it was gone. His genius idea. Gone.
"Damn it Pansy! I hope you're happy!" he scowled, snatching his quill back. "I lost my train of thought." He stood and stuffed his quill into his bag along with the rest of his books and scraps of parchment that were littered about, half complete ideas, torn and tossed away one by one as the tantalizingly close solutions continued to elude him.
"He's lost more than that . . ." Millicent remarked, loudly.
Draco dropped his burlap sack and his eyes flashed up at her. "You're gonna lose more than that, you little bitch, if you don't . . . don't . . . if you don't," his mind went blank and he grabbed the arm of the couch to steady himself.
"Jesus Christ, Draco!" Pansy yelled. "What the hell is the matter with you?"
His head was reeling with thoughts. He needed to sit down. He needed to sit. He dropped back onto the couch. No. He couldn't sit! Not here-he couldn't work here!
He jumped up again out of the seat as if stung. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?" he hissed out of his protective cloud, as if only just recognizing the question. "I- you know!" he huffed, continuing to jam his books back into his sack. "There are more important things than the mindless prattle you dingbats wail on about! And-and cups of tea! People are dying!"
"What?" Blaise asked, horrified.
"Who's dying?" Crabbe looked scared.
"Draco, what in the hell are you talking about?"
He felt his shoulders being shaken violently by Pansy and recoiled, trying to wrestle out of her grasp. "Let!" he struggled, trying to pry her hands off him. "Let go of me, you bovine bitch!"
"Get a hold of yourself!" She smacked him across the face. He saw red and then black and then the red and black blended together and dripped through his field of vision. He couldn't see, couldn't think. He knew he was moving, but he had no idea what was happening.
"What the fuck?" Draco felt two sets of strong arms holding him back. He kicked, flailing his legs in the air. Crabbe and Goyle, his minions, had just felt it necessary to restrain him from a girl. As if a Malfoy would ever attack a woman.
He looked at Pansy then. She looked scared. Not mad. Truly terrified. Of him. Draco had never seen that look on her face before in his life. Then, in the ultimate, most traitorous move, Crabbe and Goyle threw him down to the floor in disgust.
Draco sat, stung, on the floor, dusting off his trousers, unable to look any of them in the eye. He felt a lump rise in his throat and swallowed hard. "What just happened?"
"Too far, Draco," Crabbe muttered. Draco could only see his boots and hulking shadow.
"I think you'd better go," Goyle added. He stepped past Draco then and stood in front of Pansy, as if protecting her from him.
Draco sniffed. He was embarrassed and confused and hurt. To his complete mortification, a tear rolled down his face and he had to wipe it off or it would have dripped onto the floor. "Fuck. Fine." He grabbed his burlap sack and headed for his dorm.
His voice was hardly more than a whisper, but in the uncomfortable silence that had fallen across the Slytherin Common Room, the remark was unmistakable.
"Sorry."
When Draco reached his dorm room for the first time in a week, he conducted a sloppy silencing charm, then threw himself face first onto his four-poster and sobbed himself to sleep.
ooo
"Shit. Shit!" Harry muttered frantically, throwing bottle after bottle on the floor of the Potions classroom. He needed something-it had to be here, but he didn't know what he was looking for, only that it was urgent.
The sound of footsteps pounding on stone drew his attention and he jerked his head up and squinted. Through the darkness of the corridor on his left, he could just make out white blonde hair and knew immediately that this was the reason he was searching the cabinet. Something to do with Malfoy.
"Potter?" he heard Malfoy's voice, still far away.
"Malfoy?" Harry could hardly see him, but he could still make out that silly green, knit hat that he refused to take off.
As Malfoy approached the door tentatively, he looked to his left and to his right. "Potter, I'm only going to ask once. Is it-?"
"No!" Harry said, suddenly realizing where he was. "It's not too late. I meant that."
"Then-then. . .".
The edges of the dream began growing soft and folding in on them.
"Say it, Malfoy!" Harry yelled, not sure why he felt such urgency. He looked up to where the walls of the Potions classroom were melting around him.
Through the melting room, Harry could see Malfoy point his wand directly at Harry. Then he turned it on himself. Squinting, he turned it back to Harry. "Ennervate," he whispered.
Malfoy was melting now, with the dream, fuzzily dispersing images.
