Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! They make me so happy when I get them! I tried to get this chapter out in record time, and it's the longest yet, nearly 9000 words. These chapters keep getting longer and longer, I swear. It needs to stop, arghhh, or this story will be about a million words long.
WARNINGS: more torture, yay!
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE PURGE OF HOGWARTS BEGINS
o
It had only been three days. Harry had made a truce with Draco three days ago.
And now this happened, and he hadn't even gotten to eat his breakfast yet.
Harry had taken a total of three steps out of his dormitory before he was blocked by a hushed crowd of people lingering in the great circular room that was attached to the four dormitories. Everyone was looking up and whispering, and slowly, tremulously, Harry looked up too.
He was greeted by the morbid sight of Seamus Finnigan hanging upside down from the ceiling, completely knocked out—or maybe dead, but Harry really didn't want to think of that possibility right before breakfast—and his face painted to resemble a clown's.
Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but opened them again when he heard Ron's voice.
"The stupid Hunt." Ron gritted his teeth.
"Somebody'll get him down from there eventually, won't they?" asked Ernie. He, Dean, Anthony, Terry, and Neville were congregated around Ron, all pale-faced and miserable. Harry edged closer to them so he could join their conversation, and tried to swallow the bitterness he felt at not being part of their little group in the first place.
They were never mean to him, of course. They gave him the obligatory pitying looks when he came to class bruised and bloody, and Ron always got Percy to bring Harry some pain-numbing and infection-prevention bandages to help with the cuts from the Iron Wizard. Madam Pomfrey was explicitly forbidden to treat Dolohov's Tea Servant, so Harry's injuries had been accumulating as they healed very slowly these past few weeks. And of course, Harry couldn't find someone else to fully heal his wounds, because Dolohov would notice and reapply them, and he would surely make that reapplication ten times more painful.
In any case, the other first year boys felt quite sorry for him and assisted him in the little things they could do to alleviate his pain, like giving him homework answers. But they stayed away from him otherwise, and it wasn't just because Harry was an overall cold and unsocial person. No, his isolation could be blamed on the rumor—which had a lot of evidence behind it, if the horror stories concerning the previous Tea Servants were true—that Dolohov liked to torture his victim's closest friends. He was researching psychological torture and was curious to see if it would hurt children more to see their best friends hurt, so anybody who was close to the Tea Servant would burn along with him.
Lately, Dolohov had been asking Harry—in a perfectly polite tone, of course—if he'd made any friends at Hogwarts. Harry wanted to kill the sick bastard, and at night, he fantasized about torturing Dolohov to keep himself going.
"Theodore bloody Nott," Ron was snarling, jerking Harry out of his reverie. "He won't give it a rest, will he? I swear it's gotten worse."
"What's gotten worse?" asked Harry, making his presence clear.
All the boys stared at him as if they couldn't believe he had uttered such a stupid question.
"The Hunt," said Dean. "It's Hunting Season. It's been Hunting Season all of September and this month, you know."
"Hey!" Neville piped up. "It's not his fault he doesn't know. He's been out of it all last month. I don't think he's been paying attention to what the Elites have been doing to all of us, and they're not bothering him because… well, I've always wondered why they never bothered him…"
Harry blushed, not sure if his face was red from anger or embarrassment. He'd seen the world through a blurred lens of agony ever since the tea sessions started, and the very last thing on his mind had been his classmates' problems. He hardly ever talked to any of them, either, so that didn't help.
"Okay, Harry," Ron said with a sigh. "Let's go to breakfast. I'll tell you on the way there."
"I know what Hunting Season is," Harry muttered, following the other boys out of the circular room. "You all told me a long time ago. The Skull Initiates each get a target to screw with for a few months, and—"
"Yeah, I know you know about that," said Ron. "You've been busy… with…with Dolohov's tea stuff and all, and we didn't want to make your burden any heavier, so we didn't… so we didn't tell you what's been going on, uh, though I'm not sure how you missed it…"
"Spit it out, will you?"
"Look, Potter," said Anthony, "you know that Nott fellow in our year, the Bulstrode girl, and Crabbe and Goyle?"
Harry vaguely remembered the dark-haired boy who was close to Draco, the tall girl, and the two boulder-sized boys. "They're the Initiates in our year, aren't they? And Draco Malfoy, too."
"Yeah—wait, Malfoy?" Ron said, biting his lip. "Oh. I guess he probably is. He hasn't really been doing anything to us though, I don't think."
Harry turned red. "Forget it. Nott, Bulstrode, Crabbe, and Goyle then."
"Right. So after around a week or so of constant attacks back in September—when was it, the second week of school?—we figured out that Nott's target was Neville, Bulstrode's is me, Crabbe's is Anthony, and Goyle's is Parvati."
And I'm Draco's target, Harry realized, remembering Draco had admitted during their talk a few days ago that he'd been trying to get Harry in trouble the first day of Potions.
"But never mind that target stuff," continued Ron, leaning towards Harry. "It doesn't matter to Nott anymore. Last week, he started going after everyone, which is why Seamus is dangling from the ceiling, even though he's not anyone's target. We've figured out from overhearing their conversations that Nott's basically the mastermind behind all these attacks, and the other Initiates are just doing what he says. And recently"—he lowered his voice conspiratorially here, as they had now emerged onto the first floor—"we've started to suspect that he's roped some of the other first year Elites into his little game, because two days ago Zabini and Smith hexed Dean behind the greenhouses, and they're definitely not Initiates—at least not yet."
