"I'm bored," Draco complained. The boys were sprawled on either side of the sofa, having battled for leg-room and settled on an uneven entanglement of limbs. Draco had won two of the three cushions and Potter had to contort his body so his legs hung over the back of the sofa. Now they were lying, relaxed and satiated as the fire crackled, warmly heating the room.
"Hmm?" Potter hummed. He looked at Draco with heavy-lidded eyes. "Why is that my problem?"
Draco sighed. "There's nothing to do here."
"You just ate."
"So?"
"Read your book," Potter muttered and closed his eyes.
Draco scoffed. The book, while not boring, had done a successful job of terrifying Draco. He had only gotten to the part where the rich man was being attacked by the ghost of his old business partner, who was now a wretched, suffering soul forced to live in misery among demons because of the choices he made in his lifetime, namely putting money and power before all else. It did nothing to improve Draco's mood. "It's a stupid Muggle ghost story. It's boring."
Potter chuckled. "You're reading ghost stories?"
Draco grinned. "Appropriate, huh? I thought it was a Christmas story, so I chose it for a book report in Muggle Studies. I thought it would help get me into the spirit of things."
"The spirit of things, indeed. . ."
"Oh, shut up, Potter." Draco snorted and kicked him. "That was horrendous."
Draco could feel the sofa shaking from Potter's laughter. He rolled his eyes then laughed, too.
"Tell me a story," Draco commanded. Pansy would always tell him stories when he was bored. She was a decent storyteller. Draco appreciated her detailed descriptions of people and her interjecting insults that were sprinkled throughout. He had tried to get Crabbe to tell him a story once. Draco let him stutter through eight poorly memorized lines of The Little Broomstick That Could before he took pity on him, but Crabbe insisted that he finish. So determined was he to make it to the end of the story, that Draco realized the tale may have meant more to Crabbe than he knew. For Crabbe's fifteenth birthday, Draco bought him little silver broomstick cufflinks with a note that instructed him to wear them when he wanted to "fly higher and faster than all the rest on the Green Quidditch Pitch." Draco knew that Crabbe loved the gift, and that he wore the cufflinks with his school uniform on testing days.
"No."
"Yes. I'm bored," he insisted.
"Why don't you tell me a story, then?"
Draco considered this for a moment. "Fine."
Potter snorted and raised his eyebrows. "This oughtta be good . . ." he muttered.
Draco cleared his throat noisily then paused before beginning. "In a far away land past a far away sea, a broomstick was built, just as small as can be."
Potter widened his eyes and sat up a bit straighter. "You're serious?" he asked, his jaw dropping slightly.
Draco blinked slowly at him and then continued in a light voice. "His bristles were bushy, the stick short and wide, he hid in the broomshop, too scared to fly. For Bushy the Broomstick was smaller than most, he couldn't compare to the Gilded Ghost, or the Zippy Deluxe or the Moonbeam of Might, no, Bushy the Broomstick was frightened of flight."
"Malfoy. . .?"
"But one day, a wizard named Icarus Tottem, spotted young Bushy and quickly he bought him. 'Such fine, thick bristles, how perfect for speed! Yes, you are the broomstick that Icarus needs.' Heading straight out to the Green Quidditch Pitch, Icarus snatched up a bright Golden Snitch. 'Bushy, I need you to fly like the wind. Fly higher and faster than Gelda McTind!' Bushy's eyes widened at Gelda's new broom. A Gilded Ghost with extra foot-room! The fastest and sharpest broom on the pitch. How would he ever beat Gelda the Witch?"
Draco paused for dramatic effect and Harry shrugged animatedly. "I don't know, King Draco! How would he?"
"Well!" Draco continued. "Icarus Tottem leaned close to cry, 'Bushy, you can! I believe you can fly! Fly higher and faster than all of the rest. Believe in yourself and you'll fly the best!' But could he fly better than all of the rest? Well, Bushy revved up for the ultimate test. He knew he was small and he knew he was wide, but he knew he could do it, deep down inside. Tottem kicked off and Bushy shot forth. He pushed and he soared-he would prove his worth. 'I know I can do it!' he cried from his chest as he pushed to fly faster than all of the rest."
Draco glanced over at Potter, who was grinning in spite of himself. "Well? What happened? What happened to Bushy?" he asked in a mocking voice.
"Patience, Potter. I'm getting there. Merlin." Draco took a deep breath and continued. "He spotted the gold of the Quidditch Snitch and he pushed and he pushed to beat Gelda the Witch when a Bludger from nowhere knocked Bushy with force and Bushy the Broomstick went spinning off course!"
"Oh no!"
"Oh yes. But you see, Potter. Bushy isn't the kind of broomstick that just gives up. But what does he do? Well, I have feeling we're all in for a big surprise." Potter smirked. Draco paused and briefly wondered what the hell he was doing. But Potter was clearly enjoying the story, which meant he thought Draco was funny, which beat playing their usual mind games. Draco loved when people thought he was funny because he was.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, however, lingered the thought that this stupid and pointless storytelling was the equivalent of Draco digging his own grave. He wasn't sure how, but he could sense it.
Against his better judgment, he forged on. Potter was smiling a broad, toothy grin that Draco had never seen him smile before. He liked making Potter smile like that. And that, too, felt dangerous. He sat up and continued.
