A certain type of darkness has stolen me
Under a quiet mask of uncertainty
I wait for light like water from the sky
And I am lost again
In a sea of lovers without ships
And lovers without sight
You're the only way out of this sea of lovers losing time
And lovers losing hope
Will you let me follow you wherever you go?
Bring me home
-Christina Perri
~4 August 1999~
Harry left St. Mungo's, his heart pounding and his knees buckling beneath him. Just outside the front doors, he ducked into a small alcove and collapsed against the wall. He pressed his forehead into the chilled, white stone, attempting to regain control of his breathing. Why did this keep happening to him?
There was no denying that Malfoy had a knack for whittling his way under Harry's skin, but no matter what he did, Harry couldn't seem to build up a defense against it. Something about Malfoy's words broke through every barrier—slipping through the finest of cracks and burrowing deep into a place that Harry had no hope of protecting. He could still feel the words stirring inside of him, churning up every last fragment of his shattered soul.
Malfoy had ruined everything, just like he always did. All Harry had wanted was to exist in that peace he'd found…just for a moment. But Malfoy couldn't even allow him that one small kindness.
So you're happy then? You're happy with her?
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Harry pushed himself away from the wall. He needed to calm down; regroup. There was no reason why he couldn't bury these feelings just like he had buried all of the rest. There was no reason why today had to be any different from yesterday; from any other day that Malfoy decided to needle Harry's nerves. It was like clockwork—round and round, time and time again, climbing peaks only to fall into valleys. There was always that line that neither of them could seem to cross. They would come so close only to fling each other back, and then, like magnets, be pulled right back together again.
It was a pattern as predictable as time.
If he was a smarter man, he'd have given up this toxic relationship long ago. He'd have washed his hands clean of Malfoy and moved on with his life. There had been so many times he'd wanted to, and yet…
Maybe I just need to keep feeling the way I'm feeling right now. Just for awhile.
Harry winced at the memory of his own words. Why couldn't he move past that feeling? What was it about that night at the Christmas Ball that had him so tethered? There hadn't been anything real about it. Over and over he'd told himself that until he could scarcely summon the memory without the thought following. And yet still the desire remained, refusing to be doused by whatever resolve Harry managed to muster.
He hated it. And he hated himself more for being too weak to leave it alone.
Dragging in a deep breath, Harry straightened and glanced back at the entrance to St. Mungo's. Somehow the glass doors looked so much more ominous now than they had this morning.
Tomorrow. He would come back tomorrow and think about this then. There was no use in it now, when his nerves were frayed and his mind was worn to the quick.
Nodding, Harry pulled his wand from his pocket and disapparated back to his flat.
As soon as he appeared in the dining room, two pairs of bright blue eyes rooted him to the floor. Harry stared at Ron and Ginny, feeling a rush of heat rise into his neck. They were seated at the small breakfast table near the edge of the kitchen, dark golden light from the afternoon sun streaming in through the window on the wall behind. It shone down like a spotlight on the copy of this morning's Prophet sitting between them.
Harry could almost smell the scent of St. Mungo's clinging to his robes, marking him like a traitor. Guilt surged through him, and it was a difficult ordeal to keep the building trepidation from seeping out.
"Um...hello," he said uneasily.
Ginny's jaw tightened. "Care to explain this?" She snapped the paper at him.
Harry didn't need to look down at the paper—he already knew from the look on Ron's face what she was pointing at. A lump grew in his throat, choking him.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice was a like the hard scrape of ice against stone.
"Ginny." Ron raised a calming hand when his sister started to rise out of her chair. Every muscle in Ginny's body was taut—coiled tight and ready to spring. With tangible effort, she lowered herself back into her chair. Ron's eyes found Harry's once more. "Can I talk to you in private?"
Ginny's face went abruptly red. "Ron—"
"Harry?" Ron pressed
Harry stared at him for a long moment, desperately trying to remember how to breathe. "Yes," he responded shortly.