"But, that didn't do anything to me! It's not working . . ." Harry protested, confused.
"Then maybe it is too late." Malfoy's voice was all that was left as the dream faded completely.
ooo
Harry awoke, his room was still dark with the static silence that characterized the witching hour. This was the most stunned he had felt by a dream without his scar hurting. He could still hear Malfoy's voice, as though he had just spoken, had leaned over his four-poster and whispered it in his ear. Then maybe it is too late. Harry couldn't be sure if it had been his own dream, inspired by Malfoy's raving, or if somehow he, himself, had just been in Malfoy's dream. It wouldn't be the first time someone had entered his mind unwillingly, but it might have been the first time they had done it unknowingly. Harry shook off the feeling of unease. It had definitely not seemed like a normal dream.
Harry curled onto his side and pulled his red quilt up to his chin. He fell back into a drifting, fitful sleep until he awoke a few hours later, exhausted and moody.
Harry and Ron were chatting over breakfast in the Great Hall when they noticed Lavender and Parvati shaking their heads, disgusted.
"And the monster just put his hands right around her neck as if to choke her!" Lavender clucked disapprovingly.
Parvati shook her head. "Well, what more can you expect out of someone coming from his family? I'm sure hitting women is a favorite pastime over at the Manor."
Lavender nodded. "You see the way the mother cowers every time that cold bastard looks at her."
Nodding, Parvati took a sip of her tea. "Still. I can't believe he'd do it. I mean, I always knew Malfoy was a git but-"
Harry choked on his toast and looked up suddenly. "I'm sorry," he spluttered. "Are you saying Malfoy attacked some girl?"
"Pansy Parkinson," Parvati nodded solemnly. "He shoved her last night and then tried to choke her."
Harry pounded on his chest to dislodge the stuck toast. "He did what?"
"Not that hard to believe," Ron said coldly, glaring in the direction of the Slytherin table even though Malfoy wasn't there. Pansy and Blaise were there, however, in heated conversation.
"But, but he loves Pansy!" Was Harry just riled up because he had dreamt of Malfoy recently or was it something else? Why was he so distressed?
"Well, as Lavender was saying, some families show their 'love' in despicable ways," Parvati snipped, stirring at her tea and wrinkling her nose.
Harry gaped at them both. "I just find it really hard to believe. I mean, I know he's a complete shite to me, but it seems he would somehow have more dignity than that. You're insinuating that he beats Parkinson into submission?"
The girls shrugged.
"I don't know, it doesn't add up."
"We overhead Millicent Bulstrode telling Daphne Greengrass," Lavender added, as though Millicent were a reliable source. "Apparently Crabbe and Goyle got involved. They threw Malfoy to the floor." The girls exchanged a mildly amused look.
Ron gasped. "They turned against him?" His eyes widened comically. "I can't believe it!" He looked around for agreement. "Can you believe it, Harry?"
Harry frowned. Something seemed extremely odd about it all. His Gryffindor mind asked why Malfoy would ever do something to hurt Pansy, whom he cared about. His Slytherin mind asked why Malfoy would do something that would intentionally turn his Slytherin comrades against him when he was facing a task for Voldemort. Without Slytherin support, Malfoy was completely alone. Judging by his behavior yesterday in the hallway, first jovial with Pansy and then desperate and pathetic with Harry, it seemed that Malfoy would need the backing of his ragtag criminal comrades more than ever.
"Do you think this has something to do with," Ron cut his voice to a whisper, "with his task?" His eyebrows nearly floated off his freckled face.
"Oh, now you believe me?" he whispered back.
"I always believed you, Harry."
"Well, actually, I find this odd. It doesn't add up. If he was planning to do something for Voldemort, why would he piss off all the children of the Death Eaters?"
Ron shrugged. "Search me how a deranged, criminal mind works. Maybe he's trying to keep everyone away. It's a war. And Slytherins aren't exactly trustworthy."
Ron had a point. But still. Why would he physically attack a woman to keep his friends away? Though, apparently, it was working. Harry looked across to the entrance of The Great Hall where Malfoy had sulked in alone. He was wearing a cloak with the hood pulled up over his head, but Harry could detect the edge of his green cap sticking out and felt a pang of … something . . . weird.