"Icarus Tottem was a Seeker, he knew, but Bushy knew just what he needed to do. He bristled his bristles and quietly said, 'I'll whack a Bludger at old Gilda's head, then Icarus Tottem will capture the Snitch and I'll be the hero of the Green Quidditch Pitch! He narrowed his eyes as the Bludger flew past, then threw his stick body into the blast. Bushy heard crack! And the splinter of wood, then took a deep breath-he knew that he could. He raced past the Bludger, he raced toward the Snitch, he raced past the floundering, blood-covered witch!"
"Uh . . ." Potter was frowning now.
"Higher and faster, he soared past the rings to the high-flying Snitch with the golden wings. Icarus Tottem reached through the mist and snatched up the Snitch in his strong, mighty fist! Bushy had done it! He'd helped win the game! But Gelda McTind was never the same. And Bushy the Broomstick learned once and for all, that sometimes to win, others must fall. The failure of others is a small price to pay, in order for broomsticks to get their own way. From that day forward, Bushy flew best. He flew higher and faster than all of the rest. The end." Draco smiled, winningly.
"Er . . ." Potter scratched his head.
"What?" Draco demanded. "It was memorized perfectly. Didn't you like it?"
Potter cleared his throat. "It's, um, kind of violent, don't you think?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "That's why I told it, Potter! I know how much you love violence."
He looked affronted. "I do not! And besides, is that-was that a children's story?"
Draco widened his eyes. "You've never heard The Little Broomstick That Could?"
Potter frowned and waved his arm in the air loosely. "Raised by Muggles . . . remember?"
Draco barked out a laugh. "God, Potter! You're completely sheltered! Bushy the Broomstick is a modern hero! He teaches children how to be the best they can be!"
"He teaches children how to hurt others to get what they want!"
"He teaches children how to succeed at any cost! Bushy teaches determination and ambition!"
"Is that really the kind of rubbish that Wizarding children are raised on?" Potter was shaking his head.
"Well," Draco said slowly. "Not all Wizarding children, I suppose. It was written by Hogwarts alum and renowned children's author, Hephaestus Sullen McCray. He was a Slytherin in the same year as my grandfather, Abraxas Ophiuchus Malfoy. I suppose Bushy the Broomstick has a largely Slytherin following."
Potter laughed. "I can see that. It certainly explains a lot."
"What do you mean?" Draco braced himself for an insult, so that he could argue with Potter. This odd . . . conversation, felt, well, odd.
"Bushy the Broomstick would have made a great Slytherin. He was cunning and shrewd and determined to prove his worth no matter the cost to others."
Draco nodded slowly. Well, he couldn't argue that. "Okay. Your turn."
"My turn what?"
"Tell me a story!" Draco commanded, feeling increasingly restless, he began tapping out a rhythm on the cover his book.
Potter groaned. "I'm not telling any stories."
"But, it's your turn, Potter. I gave you a story, now you give me a story."
"I don't know any," he said, balancing his wand between his fingertips and staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling. The snow on the windowsills was so high that the windows looked dull, gray. There was a sheen of moonlight that reflected off of the snow and bounced through a sliver of glass at the top of the windowpane. It left a streak of yellow on the opposite wall that acted as a backdrop for the light of the orange flames that danced up and down in the fireplace.
"I don't care. Make one up."
Potter sighed. Draco did not have high hopes for this story. He did, however, enjoy making Potter squirm, which he was currently doing with flair.
Potter pushed his glasses up his nose and stretched his legs out briefly towards Draco's face before throwing them back over the top of the sofa. Draco recoiled when Potter's clammy, bare feet got too close for comfort.
"Okay," Potter shifted uncomfortably. "Ugh, I feel like an idiot. Okay. Um. Once upon a time . . . in a faraway land lived a Prince named . . .uh, Dudley."
"Dudley? Prince Dudley? What a stupid name." Draco rolled his eyes. "Come on, Potter! You can do better than that!"
Potter frowned and sat up straighter. "His name was Prince Dudley and he was a selfish, fat, spoiled git who always got his own way even though he was a worthless pile of whale blubber."
Draco shook his head. "This is pitiful."
"Shut up!" Potter yelled. "Stop interrupting. This is my story and I'll tell it how I want. Do you want to hear it or don't you?"
Draco smirked and held his hands palms up in a gesture for Potter to continue.
He huffed. "Okay then. Anyway, um. Prince Dudley was fat—"
"Got that."
"Prince Dudley was fat," he repeated, "and stupid. And mean. He used to bully kids that were smaller than him which, incidentally, was everyone."
Draco snorted.
"Now, the King and Queen, who were also fat and cruel-well, just the King was fat, but they were both cruel, and, really, it was the Queen's fault that the King and Prince Dudley were fat because she would stuff them full of food all day-food and toys, well, Prince Dudley got food and toys, the King just got food and, um, lawn-care items. . ." Potter paused and bit his lip, glancing at Draco, whose mouth was curled up in a mixture of confusion and disdain. He rolled his eyes at Draco's face and continued.
"Anyway, the King and Queen had a, um, house-elf named Henry. Only he was really a prince, too, but he just looked like a house elf because of a curse. And the King and Queen treated Prince Henry the house-elf terribly. They would starve him and make him do all of the chores and he had to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs."
"That's how you're supposed to treat house-elves, Potter . . ."