Dean shuddered at the memory. Harry just then noticed that he had a swollen and cut lip.
"I swear that if there's some sort of Skull awards they give out," muttered Terry darkly, "Theodore Nott would win them all. He tries too bloody hard. I bet he doesn't stop plotting even when he sleeps."
"And Malfoy?" asked Harry, before he could stop himself.
Ron gave him a strange look. "What about him?"
Harry reworded his question, reddening again. "You said the Initiates were attacking everyone. Why didn't they attack me? I think I'm Malfoy's target, but even then, they would've attacked me if they were just attacking everybody."
"I dunno." Ron shrugged. "Maybe Malfoy has something big planned for you and told the rest not to interfere."
I'll bet he does, Harry snorted to himself.
"Or maybe he chickened out, and just told them that just to save face. It doesn't matter. They haven't been bothering you." He sounded a little jealous for a second, then the pitying expression returned to his face when he glanced over Harry's fresh cuts from yesterday.
Harry preferred the jealousy, but he didn't have time to brood about this now. Dark Arts was today, and he would have to keep alert. He was slipping in all of his classes—funnily enough, being in acute agony every single day made studying rather difficult—but Dark Arts was the one class he could not afford to be distracted in. And after lunch, he would be meeting with Draco to research their "little problem," and Harry was determined to interrogate him about the Skulls.
Draco's lunch wasn't going down properly. He felt as if there was something lodged in his throat, making it difficult for him to swallow. And the reason for this was Theo glaring at him from across the table, in the same way he'd been doing for the past few days, ever since their argument.
"What do you want?" Draco spat, slamming down his spoon.
"To talk." Theo's voice was infuriatingly soft.
Draco stood up and sniffed. He didn't have time for this. He had to meet Harry in about ten minutes. "You can talk to my empty plate." He'd gone a whole five paces before he heard the clatter of cutlery and hurried steps behind him. He sped up, hoping desperately that it wasn't Theo who was following him, but no luck. The moment Draco was out of the Great Hall, Theo seized him by the arm and dragged him into a secret broom closet behind a tapestry.
"I don't want to talk about the Second Trial." Draco tried to yank his arm out of Theo's vice-like grip. "I have places to be, people to meet. I'm a busy man—let me go!"
"I have something important to give you," said Theo, utterly placid.
Draco wanted to thrash and kick like a toddler, but, well, he'd already lost most of his dignity this year, and he didn't want to lose all of it. "Let go of my arm and make it quick."
Somewhat reluctantly, Theo released Draco and stepped back. And then he reached into his pocket to remove a golden letter.
Draco gulped. "From the Skulls."
Theo handed it to him. "This is for you. You weren't in the common room when the Skulls came in to give the letters to us yesterday."
Draco hastily opened the letter, his heart pounding in his throat. He skim-read it while Theo watched him with burning, piercing eyes.
"Another meeting," Draco whispered at last, looking up. "The week before holiday break starts."
"I know." Theo shifted his feet. "I got the same letter. And I also know the letter says that the next meeting will be a checkpoint of sorts, where they'll track our progress with the Second Trial. You'll have to tell them what you've been doing, and you won't be able to lie. They'll give you Veritaserum."
"I know what the letter says!" Draco's head hurt. "I don't need to pass the Second Trial to become a Skull, so it doesn't matter." He shoved the letter into his pocket and made for the tapestry, feeling his lunch rise up and trying to swallow it back down. Failing the first two Trials wouldn't look good, but it wasn't like he had a choice. Attacking Harry was out of the question, especially now that they'd made a truce.
Maybe Draco could trick Harry somehow, sneakily break the truce, but that defeated the purpose of the Second Trial. It was meant to be an obvious and indisputable show of power, not cunning… but nobody had ever said it couldn't be cunning, had they? The gears in Draco's head began to turn, but his plan was too half-formed right now to voice to Theo.
"Say that again," hissed Theo, his tone deadly.
"Say what?" Draco pivoted around, bristling. "That I don't need to pass the Second Trial? There. I said it again. I'm not happy about it, but it's a possibility."
Theo slammed his palm against the wall, and Draco flinched at the sound. "Something's changed you. You used to have more ambition than this. You're the one who went after Potter on the first day of school, on the train, and now it's like all the ambition you ever had has been sucked out of you, and I don't understand why you don't care about anything anymore."
His voice softened then, and that made Draco flinch worse. "It's Potter, isn't it? You're scared of him?"
Draco's response was as cold as frost. "Get your nose out of my business, Theo."
Theo straightened up to his full height and grabbed Draco's arm again. "It's okay, Draco. You can tell me. I've suspected for a while now, but I have a solution. You saw what I did to Finnigan this morning, right?"
"That was you?" spluttered Draco. But now that he thought about it, it wasn't that surprising. Only Theo could've pulled something like that off so flawlessly.
Theo narrowed his eyes. "Of course, you've been so distracted these past few weeks that you haven't noticed what I've been doing at all. You don't care."