Ignoring another outburst from his sister, Ron grabbed the paper, rose from the table and lead Harry down the hall to the study. As soon as Harry entered, Ron shut the door behind them, and Harry found it hard to suppress the feeling that he'd just been cornered.
Ron turned towards him, his expression marked with telltale signs of distress. "Harry," he said. "What's going on?"
"I don't know what you mean," answered Harry truthfully.
With a sour expression, Ron held the Prophet out to Harry. "Read it."
Apprehension igniting in Harry's veins, Harry took the paper. It had already been badly crumpled, and the ink was starting to smear in spots, but the picture of him outside of St. Mungo's was crystal clear. Harry felt his heart thud powerfully in his chest as he read.
Harry Potter's Secret Rendezvous
by Rita Skeeter
Just last week, the wizarding world saw an unsurprising tragedy befall the last of the Malfoy line. After he was found unconscious on top of his mother's tombstone, wrists slashed, Draco Malfoy was rushed to St. Mungo's, where he remained in critical care for several hours before a team of heroic mediwizards managed to stabilize him. After he was discharged from the critical care ward, the brave and selfless witches and wizards of St. Mungo's kept young Draco in the psychiatric ward to ensure that he was no longer a danger to himself or to others (an understandable action considering the boy's unfortunate political affiliations).
"He was obviously disturbed," an anonymous source informed me. "He reacted violently towards anyone who tried to help him, and we knew immediately that there was some seriously dark magic involved in whatever he tried to do to himself."
And so Draco remained at St. Mungo's, tragically alone and nigh a soul left in the world who cared. Thus entered our handsome and unabashedly famous hero, Harry Potter.
Many sources have confirmed seeing Harry in the St. Mungo's atrium the day after Draco's attempted suicide, as well as every day since, and some have even noted that he looked, "uncharacteristically emotional" during these unprecedented visits.
No one has yet to confirm exactly why Harry has been frequenting St. Mungo's, but the circumstances are hard to ignore, especially after the events of last summer. Has our favorite Romeo and Juliet couple rekindled their spark in the wake of tragedy? Or will their relationship fizzle out yet again? Only time will tell.
Harry looked back up at Ron, focusing all of his attention on keeping his face carefully blank even as the gears of his mind began to tick. Ron was staring right back at him, obviously waiting for Harry to speak first.
"You knew I'd gone to see him," Harry said. "We've been trying to keep this article out of the press for days."
"I knew there was a rumor," Ron corrected. "But I'm not having this conversation with you as your publicist right now, Harry..." He stepped forward. "What were you thinking? Merlin...you don't...I mean you can't possibly…"
"Can't what?"
Something in Ron's blue eyes faltered, tripping over words that he couldn't seem to get out. He shook his head. "Just...tell me why you went to see Malfoy."
Harry's lowered the Prophet to his side, crumpling it between his fingers. There was no point in lying to Ron about it. "I had a dream about him."
Ron's jaw went slack. "What?"
"The night he...the night he tried to kill himself, I had a dream about it. And then I woke up and saw the article in the Prophet, and...I don't know."
"Harry…"
Harry pressed his eyes shut for a long moment before focusing his gaze on the wooden floor. Vaguely, he wondered what his chances were of it opening up and swallowing him whole. "I thought he might have needed my help. I thought that maybe the dream was…him reaching out."
Ron let out a heavy breath, and when Harry looked at him again, his lips were stretched into a pained smile. He seemed almost relieved. "So that was it then? You had a dream, and you just wanted to check in on him?"
"Yes."
"But then why did you go more than once? He was out of critical care after that first day, wasn't he?"
"Ron," Harry said heavily, "he was transferred to a psychiatric ward."
Ron blinked. "So?"
Harry felt himself go very still as a strange ache seated itself into his heels and spread upwards. "So? Something's obviously wrong with him."
"Well of course something is wrong with him! He lost both of his parents to suicide and went on trial for being a Death Eater in the span of year! That would be enough to mess even the sanest bloke up a little, let alone a high-strung prick like Malfoy."