"But Prince Dudley was worse. Dudley would taunt the house-elf and call him a freak. You see, Prince Dudley and the King and Queen all knew that Henry was really a prince. They knew that if the curse was removed from Henry, then he would be the next in line for the royal throne. So they never told him. Only Henry still thought he was a house-elf. That was all he had ever known. Sometimes, though, things would happen to Henry that made him think that maybe he was more than just an ordinary house-elf. Maybe he was someone special."
"Like what?" Draco asked, curious.
"Well, he could do magic, sometimes."
"But all house-elves can do magic," Draco challenged.
"Not house-elves in, um the Kingdom of Whingington. No one could do magic. No one except Henry."
"Potter-that doesn't make any sense! House-elves are magical creatures! Of course they can do magic."
"Not in Whingington they can't! Just Henry! And he could also talk to s-certain animals. Like the mice in the castle. They were his friends. Bopsy and Mopsy. And Henry and Bopsy and Mopsy would play tricks on Prince Dudley and the King and Queen. Mostly Henry would just tell Bopsy and Mopsy to hide Swiss cheese in the Prince's bed or shoes, but—"
Draco burst out laughing. "Swiss cheese? That's supposed to be a cruel trick? This story is like a train wreck, Potter. It's so awful. So, so awful. But keep going! Please. I'd love to hear about the other mean tricks that Henry the non-magical house-elf and his mouse friends play on the Prince!"
"Well, when Henry was caught by the King and Queen, which always happened, even if it wasn't his fault, he was locked in the cupboard under the stairs for three days without any food. Luckily he had stashed away some of the Swiss cheese, even though it turned moldy without a refrigerator."
"…Refrigerator?" Draco mouthed, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "Something that gets rid of mold, right?" That was certainly what it sounded like Potter had said, though his entire story sounded like complete bollocks, anyway.
Potter laughed. "No-it's something Muggles use to keep food fresh. They keep it in the kitchen. It makes things cold. Henry was locked in the closet, though, so there was no refrigerator. Or electricity at all."
Draco nodded, knowingly. "Electricity. That's a Muggle's poor attempt at magic. It gives them terrible lights that need switches. They think it gives them "power." And when it inevitably fails them they say the "power is out." Really, what kind of power is that? Who do they think they're kidding?"
Potter stopped. "Actually, Malfoy, it's kind of a brilliant invention. Imagine if someone took your wand from you. How would you give yourself light?"
Draco rolled his eyes. Potter was such a dunce. "I would light a fire, Potter."
"How?" Potter challenged him and folded his arms. "You don't have a wand, remember?"
"I'd get a piece of flint."
"And if you can't find flint?"
Draco was beginning to grow annoyed. "I'd just carry it with me everywhere!"
"What would you light on fire, then? How would you keep it contained?"
Draco made an involuntary fist. "What is this, twenty questions? Do Muggles keep electricity in their pockets?"
Potter shut up for a blessed second. "Er . . . no."
"So what happens if they are trapped somewhere without electricity?"
"Um . . . a flashlight. It runs on batteries. That's like portable electricity."
"Or flint! That's like portable nature! Portable fire."
"You can't use flint to power a refrigerator or microwave or a telly!"
"STOP SPITTING MUGGLE NONSENSE AT ME, POTTER! I DON'T CARE! I JUST DON'T CARE! You can't honestly sit here and say that electricity is more powerful than magic!"
"I'm NOT! But you have to admit-"
"I don't HAVE to admit anything. That's the big POINT you're missing-the point you always miss. Not everyone is going to agree with you and your Muggle-loving ways. People are entitled to their own opinion. I don't HAVE to agree with you or ADMIT anything. What do you think? You think I'm secretly harboring Muggle-love, but I'm too frightened to admit it?" Draco's face was bright red and he was panting with breath. "I hate Muggles, Potter. I hate them. I hate their ways. I hate their words. I hate their world. I hate them."
Potter stared hard at Draco and didn't say anything. He blinked calmly and held Draco's eyes. Draco, feeling like a caged-in cat, perceived this as a challenge and tried to steel his gaze in return. Draco knew his face was furious and that he had lost control of himself. Potter looked like an adult who was tolerating a child's tantrum, which irked Draco further. And, really, why the hell was he yelling, anyway? Potter was telling him a stupid fairytale. There was just something about Potter that made Draco lose control of himself, without fail. His carefully constructed façade shattered into a million pieces whenever he was around Harry bloody Potter. It wasn't fair. Draco had worked too hard and he had too much on the line, now. He shouldn't be in this damn haunted house with the enemy of the Dark Lord, but he definitely shouldn't be freaking out around him either. Potter must think him completely unstable.
Potter's eyebrows drew back and he bit the corner of his cheek, appearing to fight off a smile. "Just a little," he murmured.
What was he on about? "A little what?" Draco snarled, forgetting about staying in control of his emotions.
He chuckled. "Unstable . . .?"
Shit. Shit. He had said that out loud. Hopefully that was all he had said out loud . . . Well, there was nothing for it, now. Draco dropped his forehead into his hand and shook his head. "I said that out loud," he guessed.
Potter cracked a full-on smile. "Yeah . . . you did."
Draco removed his hand from his forehead and brought his chin up, proudly. "So? Elaborate on that, please," he demanded. Potter already thought he was nuts. Better to get it out in the open so Draco could correct it before it became a liability.
It's already a fucking liability, you moron.