I'm very sorry for being distracted because Harry bloody Potter's magic spews out of me at eight o'clock every night and he looks like he wants to murder me all day.
"You'll notice that Finnigan's not anybody's target. I convinced the Initiates to start going after all the other first years—and not just our targets—last week so you could join the rest of us." Theo bounced on the soles of his feet. "Isn't it a brilliant idea? I've asked around, and I've heard that if you end up varying your targets and not just sticking to one, and the Skulls will take that into consideration, too. Just go after Potter once or twice to satisfy the conditions and then help us go after the rest of the dirty-bloods. We've already started doing that, so it'll be an easy transition for you. It'll probably get us all extra points."
Draco paused, both impressed and touched now, even though he'd been furious a few days ago. Maybe Theo did care about him. And he wasn't yelling at Draco today, so that was nice of him. "That is a good idea. You've been doing this for a week?"
Theo brightened. "Yeah, and I talked to Zacharias Smith and Blaise Zabini, too. They're interested in joining the Skulls next year, so I told them I'd get them sponsors if they helped us. And we're planning something really big for the dirty-bloods on Halloween." His eyes were glittering now, wide and eager.
"I'll help you with whatever it is you have planned for Halloween," promised Draco, feeling a little eager himself. He'd been so depressed this past month, juggling the magic explosions and his crippling fear of Harry. But more than anything else, he mourned the loss of his self-esteem. He'd been so confident once upon a time, so assured in his ability to wind up deserving dirty-bloods. Then Harry bloody Potter had happened, and made Draco feel more powerless than anyone else had before.
And Draco could do what Theo was asking of him. It wouldn't be hard, if Harry wasn't involved. Of course, he wouldn't be able to put off attacking Harry forever if he wanted to pass the Second Trial, but in the meantime he'd do what he could to make himself feel better.
"And Draco?" Theo sounded nervous for some reason. "If you're scared of Potter, I can go after him for you. I can help you pass the Second Trial, and make it look like you did it all your own. I even have a plan for it."
Theo was speaking very quickly now, and in a very scattered and repetitive manner, making Draco's head spin.
"I've been asking everyone to hold off on Potter, waiting for you to do something, but you're too scared of him. So I'll do it for you, if you want. Just because I've been yelling at you lately—and I'm sorry about that, I really, truly am—doesn't mean I'll yell at you if you ask nicely that you need help. You're not weak, Draco. I'm sorry I said that. You know I didn't mean it. You just need some guidance to be stronger. I can help you with that, and I promise I'll try my best. I'm your friend, and I care. So don't be afraid to ask me for help, is what I wanted to say." He stopped talking abruptly, out of breath, and gave Draco a beseeching look.
Draco blinked, trying to sort out the mess of emotions in his head. The most prevalent of them was indignation. Who did Theo think he was, a child who needed hand-holding? "I don't need you to go after Potter for me," Draco said with a hiss, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "I have a plan for him for now. Don't worry." A plan he'd come up with about thirty seconds ago, one that he was going to keep secret until he was sure of all the intricacies of it.
And if it doesn't work, I won't be able to pass the Second Trial. I'll have to live with that. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm leaving."
Not giving Theo a backward glance, Draco made his way to the tapestry. A few seconds later, he was hurrying down the hall to where he and Harry were meeting to skim through huge, heavy, and dull books, looking for tips on controlling their bond. Draco would rather be anywhere else.
They'd only had about two meetings so far, since it had only been a few days since they'd made their truce, and said meetings had been largely useless. But at least they had been peaceful so far, and neither boy had tried to kill the other.
Yet.
Unfortunately, the peaceful streak did not last, and their third meeting was a disaster. A week afterwards, Harry glowered at Draco over a tray of Maleficent Magnolias in Herbology, hoping that his gaze was intense enough to set the brat on fire. For the first time ever, Professor Zinnia had paired the non-Elites up with the Elites and asked them to pot the newly budded Maleficent Magnolias, an assignment which had been met with much complaining from the Elites.
Usually, Zinnia caved and did what they asked, but she seemed particularly distracted and jittery today and kept looking out the greenhouse windows. For some reason, the creatures on Hogwarts grounds were getting restless and acting strangely, ambushing random students who ventured outside the school walls. It had gotten so bad two days ago that Care of Magical Creatures classes had to be canceled. But Harry didn't take that subject, so he didn't really care, and was using this opportunity to intimidate Draco as much as he possibly could.
During that last catastrophic meeting, Harry had asked Draco what he knew about the Initiates' plans, and why they hadn't been attacking Harry, and what Draco was planning for him. None of these questions were answered at all, of course, and when Harry began his speech on how the Skulls were the scum of the earth and nothing but mindless and bloodthirsty sheep, Draco threw a book at his head and started screaming about dirty-bloods, as if he thought that was a sufficient insult.
Then Harry used his magic to make all the books in the room attack Draco. A bruised Draco tried to steal Harry's magic again in retaliation, but Harry had been practicing in secret with the bond a bit and was prepared. When Draco struck, Harry pinched the connection shut. He only managed to do it for about three seconds, but those few seconds were enough to throw Draco off and send him running out of the room, near tears.