Malfoy made his way to the outermost edge of the Slytherin table where he reached out one skeletal, pale hand, snatched up a piece of toast and placed it on a napkin. He quickly poured himself a cup of coffee and didn't wipe the spill when it splashed over the edge. The second he topped his coffee with cream, Malfoy hastily sulked back out of the door with his coffee and toast on a napkin. Not a single Slytherin acknowledged him, though students at the other tables were conspicuously whispering about him and casting him disgusted looks.
"Ron, I'll be back," Harry said suddenly, feeling an invisible tug to follow the blonde. Ron rolled his eyes.
"Stalker."
Harry glared at Ron. "Shut up." Leaving his toast half eaten and his teacup nearly empty, Harry hurried after Malfoy.
A hooded, cloaked figure carrying toast was heading toward the dungeons. Harry jogged up alongside him. The figure, sensing the approach, visibly tensed.
"Malfoy," Harry said quickly, so the volatile Slytherin wouldn't have another nervous breakdown about being followed.
The figure let out a frustrated huff and began walking faster through the corridor with the knights from the day before.
ooo
"Malfoy-stop!" Potter commanded.
"No," Draco muttered, speeding up. "So you can tell me what a monster I am, too? No thanks."
"Er-about that-"
"No. NOTHING about that. We're not talking about that. In fact," he cut a quick corner, trying to dodge Potter. "We're not talking at all. " Draco silently cursed the obvious contradiction, wishing to insult Potter and not the English language, which he held in such high regard.
"I don't know if you're a monster," Potter replied, jogging to keep up with Draco's long, ambitious strides. "What I do know is that you would never intentionally hurt Pansy."
"Well, apparently you don't know what I'm capable of then, do you Potter?" His voice was hoarse. "Because apparently I would intentionally hurt her." He faltered, and his pace slowed almost imperceptibly.
"Apparently?" Potter asked, picking up on the repetition of that word.
"Yes, apparently. Apparently that is what happened. Apparently . . ." his voice trembled, but he pushed on, not looking at Potter.
"You don't . . . you don't, er, remember?"
Draco said nothing, just stormed ahead, his toast crushed in his death grip, his cloak billowing behind him. When he reached the staircase, he pounded down the steps, praying that he wouldn't hear Potter's footsteps pounding the stone behind him, but in accordance with Murphy's Law, that was exactly what he heard. The git was completely dense. If he couldn't take a hint then Draco would resort to force. He stopped, spun around and grabbed Potter around the throat, pinning him against the wall. His coffee cup shattered to the floor, splashing coffee onto his boots. Potter looked too shocked to react and just stared at him. Draco's hood had slipped off, his face wild, his mouth twisted grotesquely.
"Did your dead parents bash your head in as a baby?" Draco was livid. He pounded Potter's head against the stone for emphasis and Potter's glasses fell off his face as he struggled for breath. Strangulation was fast becoming Draco's new defense, it seemed. "Did the Dark Lord drop you repeatedly on your scar, you brainless bastard? I don't want to talk to you. I don't like you. What, you think now that, that," he was fuming, incoherent. "Now that that they-that I'll just come confide all of my feelings in you? We're not friends! We will never be friends! I don't know why you insist on pathetically trying to save me like everyone else. I'm not your fucking pet project. Go save your Mudblood friends. I daresay, they'll need all the protection they can get soon enough." Draco felt dizzy, but forged ahead, anyway, lost in his raving. "We are enemies, Potter. Enemies. That will never change. In fact, I plan on doing everything in my power to make sure we remain enemies. And if you keep following me, I will personally make your sad life more of a living hell than it already is. And that is a fucking promise."
Potter let out a strangled moan. His arms scrabbled desperately to free himself from Draco's chokehold.
Drunk with power and blind rage, Draco narrowed his eyes and leaned into Potter's face. "And just so we're clear," he spoke slowly, his voice having finally returned to its sardonic drawl. "What happened last night doesn't even come close to what you let happen to that blood-traitor mutt of yours." Draco sneered. "Yeah, my father told me. Still smiling right into death. Filthy dog must have thought Bella was playing a game of fetch with him. Mistook the wand for a bone." He laughed in his face, knowing he was going to sick up if he didn't get back to his room. He felt ill. Potter made him act this way. Potter truly brought out the worst in him.