Potter began to blush. "It's not so bad, really. It's kind of, um."
Kind of what?
Potter's voice dropped with his gaze so that Draco could barely make out the rushed words. "Intriguing, I guess." He stared at his thumbnail like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.
Intriguing? Potter found Draco's loony bin antics intriguing? Wait. Potter found Draco intriguing? He was intrigued? Draco swallowed as he felt his stomach flip flop. What the hell was that?
Draco chanced a look at Potter who slowly returned his gaze. His cheeks were flaming red.
"Was that supposed to be some sort of a compliment, Potter? Or are you just generally intrigued by mental instability?"
Potter shrugged and grinned. "Dunno. Could just be mental instability. I have been hanging around Luna Lovegood quite a bit."
"Hmmm."
"Plus, I can't imagine ever intending to give you a compliment. Your head's big enough as it is."
Draco huffed. "My head is not big! It's this blasted hack job of Pomfrey's. She's ruined me," he muttered, mulishly. He settled back in a pout and scowled at the fire.
"Were you really going to do it?" Potter asked suddenly, changing positions and drawing his knees up to his chest. "Before?"
"Do what?" Draco realized that Potter's legs had been keeping him warm by proximity and the change in position left him cold and uncomfortable. He rolled up onto his knees, then plopped back, cross-legged on the second cushion.
Potter looked grim. "Sleeping Charm."
Draco had forgotten. His new habit of narrating his thoughts couldn't be healthy. Or impressive. Not that he was concerned about impressing Potter.
No, that was a complete lie. Of course he was concerned about impressing Potter. He always had been! Though, of course, that was under the façade of trying to out-do him. . . so that Potter would know he was better than him. . even though Draco had always suspected that he was not . . . and that Potter knew that . . . which was supremely irritating.
Which would explain why he acted like he did around the speccy dork.
He wanted to impress him.
He would never impress him.
But . . . apparently he intrigued him. Interesting.
"Malfoy!"
Draco jerked his eyes up. Oh, he hoped he had not just been talking aloud. For the love of Merlin's gimpy son, please don't let him have said all that out loud.
"Um," Draco's jaw tightened. "What?"
Potter exhaled heavily. "I know you don't want to talk about it. Especially not with me. But, well, I know about it and. Well. Were you really planning on using the charm?"
Whew. No-wait. The charm. Ugh. Draco fought off the urge to lose control again. That would get them both nowhere. And, really, what did Draco's intentions mean, anyway? He hadn't done it. He hadn't used it. Intention without fruition is merely a thought.
"Does it matter? I didn't do it."
They looked at each other and Draco saw that Potter had a frown on his face. Not a frown of anger or even concern, but of disappointment. As though Draco's intention to charm himself to sleep had somehow personally offended him. Jesus, what an ego!
"Normally, I'd say no. As Dumbledore says 'It's our choices who make us who we are-,"
Dumbledore. Great. Thanks, Potter.
"But in this case, I think yes. If your immediate fallback plan is to knock yourself out whenever you're scared or-or, whatever, then . . ." his voice trailed off and he looked back at his fascinating nub of a thumbnail.
"I wasn't scared," Draco muttered.
Potter didn't say anything, just looked at him like he was a difficult child again, then raised his eyebrow in doubt.
Draco huffed. "Okay, fine. I was scared. But who wouldn't be? And don't say you. I don't care if you're 'The Chosen One,' you would have been terrified if you thought you were being attacked by ghosts."
Potter smirked. "Yeah, probably. But I would have, I don't know, fought them." Draco sucked his teeth and scoffed.
"Consider yourself lucky, then, that I'm not you, or you'd be six feet under."
"At least the war'd be over . . " he mused.
"But you would have lost! You'd be dead. What good would that do you?" Draco protested, unsure of why he was. He'd always liked fighting for the sake of fighting. His mother used to tell him that he should be on the Wizengamot. He could argue any side, mercilessly, though he usually just argued his own. Someone had to.
Potter's face hardened and the flickering flames cast appropriately dark shadows under his eyes. It was the look he'd carried around since he'd come back to Hogwarts in fifth year, taller, angrier and every bit the angsty, brooding teen. "No one else would have to die, then," he muttered, darkly.
Potter truly was an idiot. "Of course they would! Are you mad? You think the Dark Lord will just bring peace and harmony to all wizard-kind once he defeats you?" Draco wasn't even sure what he was saying anymore, or if stark truth counted as blasphemy. He was raving and Potter was a moron and Draco needed to let him know. "First he'll kill all your little Mudblood friends, then he'll kill the Muggle-lovers. Then he'll off all of the Muggles, too, just for good measure. Whoever's left over will be so manipulated and twisted that they'll wish they had died, except for those few in the Dark Lord's favor. This isn't a political election, Potter. The Dark Lord seeks complete domination by any and all means necessary. Those who oppose him or don't line up with his ideals will be wiped out. You're their only pathetic hope. You're useless to them dead. What a completely stupid thing to say."
Potter was wide-eyed and his jaw hung open. Draco considered making a comment about catching flies, but figured his humor would be ill –received, so he merely raised his eyes, challenging Potter in a response.
Potter's dumbfounded look quickly transitioned to confusion, then anger. "He-you. What? You think that. Wait-what! What are you-Why do you follow him then?"
"First of all, you are making unfounded assumptions about my loyalties." Potter frowned but said nothing.