A week later, Harry was still glowing from the achievement. They hadn't had any meetings since, and he didn't really miss them. Of course, they would have to make up eventually and get back to working on the bond, but Harry wanted to have a bit of fun with Draco first.
Making sure Draco was watching him, he grasped a Maleficent Magnolia around the stem and squeezed. The flower writhed in in his fist, opening its jaws to gape for air, but Harry squeezed harder, giving Draco a threatening smirk as he did it, relishing in the terrified expression on the stupid prat's face.
"MR. POTTER!" shrieked Professor Zinnia. "YOU LET GO OF THAT RIGHT NOW!"
Harry loosened his fingers, still sneering at Draco, and the plant plopped limply into the dirt. It was dead.
Draco's face went white.
"What?" said Harry in an innocent voice. "I didn't mean to do that. My power just ran away with me there." He seized another Maleficent Magnolia, this time one from Draco's side of the tray, and Draco jumped. Harry grinned sinisterly at him.
Tormenting Draco gave him so much joy, and Harry decided to snatch him away after class, not wanting to let the other boy go free so soon. He'd done it discreetly enough that none of the other Elites had even noticed that Draco wasn't among their ranks anymore.
Gleefully, he cornered Draco against the outside wall of the greenhouse, still giving him that malicious grin. "Want to apologize about all that stuff you said about dirty-bloods, Malfoy? If you do, I won't hex you too much."
"You know I can steal your magic," squeaked Draco, looking around hopelessly for somebody to help him. The rest of their classmates were across the grounds by now, and Professor Zinnia was inside the greenhouse and therefore not aware of their presence.
"You tried to do that last week, didn't you?" said Harry, twirling his wand. "And remember how well that worked?"
"You did something," Draco gasped out, trying to melt into the wall. "You've been practicing with the bond, and you did something."
Harry rolled his eyes. "It's fairly obvious that I did something, Malfoy. But you're missing the point, which is that you can't steal my magic anymore." Of course, Draco still could and would discover that sorry fact eventually, but he didn't need to know it right now, especially when Harry was having so much fun toying with him.
"Well, you still send your magic to me when Dolohov's torturing you," Draco spat out, edging along the side of the greenhouse. Harry followed him, seething. "So clearly you don't have the bond as under control as you say you do." He took a breath, puffing up like a bird about to burst into song. "You—you son of a Mudblood."
Harry lunged at him, and Draco made a run for it, slipping around him and heading in an aimless direction. Harry bolted after him, screaming bloody murder. Forget his wand, forget his magic, he would use his damn fists. Draco deserved nothing less than the beating a Muggle would get.
Distantly, he was aware of the fact that they were heading in the opposite direction of the school, towards the Forbidden Forest, and now they were in its outskirts, but found that he didn't care. He wouldn't care about anything until Malfoy's face was sufficiently black and blue.
Draco stumbled on the uneven forest floor, long enough for Harry to catch up and grab him around the waist, causing them to topple to the leaf-covered ground in a tangle of limbs and fists and swear words. Harry gave him one good punch in the stomach, and Draco cried out, digging his nails into the delicate skin on Harry's wrist. Now it was Harry's turn to cry out, and Harry's turn to be on the ground, getting punched. Draco took out his wand and started an incantation, but Harry deflected it with a flick of his hand, sending it flying several feet away. He flipped their positions again, and now Draco was writhing under him, but his nails were still in Harry's arm, and they were drawing blood. Harry yanked his hair, hard enough to tear out some white-blond strands, and Draco bit down, just as hard, on the hand that was holding his face to the ground. Harry retracted it, letting out a girlish squeal, and now both of them were throwing their fists around at random. Harry might've caught Draco's nose, and Draco smacked Harry's glasses off, and now Draco was kneeing him in the stomach, and now Harry had Draco's hand and was bending it backwards, trying to snap it—
Then both of them noticed that a certain sound was multiplying rapidly around them, filling the air and the making the leaves rustle.
Click. Click. Click.
Slowly, Harry raised his head, and what greeted him made him scream at the top of his lungs. Right on cue, Draco started screaming too. The two of them scrambled to their feet, their little scuffle forgotten, and looked around the clearing wildly in an attempt to figure out which direction they'd come from, realizing too late that they were fenced in by trees on all sides.
Well, not just trees. Harry wished it were just trees.
Because, surrounding them in a ring of many-eyed, many-legged horror, were countless, massive spiders, standing so close together that there was no space for even light to shine between their hairy bodies.
But, miraculously, they weren't attacking. They were just staring at the two boys and clicking their pincers.
"I—I thought acromantulas lived deeper in the forest," said Draco in a quiet voice. Harry started; he'd forgotten that Draco was even there.
"Clearly, they decided to go exploring," Harry snapped back. He dug in his pocket for his wand, ready to tear his way through the hellish things if they wouldn't move out of the way, but then the spider in front of him spoke.
"You are what awakened us," it said, shifting its legs. Its gaze was maddened and gleamed red, and all the spiders had that same rabid spark in their eyes.
"Everything in the forest has been stirring. Because of you," hissed another. Vaguely, Harry remembered something about Care of Magical Creatures classes being canceled this week because the animals were acting up, but resolved that he could think about what that meant when he wasn't in mortal danger.