Draco reached into Potter's pocket and snatched his wand. "Like godfather, like godson," he snarled. "Fetch."
Draco lobbed Potter's wand up the staircase, where it ricocheted off the stone and disappeared above them. Draco released his chokehold on Potter and the boy collapsed into shards of broken ceramic and coffee, gasping for breath. Draco kicked him in the stomach for good measure, then took off running like a coward the rest of the way to the Slytherin dorms. Potter's spluttering chokes echoed through Draco's mind as he hid in his bed, chewing tasteless handfuls of squished, toast crumbs in silence.
ooo
Harry recovered moments later, head reeling with lack of oxygen and stomach burning. Malfoy obviously held no esteem for the phrase "Don't kick a man when he's down." Clutching his stomach, Harry snatched his glasses off the floor and dragged himself up the staircase to find his wand. Ron was right. Following Malfoy had been a stupid idea. What had he been thinking? They weren't friends. They would never be friends. He hated Malfoy, loathed him. His hatred for Voldemort was nowhere near the passionate hatred he felt for Malfoy. Voldemort, he could handle, awful as he was. Malfoy made his blood boil.
Embarrassment mixing with hatred, Harry continued to silently chastise himself. How stupid was he? Did he honestly think Malfoy needed him? That he would appreciate Harry's concern? Helping the git when he was unconscious was one thing, but as long as Draco Malfoy was coherent and breathing air, he was a spiteful, racist, heartless fuck and Harry had stupidly let his guard down and convinced himself that he could help him. Maybe it was that stupid dream he had. It had to have been. It had clouded his perception, made him think Malfoy wanted his help. Fuck him. Malfoy had no one now. Which was probably what he wanted. It was certainly what he deserved.
Harry retrieved his wand and felt his breathing return to normal as he staggered up the stairs.
Try as he might to convince himself that Draco Malfoy was nothing more than an abusive monster, he still didn't buy it. Malfoy didn't know what had happened last night and he was scared. Whatever he did to Parkinson was not intentional and Harry knew it. For some inconceivable reason, he hoped Malfoy knew it, too, but figured the prat was probably brooding alone, uncertain and self-destructive.
As he reached the top of the staircase, still clutching his stomach, he bumped head first into Ron.
"Oi, Harry!" he cried, rubbing his forehead and stumbling back. He looked closely at Harry who was bent over, holding his stomach and trying to control his wheezing gasps. Ron's eyes widened in anger. "Harry," he said slowly. "What happened? It was Malfoy, wasn't it? What did that git do to you?"
"He," Harry's voice was ragged and hoarse. "I," he let out a rattling cough and braced himself on the wall. "I'm fine, Ron. It was stupid. I shouldn't have gone after him."
"I'll kill him," Ron seethed. He balled his hands up into fists. He glanced at Harry again. "You think I'm kidding?"
"I didn't say-"
"I'm not kidding," Ron continued, working himself into a frenzy. "The next time I see him, Harry. He thinks he can just attack people and get away with it? No. Fuck no. And now he's hitting girls? Even if it is that cow, Parkinson. She didn't deserve it. You didn't deserve it. But he'll get what he deserves. Even if I'm the one who has to give it to him." Ron clenched his fists and glared.
"Calm down, Ron!" Harry rasped. "He's not-"
"Worth it, Harry?" His eyes stared off in the distance, as if imagining all the things he would do to Malfoy. "Yeah, he might not be. But it would be worth it. Getting him. Really getting him, Harry. After all these years, someone needs to show him-"
"Seriously Ron," Harry said. "You don't have to give it to him. He will get what's coming. I know it. I believe it. It's happening already, if you think about it." Was it? Was this the beginning of the end for dear old Malfoy? The thought was oddly unsettling. An image of Malfoy in the infirmary flitted through Harry's mind. He was laughing in uncontrolled mirth with his green knit cap pulled snugly over his bald spot. It made Harry want to smile. It made him feel strangely protective. "You don't need to lower yourself."
"I want to." His hands were still in fists, but his face was beginning to relax.
"I don't want you to." Harry spoke seriously and looked at Ron. "In fact, I forbid you."
He scoffed. "You forbid me? Right, Harry." But he grinned then and the two walked back through the corridor of knights toward The Great Hall.