He had no proof! Potter had no proof, right? As long as he had no proof . . . "But, theoretically, if I were to follow him, then I would be among those in his favor, wouldn't I?"
Potter looked like he was going to vomit for a moment, then shut his mouth and wrinkled his nose. "You just said, yourself, that he can't be trusted. What would be the point of being in his favor if no one is left to lord over? You think you and mum and dad and auntie can just kick back and bask on the beach with Voldemort for the rest of time? No one would be left! What would be the point?"
Draco tilted his head, his eyes glinting maliciously. "If that bothers you, then I guess you shouldn't die."
oooo
Harry was beyond confused. What was Malfoy trying to tell him? Harry knew—knew —that the blonde was a Death Eater. Why was Malfoy telling him not to die? Wasn't that Voldemort and the Death Eaters' ultimate goal? That was what the prophecy said. Either Voldemort or Harry Potter can live-not both. Was Malfoy unaware of the prophecy? It was the reason his father was imprisoned in the first place. Harry figured that Malfoy had to know about it. So what was he saying? Voldemort was fucked up and he agreed with him completely, or Voldemort was just fucked up?
Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to formulate his thoughts into something coherent.
Malfoy was staring at him, looking inordinately proud of himself for spouting utter nonsense. He was clearly waiting for Harry's next move. Harry knew that no matter what he said, Malfoy was going to disagree with him, most likely because Malfoy couldn't make a decision about his true loyalties. Not that Harry would ever insinuate that when trying to have a peaceful conversation with the git.
"I suppose this is what you meant when you were yammering on in the Owlery about good and evil?'" Harry asked.
Malfoy widened his eyes, clearly impressed. "Wow, Potter. There is a brain under that rat's nest."
Harry gave him a half grin and shrugged. "It doesn't mean that I see it that way, but I suppose it can't hurt to look at things from every angle."
Malfoy clapped his hands. "That's just it! I'm impressed, Potty. I really saw this conversation ending in one of our typical quarrels, with me winning."
Harry nodded slowly. He didn't like what Malfoy had said to him at all, but something about the wording did strike him. Was Malfoy telling him not to die or was he theoretically telling him not to die? If there was a difference, Harry was certain that Malfoy would never acknowledge it as such. But what if it came down to a split second decision for the Slytherin? If he had to choose black or white, what would he choose? And how would he justify it?
"Conversation's not over yet," he mumbled, as he geared up to ask Malfoy the ultimate hypothetical.
Malfoy pushed his hair off of his face, then flexed his fingers. They were remarkably white and smooth, like pools of cream pouring out of a pitcher.
Harry blinked. Pools of cream? Weird. "What if-" he had barely gotten the words out before Malfoy cut him off.
"I hate this game already."
"What if," Harry pressed on, "Voldemort told you that you had to kill me." He paused. "Would you do it?"
Malfoy's mouth curved into a smug smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ah. Well, there you go. He wouldn't. So that's not a question I have to answer."
Harry was not going to accept that. Malfoy couldn't walk the fence forever. "If you knew that killing me would result in the world that you just described—beach and all—would that be a world that you would want to help create or that you would merely tolerate after Voldemort carries out his plans with you by his side?"
Malfoy grew very quiet and his mouth turned downward. "What are you asking me?" he almost whispered.
Harry matched his quiet demeanor. "I'm asking what you want."
"Do I want you dead? Is that what you're asking me?" Malfoy's eyes were furious storms, but his voice shook quietly.
"Something like that," Harry murmured, afraid of his answer. "Do you want me dead if it resulted in your scenario?"
"It would result in my scenario."
"Then is it what you want?"
Malfoy said nothing. He stared at the floor, away from Harry. Harry knew he was pushing hard, but maybe someone had to. Maybe Malfoy had never thought about it. Perhaps he was just shoved into the whole Death Eater thing by his father and either couldn't—or wouldn't—question it. Maybe it was easier that way. But things weren't easy anymore for anyone and the time would come, whether he liked it or not, when he would have to choose. And by then, it might be too late.
"Is it?" Harry prompted.
"Don't," Malfoy whispered, his face pale. He shook his head barely, then glanced over in Harry's direction, without meeting his eyes. "Just-don't. Please."
Knowing it was a mistake, Harry forged ahead. "Answer the question."
"Drop it, Potter," he hissed, through clenched teeth. "I mean it."
"Do you want me dead or don't you?" Harry demanded, beginning to grow angry himself. Malfoy could stay deluded and live in hypotheticals but this was literally Harry's life they were talking about. How could anyone take that lightly?
Harry's demand was met with blazing gray eyes. "I'll fucking kill you myself if you keep asking me. I'm not answering the question. It's a stupid fucking question," he seethed, balling his hands into fists.
"Sure, hide behind your anger. Hide behind your father. Hide behind fucking Voldemort, just as long as you don't have to answer any tough questions or make any real decisions. Guess what, Malfoy? The time to hide is over. You have to choose-you will have to choose!"
Malfoy shot up off the couch and rounded on Harry. His hands were shaking and his face was screwed up in fury. "Don't you think I know that? You never had to choose! The side of light was handed to you. Your choices are easy, Potter! Do I want you to die, you're asking me? How about do I want to live in a world where I'm dead, the people I love are dead, but you live on in peace and harmony? There is no choice for me, Potter! There's only one world that I'll live to see, and unfortunately it's not a world with you in it!"