With a determined twitch of his hand, he blasted a gaping hole in the circle of spiders, then scrambled through it. The spiders he displaced screeched and slammed into the trees behind them, falling to the ground in crumpled black heaps, but still their kin did not strike him. They all just continued staring, rotating slowly to keep him in their line of sight.
Having no idea what was going on but not about to question it, Harry took the opportunity to run, Draco hot on his heels. Undeterred, the spiders tailed them, their many legs rustling over the dead leaves on the forest floor. "We cannot kill you yet, Colossus," they hissed all at once, their voices blending into one horrible, long song that Harry did not understand. "But soon, you will be mortal. On Samhain."
And then he heard a scream and whirled around, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat. Draco had tripped over a branch and stumbled to the ground, his scream getting cut off abruptly. Two of the biggest spiders, their pincers out and their eyes madder than ever, scuttled over him, pressing him into the ground with their weight.
"We cannot kill you yet," repeated the spiders as one, their words interspersed with clicks, "but we are hungry. We will eat this one today, and then you on Samhain."
Harry didn't breathe. He didn't even think. He just willed. The two spiders went flying off Draco, then burst into flames that consumed them from the inside out, leaving nothing but fried corpses behind. Draco whimpered on the ground, touching his face and neck to make sure everything was still in place. The rest of the spiders paused, considering the two boys, and then scurried away, apparently deciding that dinner was more trouble than it was worth.
Harry and Draco crouched there, on the edge of the warm, sunlit clearing, staring wide-eyed at each other. Draco tried to get up, but his legs were shaking too much to support him, so he fell ungracefully back to the ground. Harry almost held out a hand to help him up, but then remembered that he wasn't supposed to be helping Draco.
"You—you came b-back for me," stuttered Draco at last, wrapping his arms around himself.
"I… did?" Pieces of memory drifted across Harry's brain. It had all happened so fast that he hadn't registered everything properly. "Oh." He realized that they were both messed up from their fight earlier—before the spiders, that was. Draco's cheek was red and scratched, and Harry's arm throbbed. He didn't feel like apologizing for that; Draco had deserved it, but he hadn't deserved to die, and beyond that, Harry didn't want him to die. Seeing the spiders crawling over Draco had filled him with an inhuman, all-consuming rage—
"What were they saying?" said Draco, interrupting Harry's confused thoughts. "The spiders. They didn't attack you the entire time, even though they attacked me. They called you something. What was it, that word?"
"Colossus."
"And they—they said they couldn't kill you until Samhain, whatever that means." Draco was breathless.
"Of course they couldn't kill me," scoffed Harry, gesturing to the burnt corpses of the spiders. "Now, get up. We have to go back to the castle before anyone misses us. Are you going to tell a professor? I'm not." He didn't expect them to help or do anything or even care, but Draco was an Elite, so maybe he would.
Draco shook his head, laying rest to Harry's fears. "No. We got out of it. And it's not anything that the professors don't know already. Everybody knows something's been going on with the magical creatures. But—but why?" He looked suspiciously at Harry, narrowing his eyes. "They said you're the one who awakened them, I remember. What did you do?"
His voice had an accusatory tone to it, and Harry lost it at him. "I don't know any more than you do, all right? Now, get up, you ungrateful brat, or I'll leave you here for the spiders to find."
Draco got up, dusting off his clothes, looking a bit abashed. "I'm not ungrateful. I'm sorry for calling… calling you what I did. You saved my life."
Harry froze, but did not reply, not wanting to give Draco the satisfaction of hearing one. He strode out of the clearing, furious at himself for being so affected by an apology that he wholly deserved. He wasn't a sniveling maiden, for Merlin's sake.
"Harry?"
"Don't call me that!" Harry spat over his shoulder, his face brilliantly red.
"Tonight, at nine, our usual place?" asked Draco in a small voice. "Our meetings, remember? We still have to work on that, Harry. We have to make it work. I won't throw books this time. I promise. I'll try."
And when Draco said it like that, sounding sheepish and nervous and so genuine, Harry couldn't stop himself from nodding.
Later that day, Harry dragged himself into the Hogwarts kitchens. It was thirty minutes to eight o'clock, and he wanted to make sure he was plenty early to Dolohov's tea session so that the psychopath didn't have a reason to torture him. Any more reason than usual, at least.
A house-elf named Dinky led him to the tray of tea without fanfare, bowing and squeaking something. Like most of the other house-elves, she was covered in bruises and cuts. Harry bleakly wondered if Dolohov was in charge of house-elf discipline, or if it was one of the other professors.
"Sir will be careful?" asked Dinky, blinking her huge blue eyes at him.
Harry stared at the tray with blank eyes. "I'll try. Thank you, Dinky."
"Please, sir, be careful. Halloween is coming," whispered Dinky.
Then, all at once, all the other house-elves started babbling at this, drowning the kitchen in high and shrill voices. Harry's head spun at the sudden noise, and he grabbed the tray and hurried out of the kitchen as fast as he could. The house-elves had been behaving oddly all of October, panicking at the smallest things.