Harry couldn't quite manage to contain his reaction to Ron's words. He squeezed his fingers into a fist around the Prophet and clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw straining.
Ron blinked at him, seeming to struggle with something. He shifted his weight uneasily and licked his lips, his brows furrowing. Several thoughts passed over the surface of his expression before he finally said, "Harry…none of that is your fault. Bad things happen. It's not your job to save everyone."
The roots of the ache burrowed even deeper. "I know that."
Ron stared at him. After a moment he ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the bright strands. "I—I feel like I'm missing something here."
"Why do you care if I keep going back to see him? Besides the stuff they'll write about me, what does it matter?"
"I don't trust him," Ron replied. "And last time I checked, you didn't either."
Strain thickened the lines of Harry's neck. "Maybe I didn't. But he was different last year. Don't you think he was different?"
"Just because he didn't make our lives a living hell doesn't mean I want to sing the prat's praises!"
"He went through hell, Ron!"
"Yeah? Well so did you! But I don't see you trying to kill yourself over it!"
The air in Harry's lungs grew thin as a pang of grief shot through him. It must have shown on his face, because moments later Ron was shaking his head dolefully.
"Look," Ron said slowly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…this whole thing has got me on edge is all. I have the Puddlemere PR reps owling me nonstop, and Ginny…well let's just say she's not exactly thrilled at finding all of this out from a newspaper."
A grimace pulled at the corners of Harry's mouth. "Look, I'll explain everything to Ginny. She'll understand."
"Understand why you're checking in on your worst enemy every day when you could be spending that time helping her plan your wedding? I really don't think she will."
"Plan the wedding? She's never wanted me to help out with planning the wedding before."
Both of Ron's brows lifted. "You're joking, right?"
Harry stared back at him, tight-lipped even as Draco's words echoed in the back of his mind. So you're happy then? You're happy with her?
"Harry, you're going to be her husband in less than a year," Ron said heavily. "She wants you to be a part of everything in her life, just like I want Hermione to be a part of everything in my life."
Harry's eyes went round. "You and Hermione are—"
A blush burst across Ron's cheeks. He licked his lips, his breath suddenly quicker. "No—I mean, I'm going to ask her one day—but that's beside the point. The point is…" Ron took in a deep breath and let it back out again, "you shouldn't see Malfoy anymore."
"Ron…"
"Nothing good can possibly come of it."
"He doesn't have anyone else," Harry retorted.
"He has Parkinson and Goyle and all the other Slytherins that hung around him all the time last year," Ron threw back. "He's not your responsibility."
Words grew and died on the tip of Harry's tongue. There was nothing he could say that felt true, except, "He's hiding something, Ron. You expect me not to try and figure out what it is?"
"Hiding something? Harry, of course he is! He's a Malfoy for Merlin's sake! When is he ever not hiding something?"
But there was more to it than that. There were things that Harry had no idea how to explain but had somehow woven themselves into the very fabric of his being. Like how nothing quite matched the feeling of being captured by sparkling grey eyes caught in the sun. Or how every moment he spent on the outside of that white room was like being caught in a constant current that threatened to pull him under. There was something happening to him, and the only undeniable truth that Harry could cling to was that Malfoy was somehow at its epicenter.
Or will their relationship fizzle out yet again? Rita Skeeter had written.
Yet again.
~5 August 1999~
After Ron left, he and Ginny had fought. It had been vicious and nasty, and both of them had said things that they would probably regret later. Ginny had called Harry a smarmy bastard with a pathological hero complex, and in response, Harry had called Ginny an uptight bitch and a workaholic. Needless to say, that last comment had assured Harry at least a week on the sofa.
Which was where he was now, moonlight pouring in through the bare windows, and flat silence swallowing up the stifling anger that had filled the room just hours before. Huffing, Harry wiggled around in the blankets he'd arranged on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable nook. Of course, there was none. It was posh and modern and the most uncomfortable thing in the entire universe.