Malfoy shook as he gulped in breath, holding Harry's piercing stare.
"So, what you're saying is, it's me or you? And you choose you?"
Malfoy lowered his gaze, almost imperceptibly. "You put words in my mouth."
"But that's what you would choose?"
He glared up at Harry again. "And what would you choose?" he snarled.
Harry shrugged. "Depends on the situation, but, if it meant standing for what I believed in, but losing my life as a result, then, yeah, I'd choose you. I might die as a result of all of this, Malfoy, we all might, but at least I made my choice."
For a moment, Malfoy was speechless, and his face softened. Then, just as quickly, he was angry again. "Well aren't you just a fucking saint?" he hissed. "Saint fucking Potter!" Malfoy kicked the picnic basket and it tumbled across the floor. He stalked over to the wall and began pacing. "How great it must be above us mere mortals. What a dream world you must live in, so free of human fucking instincts!"
Harry jumped off the couch to meet him. He knew Malfoy was raving and feeling sorry for himself but dream world? Really?
"Yeah, Malfoy! It's fucking great!" Harry shouted. "Having an entire dark army with the goal of murdering my pathetic arse, it's a fucking dream come true! Do you listen to yourself when you talk, you stupid arse? Yes, my life is just perfect! I'm just a little fucking martyr to you, right?" Harry stomped around the couch and walked right up to Malfoy's face. He leaned close to him and grabbed the shoulder of his robes into a tight fist. "Let me tell you a little secret, Malfoy." Malfoy was frozen, his face set in stone, his eyes barely blinking. "I hate it. I fucking hate it. I wish I were dead so I wouldn't have to deal with the guilt of innocent lives lost on my hands. I didn't ask for this shite, just like you didn't ask for it. Do I want to be in your position? No. But I'm not going to cheapen your reality and pretend like your life is a fucking fairy tale. This sucks. The whole thing sucks. We're fucking kids, for Christ's sakes, but we'll both be forced to make decisions that will result in death. You want to be angry? Be fucking angry. You should be. There's only one person you can blame for the situation and that's Voldemort. But just remember, at the end of the day, if you live, you'll still have to live with your choices.
Malfoy was pressed up against the wall. His face was screwed up and his cheeks were blotchy and red. "I know all this, I know this, I KNOW!" His voice cracked and he shoved Harry away from him, promptly turning his back to the boy and leaning his forehead against the wall. "I-Potter. Fuck," his voice choked off into a sob.
Malfoy was definitely crying. Harry took a tentative step backwards.
"Goddammit, Potter," Malfoy voice shook and he punched the wall, weakly. "Why couldn't you have just dropped it?" He sniffed and quickly dragged his hand across his face.
Sorry, Harry wanted to say, but he couldn't. He was sorry Malfoy was crying, but he wasn't sorry for making him question his choices, so he didn't say anything at all.
"This wasn't supposed to be . . ." Malfoy's voice trailed off. "It isn't fair."
Harry shrugged. "None of it is fair."
Malfoy turned to him with red-rimmed, angry eyes. "And you! You are fucking relentless. You are relentless." Malfoy looked like he was trying to rev himself up for another fight but had lost all of his energy.
Malfoy reacted worse to being questioned than anyone Harry had ever met. "Doesn't anyone ever challenge you, Malfoy? Or do you just always get your own way?"
Malfoy opened his mouth to retort, then paused and frowned in thought. He shook his head slowly. "No," he murmured to his feet, looking unsettled. Malfoy brought his eyes back to Harry and held his gaze as though the thought were a revelation. "No. Just you," he spat out with less venom than it seemed he had intended. Malfoy frowned down again then turned and walked away from the wall, back over to the sofa. He sat down, gently, on the right side, as though he were waiting for Harry to join him.
Harry did.
A few moments of silence passed in which Harry debated the worth of saying more to Malfoy and wondering, too, if he had said enough.
"Last year," Malfoy finally said, 'Terry Boot was hospitalized for a suicide attempt."
Harry jerked his head up. "Huh?"
"Did you know that?"
Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah, everybody knew that."
Malfoy nodded. "Yeah. Did you know he used to show up to class drunk almost every day?"
Harry looked to the side, then back at Malfoy. Where was he going with this? Terry, who, up until fifth year had been a quiet, well-behaved and studious Ravenclaw, had nearly been expelled the prior year because of repeated incidences of public intoxication and possession of alcohol on school grounds. He did a short stint in St. Mungo's after a failed suicide attempt until he was deemed mentally stable enough to return to school. He had been unnaturally joyful since his return and everyone seemed to be waiting for the ball to drop. "Yeah, it was pretty obvious. He always reeked. And you, arsehole, used to taunt him about it, if I do recall."
"Yes, you do recall. For an entire year, Terry Boot stumbled around Hogwarts, slept his way through half of Hogwarts' easiest underclassmen, stopped showering completely for a time there, then stopped showing up to class altogether."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "What's your point, Malfoy? Or are you just trying restart the gossip wheel?"
Malfoy threw Harry a piercing steel-gray stare. "So you knew he was in trouble?"
"I just said I did, didn't I? It was obvious."
Malfoy nodded. "And what did you do to help him?"
"I—what?"
"You saw his downward spiral. You were aware. What did you do to help him? How did you try to stop him before he tried to kill himself?"