Shaking his head as though shaking off a fly, he made his way to Dolohov's office, holding the tea tray precariously. He got there fifteen minutes early, and knew from experience that Dolohov would not be happy if he walked in when it wasn't exactly eight on the dot, so he milled around outside and tried to think about anything other than what he was going to suffer in fifteen minutes.
"Fuck you… don't… dare tell me… lying bastard!"
Harry jumped, taken aback, then moved closer to the door of Dolohov's office and pressed his ear to it. He really shouldn't be listening to this conversation, but Dolohov was distracted for maybe the first time in his life—and Harry wouldn't get an opportunity to eavesdrop as good as this one ever again, would he?
"Headmaster, how many times must I tell you that I don't know who it is?" Dolohov was saying, sounding exasperated.
Thorfinn Rowle's guttural voice seeped through the door. "Hogwarts is preparing for a Purge, and you don't know who triggered it? It's been a week since the creatures have lost their minds, and it's only getting worse. You'd better find out, Dolohov, or I swear I will sack you and skin your filthy hide—"
"It will stop on Samhain," said Dolohov in a calm voice, "and the cycle will either end or begin anew, depending on whether or not the Purge manages to eliminate its target."
Rowle growled, and Harry heard the clatter of chairs. "And if the Purge can't eliminate the Colossus"—Harry stiffened, his breath catching—"then we call the Dark Lord?"
Dolohov no longer sounded calm, and there was a telltale thunk as he smacked his cane against the table. "If you tell the Dark Lord, we're all dead. The Purge was meant to be an unnecessary safety measure. It was never meant to occur, and a Colossus should have not been allowed to live long enough to attend Hogwarts. If the Dark Lord couldn't sense it and didn't kill it when it was born—"
"But how?" spluttered Rowle, and Harry could imagine spittle flying from his mouth. "A Colossus's power shines like a beacon; something must be blocking the signals, which is why it survived for so long and why nobody felt its aura—"
"The point is, my dear man," interrupted Dolohov with a snarl, "the Dark Lord will shred us to pieces if he discovers there is a Colossus at Hogwarts and we are no closer to discovering who it is. We let the Purge continue. A few students may die in the crossfire, but it will end on Samhain, and with it, so will the Colossus."
"And if the Purge doesn't manage to kill it?" spat Rowle.
"The Purge will restart on Beltane," said Dolohov simply. "And then Samhain next year. And then Beltane again. Over and over again, until the Colossus is finally dead. And the Dark Lord will never find out that it ever walked these halls."
"You are speaking of heresy—" began Rowle.
"If you want to tell our Lord, be my guest," said Dolohov, tapping his cane again. "But then you will find the entire school, and us with it, going up in flames. The Dark Lord is terrified of nothing in this world—a world he has already conquered—except the possibility of another Colossus being born in it. He will hardly be rational."
"You dare speak of him in such a way, when he has trusted you with such information—"
"That's right. Get out of my fucking office, Headmaster. And Mr. Potter? Please bring me my tea now. I'm sure you must be tired of standing, even though you did get to lean against the door."
Harry's veins turned to ice, and for a moment he stopped breathing, his head feeling weightless, as if the rest of his body had fallen away from it. Dolohov had caught him eavesdropping.
Dolohov had caught him eavesdropping.
The door burst open and Rowle lumbered out of it, pinning Harry in place with his tiny, beady eyes, which were sunken deep into the copious amount of flesh on his face. He took out his wand, and Harry's mouth gaped in horror—
"Headmaster, may I request that you do not kill my Tea Servant? His sanity's lasted longer than the rest, and I'll admit I'm quite fond of him. I'm unlikely get a research subject as strong as him for several more years, since he's the only one who's never blacked out during any of his punishments. He never begs, either, which I appreciate. In any case, he just came, he'll hardly have heard anything worth repeating. Come on, now."
Headmaster Rowle gave a snort and stumped away, still throwing Harry suspicious looks over his shoulder. Harry was still too terrified to move, but sweet relief warmed his veins. Dolohov thought he had just arrived; he didn't know how long Harry had truly been standing outside.
"I said, Mr. Potter, that you can come in," said Dolohov.
Harry hurried inside the office and set the tray on the desk. He kept his head bowed and his eyes lowered, not daring to meet Dolohov's gaze like an equal would. Harry had made that mistake before, and was not anxious to repeat it.
Dolohov circled him, tutting. "If I find that your tongue has slipped, and that the school is suddenly rife with rumors about what I and the Headmaster discussed here today, you will find your tongue—and your head—woefully separated from your body. Is that clear, Mr. Potter?"
Harry nodded, so hard and fast that his neck cricked. Internally, he grinned. Dolohov kept underestimating him, looking down on him, believing him to be a harmless child, and Harry swore that he would one day make Dolohov regret ever even thinking such a thing. Harry had valuable information now, and he would use it.
"Good," said Dolohov warmly, and his footsteps receded. Harry snuck a peak at him from beneath his eyelashes, and saw him rummaging through his desk. "Very good, Mr. Potter. I am very glad that I don't have to kill you, but you do understand that I have to punish you for how naughty you've been, don't you?"
Harry's heart sunk.