It didn't help that Rita Skeeter's article kept nudging its way into every crevice of conscious thought. He'd read the article so many times now that he practically had it memorized, which only worried him further. But there had been too many things she'd said that hadn't made sense.
Last summer.
Romeo and Juliet.
Yet again.
Harry frowned. He was no Hermione when it came to literature, but he wasn't an idiot either. It was enough to cement his suspicions that Malfoy was hiding something. Of course…it was enough to raise other suspicions as well. Ones he didn't feel at all comfortable with.
After another hour of restless tossing and turning, Harry finally gave up on sleep. He went to the bathroom, threw on a pair of jeans and a light jacket and watched television until morning light crept over the horizon. He watched the sun rise with an odd forlornness tightening in his chest. He knew what he had to do, and yet he wasn't sure what would happen after it was done. It felt like a turning point—a fork in a one way road that he could never return to. If he was right, everything would change.
Stiffness clung to his muscles as he pushed himself to his feet. Grabbing his wand from the coffee table, he raised it, and with a wide swish, apparated to St. Mungo's.
Autopilot carried him to the third floor where Tenneal was waiting in his usual spot behind the tall, white desk. Harry doubted the man ever left that desk.
Tenneal nodded at Harry in a silent greeting, but Harry couldn't quite manage anything but a mangled grimace. "I'll see myself to Malfoy's room if that's alright," Harry said.
Tenneal merely grunted, but Harry didn't bother to ask for clarification. He took off towards the psychiatric hall, his vision swallowed by the long tunnel of white.
As his legs carried him down the hall, an eerie sort of calm seemed to settle over him. He wasn't sure if it was the lack of sleep, or something else, but somehow he felt like he was finally close to finding something true in his life again. Like this was the answer to the question he'd never known to ask.
Harry stopped in front of Malfoy's door and opened it.
Malfoy was still curled up in his bed, his knees drawn up into his chest and his cheek cradled in the crook of his arm. His pale hair fell in gentle wisps across the drawn line of his brow, just long enough to curl at the ends. Harry cleared his throat as he stepped farther into the room, but Malfoy only hummed and curled deeper into his pillow.
"Malfoy?"
The sound of his voice seemed to be enough to pull Malfoy into consciousness. Long limbs unfolded and stretched, muscles and bone rippling beneath white cloth. Harry felt his throat go inexplicably dry.
Malfoy blinked languidly at him. "Merlin, you came back again. Will I never be spared the rod of your presence?"
Words seemed more difficult now with Malfoy's eyes fixed on him, soft and warm in the early morning light. Harry threaded his fingers together, grounding himself in the sensation. He didn't know where to start. Last night he'd thought through this conversation so many times and run through so many scenarios that he was sure reality would pale by comparison, but now that he was actually here he had no idea how to get the conversation where he needed it to go.
"I actually came here to tell you that…I won't be stopping by anymore," Harry said.
"Oh?"
"I—there was an article in the Prophet."
Malfoy didn't move.
"And Ginny…" Harry frowned, unsure of what he was trying to say or why. His eyes fell to the ground and found a small crack that parted the smooth marble.
Yet again.
Drawing in his resolve, Harry focused on the crack, and not on the question he was about to ask. The line of it was long and jagged like a lightning bolt…like his scar. "Malfoy…did something happen between us last summer? Before Hogwarts?"
The responding silence was harsh and it pressed into his ears like cotton.
"Like, did we ever meet up?" he tried again.
"No," Malfoy answered.
"But, the article seemed to impl—"
"No," Malfoy said again, harder this time.
Harry felt his gaze drawn back to Malfoy's and found nothing but ice waiting for him. It still stung somehow, even though Harry had been expecting it. It still hurt to know that Malfoy could brush him off like he was nothing.
"Fine," Harry said, turning on his heel to leave. "Goodbye."
He flung open the door and slammed it shut behind him, making his way back down the hallway with a reinvigorated resolve. He'd given Malfoy his chance to come forward with the truth, and now Harry was forced to do the only thing he could think to do. He was done giving Malfoy chances.