"What? That's not-! I didn't. That wasn't my responsibility! It wasn't my place to—"
"But weren't you concerned? If you have such a hero-complex, why didn't Boot register on your radar? Not important enough?" Malfoy had a malicious glint in his eye as his face worked itself into another self-important sneer.
"How can you say that? He was important."
"Don't lie to yourself, Potter. If that were the Weasel, you would have stepped in and tried to stop him."
"Well, Ron's my friend-of course I would have!"
"What am I, then, Potter?"
Harry was at a loss for words. "Um. My enemy?"
Malfoy actually burst out laughing. "So you care more about the self-destruction of an enemy than of a casual acquaintance like Terry Boot? An innocent, well-intentioned, kind kid like Boot? His life isn't worth as much as mine to you?"
Malfoy's words were rubbing Harry the wrong way. So what if he didn't try to stop Boot last year? He had been busy last year. It wasn't his responsibility to save everyone. Although, if Hermione was right about him having a "saving-people thing", then why hadn't Boot's crisis register into that? He was obviously a mess last year. Why Malfoy? Why him? What was Harry's obsession with trying to save Malfoy? He couldn't generalize it anymore and say it was just about saving people. Malfoy had very purposely and very annoyingly just proven him wrong.
"Look," Harry began, his face reddening in embarrassment before he even spoke the words. "I said it before and I wasn't lying. As much as it pains me to admit, I care about you." Harry paused, swallowed his burning humiliation and continued. "I don't know why, and I know it's completely unwelcome, but there you have it and here we are." Harry spread his palms out to emphasize the situation, then let them drop down to his lap as the adrenaline pumping through him threatened to dislodge his knees from his legs.
He waited for the insults to come, but they didn't. Malfoy looked down at his knees with a little satisfied smile. "Oh," he said.
A rush of exhaustion suddenly overtook Harry and he dropped his head into his hands. His muscles in his legs ached and he was still freezing. His teeth began to chatter again and he wrapped his arms around himself and yawned. "Much as I'd like to continue this humiliating chat, I'm completely knackered." Harry pointed to the sofa and then the floor. "How are we doing this?"
Malfoy shoved his legs out across the sofa and usurped Harry's spot. "I was here first. I get the sofa. You can sleep on the floor."
Harry shrugged. It was no more than he expected.
"And I want my blanket back. Your clothes must be dry by now." Malfoy aimed his wand at Harry's clothes and they flew off of their invisible clothesline into a heap at Harry's feet. Harry stared down at them. He was freezing and was not looking forward to changing again.
oooo
So Harry Potter cared about him? About his well-being? And not just because he was concerned with everyone, but because he was concerned about Draco. Draco, whom he found intriguing. Draco, whose life he would put before his own, but not because he was someone else, but because he was Draco.
Draco fought back a smile at the thought and snuggled deeply into the sofa. Potter was changing back into his own clothes and Draco eagerly awaited the return of his warm blanket. There was nothing like a blanket to fool someone into a false sense of security. Hence the phrase "security blanket."
Draco was not looking forward to spending the night in the Shrieking Shack at all. He predicted a night of tossing and turning without any sort of, uh, sleep aid, but he was glad to have a blanket and, loathe as he was to admit it, Harry Potter's presence to keep him safe.
He scoffed at the thought and tried to block it out, but it kept coming back to him. Draco felt safe here with Potter. He'd probably feel safer with Potter than he would with, say, Pansy or even Snape. Certainly he felt safer with Potter than with his mother or imprisoned father who, up until a few months ago, had been like a loose cannon, spitting out information and news and opportunities that progressively made Draco feel more and more like a stranger in his home. Who were his parents? Had they always cowered beneath the Dark Lord and Draco had just never noticed it? His father had always been a beacon of power and strength in Draco's life, but now Draco just wasn't sure where he stood. If his father had pledged his allegiance to the Dark Lord, then surely he swore allegiance to the Dark Lord over loyalty to his family, just as Draco had. Could he trust his father? His mother? Could he trust anyone?
He could trust Potter. Maybe. Maybe he could trust Potter.
The minute that thought flitted through Draco's mind, a cold voice resounded in his head and he was reminded of his task.
Trust Potter? How stupid. Draco couldn't trust him. What was he thinking? That he could confess his darkest secrets to Potter and Potter would pat him on the shoulder and make him feel better? He was planning on murdering the orphan's father-figure for personal glory. At least that was how Potter would undoubtedly see it. What was Draco thinking? Potter would have sympathy for him?
A face-full of heavy robes snapped Draco out of his revelry. "Pfph!" he spat, wiping fuzz off his tongue. Draco quickly transfigured the robes back into a scratchy blanket and wrapped it tightly around himself, tucking the sides underneath him the way his nurse used to do when he was little.
Potter was standing in front of the fire with his back to Draco, pulling on his trousers. Potter was undeniably fit, Draco decided. He wasn't sure when the lanky loser had filled out, but he had filled out. Draco, while taller than he was last year, had lost some of the definition he had gained when he gave up Quidditch and sunlight. He poked at his own soft stomach in jealousy as he admired the movement of Potter's back muscles in the shadowy orange firelight.
Warmth churned in his stomach as he watched and his breathing grew shallow.
What the hell?
"What?" Potter demanded, turning around suddenly and fixing Draco with a pointed stare.