"I'm sorry, it's nothing personal. But I can't let you go without punishment when you've done something that requires punishing, do you understand what I mean? If you don't punish the child, he doesn't learn. That is the most basic principle of child psychology, and I have confirmed it in my studies again and again."
Harry gave him another vigorous nod, wanting to reach out and strangle him.
"Very good, boy. I have told you about the Justice Whips before, haven't I?"
The colors in the room blurred, and Harry's breaths came out uneven. "Yes, sir. But you haven't—haven't—"
"No," agreed Dolohov, straightening up and turning to face Harry. "I haven't used them on you yet, have I?"
Harry caught sight of the Justice Whips at last, and nearly fainted on the spot. At first glance, they looked like normal whips, and that was quite awful enough on its own. But a closer look revealed they were much, much worse. Made of a thin and flexible silver-colored metal, perhaps even the same magical alloy of the Skull Masks, they glimmered in the light, deceivingly pretty.
Dolohov waved his wand, and then the whips whirred to life. As Harry watched, the metal morphed, forming countless serrated, jagged edges along the whip that each sharpened to a deadly tip.
"Designing a whip this way," said Dolohov in a clinical voice, rolling up his sleeves, "is quite ingenious, if I do say so myself. Each strike will not only blister the skin like a normal whip, it will also hook deep into the flesh, causing maximum possible injury and agony. And the edges can be retracted at command, so I will be able to blister your skin with one strike and rip it with another. Tell me, Mr. Potter, what do you think of this strategy?"
"Very clever, sir," Harry choked out.
Dolohov gave him a dazzling smile, and Harry thought of a hundred ways to kill him, right there and right then. "Thank you, Mr. Potter. Because I am not needlessly cruel, you will be allowed to keep your shirt on for the first five minutes of the procedure. Just to get warmed up, you know. Then you must take it off, of course, otherwise the punishment will not have the maximum effect. Now get on the ground, Mr. Potter, and make haste. I would like to finish up here before my tea gets cold."
Draco tapped his foot and checked his watch. Harry was late; he was supposed to be here at nine. They were meeting in an abandoned classroom, and Draco wanted to ask him how he'd managed to close their connection—or at least, it had seemed like he had, but the massive explosion Draco had suffered through at eight o'clock today and all week proved that it was still clearly open.
The door opened, and Harry stumbled in, his hair and clothes a complete mess.
Draco opened his mouth to admonish him, and then shut it with an audible smack as Harry took off his robes. Beneath them, his shirt was soaked through with blood.
"I'm sorry, Malfoy," said Harry in a slightly trembling voice, "but I don't think I'm in any condition to deal with you today. I just came to tell you why. I-I'm going—I'm going to bed."
Draco couldn't speak. His tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of his mouth. At last, after what felt like an age, but was probably only a split second, he pried his lips open. "Dolohov?"
"Who else?" Laughter bubbled from Harry's throat, and he wavered a bit on his way back out of the room.
"Wait!" Draco cried, jumping to his feet and reaching out to grab him, before realizing that wasn't the best idea right now and pulling back his hand. "Who's going to fix it? You're losing a lot of blood."
Harry shrugged. "Dolohov used a spell to clot it a bit. I won't die."
Draco's breath was coming faster now. Harry had saved his life. He didn't want to be in Harry's debt, and more than anything else, he didn't want—oh, dear Merlin, he didn't want him covered in blood, why was that so hard to admit? He vividly remembered the Skulls descending on Bodus Burke during Draco's First Trial, tearing the older boy's body apart like they were starving cannibals. He couldn't even stand to watch that, forget enjoying it, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself he could.
"Come with me," said Draco, surprised at how strong his voice sounded just then. "The Elites get private rooms that come with a med kit. You only have to ask it for the medicine you want, and it'll appear in the kit."
Harry stilled, as if daring Draco to repeat the request.
"I said, come with me," snapped Draco, taking the bait. "I can help you. You saved my life today, even though you did try to beat me up. I have honor. I'm not going to forget that."
Harry's tone was deadly. "I can't heal my wounds, or Dolohov'll notice tomorrow when he checks my back. He doesn't want them healed. If they are, he'll use the Justice Whips again. So thank you, but no thank you."
Draco tried to swallow back the sick rising in his throat. He had wondered, distantly, why Harry never healed his cuts and bruises, and had supposed it was because he didn't know how to. And those had been little cuts, not gaping, gushing ones like the ones Harry obviously had right now. He had never imagined Dolohov would do something like this. "He… he doesn't let you heal? Ever?"
"No, Malfoy, he doesn't. So if you'll excuse me—"
"My med kit probably comes with some stuff that can… help with the pain," whispered Draco, following Harry out of the room.
Harry tried to run from him, and then let out a little gasp and doubled over.
"Don't!" said Draco. "Here, lean on me. I'll take you to my room."
"I don't need your help," snarled Harry, straightening up and wincing as he did so. "I got here on my own, didn't I? And I can find others to help with the pain. There are bandages and stuff that older students get me, so I don't need you to be my hero, thank you very much."
"But it won't be as good as my medicine will be, and you won't get it right away. You're bleeding really badly. Let me do this," said Draco softly. "Let me repay my debt, Pott—Harry."
"Why're you doing this? It's creeping me out. You're going to trick me somehow, and I don't trust you."