Once outside, Harry apparated as close as he could to the London Wizarding Library. Luckily, it was still early enough that the streets were mostly deserted and Harry was able to slip through the alleyway entrance without notice.
Mist clung thickly to the damp brick and cement, catching the muted overhead sunlight in brilliant swirls of white and silver. Humidity fogged Harry's glasses and curled the hair that swept across his forehead. He removed his glasses and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt as the alley grew steadily thinner.
He'd only been to the Wizarding Library once—last year with Hermione over the Christmas break—but he remembered the entrance with an acute vividness. He stopped and stared up at the vertical bricks, reaching up and pulling the darkest one from the wall.
The image of pale flesh and a thin wrist flashed across Harry's vision, nearly causing him to drop the brick. Flinching back, Harry blinked, his breath overly loud in the dense quiet of the alleyway. He looked around, his ears straining as his hand went to his pocket for his wand, but the alley was as deserted as it had been when he'd arrived.
Frowning, Harry placed the tip of his wand to the brick's surface. "The first step towards knowledge is to know that we are ignorant."
The brick disappeared with a loud pop, and suddenly the alleyway crashed in on him. Wind roared in his ears as he was swept into an endless black.
"Section please," the automated voice said.
"Daily Prophet archives."
There was a small pause. "Name please."
"Harry Potter."
"Access granted. Enjoy your stay. The first step towards knowledge is to know that we are ignorant."
The blackness swelled out into a cramped space filled to the brim with bookshelves and low-hanging chandeliers. The air smelled heavily of paper and ink, and Harry couldn't help but feel a little nauseated by it. He had never liked reading.
The sheer number of shelves was overwhelmingly daunting, and for a moment Harry considered coming back once he'd had a good cup of coffee, but just as he went to leave he realized that the shelves were labeled according to Prophet issue dates. This was going to be even easier than he'd hoped.
A trolly and quill rolled up to him expectantly, but Harry waved them away. He didn't want any sort of record of his searches on this, no matter how the library boasted of the prowess of their confidentiality incantations.
Harry maneuvered himself through the bookshelves until he found himself looking at the section that contained articles from the previous summer. The copies were contained in thick, leather-bound books that Harry was quite sure weighed well over two stones each. With a good amount of difficulty, he wedged out the 1998 volumes for June and July. They fell to the ground with sounding thumps, dust pluming up into the air and tickling Harry's nose. He positioned himself on the ground next to the volumes and summoned a candle for better light. Taking a deep breath, he cracked open the cover of June's volume and winced at the vast amount of fine print that met him.
Perhaps he'd be needing that cup of coffee after all. Or a pot.
~6 August 1999~
Harry's heart was thundering.
Articles lay in haphazard patterns around him, the pale parchment flickering under the fading candlelight. Harry stared at each of them, dumbfounded.
Spotted: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy at the Wizard's Club for an Early Morning Rendezvous.
Spotted: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy at Hogwarts Station.
Spotted: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy Looking Chummy at Ollivander's.
Spotted.
Spotted.
Spotted.
Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.
Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.
Harry Potter and...Draco Malfoy.
Their names were everywhere, dabbled throughout more articles than Harry knew what to do with. He felt faintly sick, his stomach churning as his mind put together the pieces of what he'd discovered.
No one had told him that he'd seen Malfoy last summer.
He'd asked, and no one had told him…
Harry pressed his eyes shut as furious magic crackled the air around him, making his ears pop. The air in his lungs didn't seem to be enough, and he found himself gasping to keep his head clear. For a year he'd been like this—stumbling, alone in the void—and Malfoy had known something. Of course he'd known. That's why things had been so different between them last year at Hogwarts. That's why Harry had felt...
But who else had known? Surely Ron and Hermione and even Ginny must have—
Harry shook the thoughts away, rage still boiling his blood as he began snatching up the articles and stuffing them into his pockets.