Well, there is my plan for the Second Trial, so he's right about that.
But oddly enough, that hadn't been what Draco was thinking of when he saw Harry wobble into the room, in intense pain. He had been thinking of how wrong, how obscene, it looked to have someone as powerful and unstoppable as Harry reduced to a quivering, bloody wreck. As for why he was helping Harry, he didn't know if he was doing it because he was grateful the other boy had saved his life, or because he resented the fact that someone who had threatened him so much on a daily basis could allow himself to get so thoroughly beaten.
"Is it so hard to believe that I don't want you bleeding all over the floor? What do you take me for?"
"A Skull."
Draco had no response to this for a moment except a blinding flash of guilt, but he quickly buried it and recovered himself so fast that he doubted Harry had even noticed that he had faltered. "All right. Fine. I'm a Skull, and the real reason I'm doing this is because I want you sane so you don't lose it one of these days and kill me." Draco rolled his eyes. "Does that convince you?"
"A little," Harry grumbled. "But I'm sorry, it's too late—for the sane part, I mean."
"I'll amend my earlier statement. I meant to say 'slightly less insane,' not sane. There. Now, come on." Draco held out his arm, but Harry retreated from it, spitting like an offended goose.
"I don't need an escort, thanks."
Draco rolled his eyes again and led the way down the hallway. Harry followed him, limping and tottering and swearing under his breath. Halfway down to the dormitories, Harry nearly fainted, probably from blood loss—if Dolohov had actually clotted Harry's back properly, Draco would eat his stupid bowler hat—and tripped on a step. If Draco hadn't been there to catch him when he stumbled, he probably would've fallen down the spiral staircase and broken his neck on the banister.
"Good thing I was here, isn't it? There's my life debt repaid," sighed Draco, trying to arrange his arm around Harry's waist in a way that would cause him the least amount of pain, and also trying to ignore the fact that his own arm was now slick with Harry's blood. Harry murmured something unintelligible in his ear and buried his face in Draco's neck, too exhausted to support the weight of his own head.
At an achingly slow pace, they climbed down the stairs. Harry was heavy, and he had practically given up on walking by the time they reached the Elite dormitories. When they made their way into the common room, Draco realized, like a splash of ice-cold water to the face, what a huge mistake he had made in bringing Harry here. He had let his emotions get away with him as usual, and now he would pay dearly for his weakness.
Theo was sitting smack dab in the middle of the common room, and neither he nor anyone else had failed to miss the fact that Draco was half-carrying, half-supporting a limp and bleeding Harry Potter—his target and a dirty-blood—into the shiny Elite common room.
Theo stood up, and Draco was too ashamed to look at him. But he could feel the waves of rage, of indignation, of betrayal emanating from him. Theo spoke, then, and his voice had never before sounded so ugly and twisted.
"So you're not scared of him," Theo spat. "I was a fool for thinking you were. This past month, you were afraid to hurt him because you're his friend—"
"Theo, I swear this isn't what it looks like," pleaded Draco as he backed out of the common area to the corridor with the private bedrooms, trying to escape Theo's searing, hateful gaze. "I'll explain later."
Theo didn't say anything in response. He just stood at the end of the corridor, glaring holes into the back of Draco's head. Draco wanted to throw up, and felt like he was suffering from blood loss himself.
"This is exactly what it looks like," Harry whispered into his neck.
"You heard that?" said Draco shrilly.
"Thank you, Draco. I didn't want to be alone for this," said Harry, and passed out just as they reached the door to Draco's room. Draco staggered inside, struggling under Harry's dead weight, and dumped him as gently as he could on his bed. Harry grunted and blinked a bit, but did not completely return to consciousness.
Draco rummaged in his chest of drawers and took out the med kit, asking for Essence of Dittany—he'd use just enough to make Dolohov think that the scabbing was natural—and some pain-relieving paste. He peeled Harry's shirt off as carefully as he could, but Harry woke right up and screamed anyway as the fresh scabs tore off with his shirt, which had been glued to his back with blood. Draco drizzled the dittany over Harry's back without looking at it too much, not wanting to see the mangled, ripped flesh any more than he absolutely had to. Harry cried out in agony as the dittany scabbed his biggest and most gaping lacerations over and writhed on the bed, risking reopening his wounds, and Draco had to a press a firm hand to his head to keep him still.
"I'm sorry, Harry," Draco said, and he was shocked to discover that he was almost sobbing with the pain of seeing Harry in pain. "I'm sorry. It'll be over soon."
"It won't be over, Draco. Not ever. Not for me," said Harry, and then let out a gasp of relief as Draco began applying the paste.
Bizarrely, Draco was reminded of the conversation he had with his father the morning before he had come to Hogwarts. Lucius had mentioned an injured baby bird Draco had rescued from the Malfoy gardens and tried to convince his parents to heal. He had felt so useless then, staring at the bird's broken body, and he felt just as useless now. Lucius had called him weak for trying to save it, but Draco had thought himself weak for not being able to.
Weak. He was, in both ways.
But he'd deal with being weak, and Theo's fury, tomorrow. Tonight, he'd sit and watch Harry drift into the peaceful sleep that he fully deserved.