Draco flushed in embarrassment and rolled over to face the back of the sofa. "You're rustling around. Shut up and go to sleep."
Gods, what was he doing staring at Potter like some kind of voyeur?
He shook off the thought. There was nothing wrong with admitting that another bloke was fit by comparison. He was comparing Potter to himself, not admiring him. He wasn't—
Draco cut off all additional thoughts. Sleep. It was time to sleep.
Potter flopped unceremoniously at the foot of the sofa. His breathing sounded rattled and Draco assumed he was still shivering. It was like he was doing it on purpose to irritate Draco, who was doing everything in his power not to think about Potter.
Potter let out a little moan and rolled over. The floorboards creaked under him.
God.
Draco huffed and rolled his eyes.
A strong gust of wind whistled through the shack and the entire foundation groaned. Scurrying could be heard underfoot. Scurrying and scratching. Right underneath the couch.
Potter's teeth began to chatter again and he let out a whimper and rolled over again.
Draco was going to go mental.
A Sleeping Charm would help . . .
No! A Sleeping Charm would not help. He had promised himself. He had promised (not really) Pansy. But most of all, Draco wasn't some pathetic, desperate hobo. He didn't need the charm. He wanted the charm, but he didn't need the charm.
Of course he wanted the charm. That was normal. It made everything better and it would give him what he wanted.
But what if he went out of control on it again? What if he started tottering around and eating coal and wood shavings or something? What if he went into the basement and was attacked by ghosts?
Ghosts. Draco heard a crash in the basement. Oh God. Ghosts.
No, mice. Rats. Nothing.
Potter made a squeaky moaning sound and rustled in what sounded like a full 360 degree turn on the floor.
Draco huffed, annoyed. He could do this.
Potter shivered again, then rolled all the way back and bumped the sofa, shaking Draco.
Fuck it. Pansy would not know. Potter could get over it. Draco would forgive himself.
As quietly as he could, he turned his wand toward himself and whispered as the shack rattled, "Somnicorpus."
The welcome call of warmth and sleep rushed over Draco immediately, providing comfort and relief. His eyes drooped down, his jaw softened and his lips parted opened. His breathing steadied, slow and sure.
And his thoughts returned, this time well-received. What did it mean that he felt he could trust Potter? Draco mulled this over as the flames in the fire danced together, growing and shrinking with the rhythm of Draco's breaths.
Potter's rattling teeth provided a beat for the undercurrent of gyrating cinders, the bass base of the fire dance. Draco grinned lazily and marveled through one open eye at the show that the Shrieking Shack and Potter and the fire and nature itself were generous enough to provide for him.
It didn't matter if he could trust Potter. He wouldn't trust him because the trust would in no way be reciprocated, and what would be the point of that? Potter couldn't trust Draco and shouldn't trust Draco. And if Draco cared about Potter at all—which he didn't, of course—he would leave him alone. So then, if he didn't care about him, he would stick around and bother him? Sure. Yeah. So if Potter didn't matter then maybe Draco could strike up a friendship, after all.
Or had he already without even realizing it?
But if he didn't care about Potter, then why would he bother with a friendship?
And somehow the entire situation made sense to Draco and he understood all of it on a higher level, a level that was above words and above feelings. His consciousness slipped into this higher level and, with complete acceptance and understanding, he also fell completely asleep.
oooo
"Shit. Shit!" Harry muttered, throwing vial after vial onto the floor of the Potions classroom.
Shit. Not this again.
Harry stopped, despite the urgency to keep looking and walked out of the classroom into an overwhelming darkness that just felt like . . . like Malfoy. Like his essence, his soul, his mind, something.
He breathed deeply, and it smelled like rain. It was a non-smell, really, but it still held significance. The darkness was hot, like the inside of an oven, and the static hold it had over Harry made him feel anxious. He wanted to go back to the Potions classroom, but when he turned around, there was nothing there.
Shit.
Harry stepped forward carefully and reached blindly in front of him, trying to ignore the overwhelming suffocation of the darkness in which he was stuck.
"Malfoy?" he called out. There was no answer. Harry pressed forward as the panic began to rise in his chest. He needed to get out of here, but, also, he needed some answers.
It's a dream, he reminded himself. It's just a dream. He listened hard for a response, but all he could hear was the chattering of his own teeth, somewhere far above the dream as he shivered in his sleep.
With full confidence, he Summoned Malfoy. He felt himself tumbling through nothingness until he landed with a crash on hard, cold stone.
"Potter," Malfoy's voice drawled, unsurprised. "That's really you, right?"
Harry rubbed his head and blinked. He was sitting on a stone staircase, like those in the dungeons at Hogwarts. Malfoy was curled in a ball with his knees drawn up to his chest, as though he was hiding.
Harry shivered and wrapped his arms tightly around himself.
"You're still fucking shivering?" Malfoy asked, with something akin to concern.
"I'm freezing," he muttered. "You're not?"
Malfoy shook his head.
"So, why am I here again?" Harry demanded. He blew his breath to see if he could see a cloud. He couldn't.
"Damned if I know. This time I specifically remained on the stairs in my dream, as you can see. Maybe this time you sought me out?"
Harry began to protest, then stopped. He had left the Potions classroom. But that didn't explain why he was in Malfoy's dream in the first place.
"Well," Harry began through chattering teeth. "Your subconscious has come looking for me again."
Malfoy glared at him. "But I don't WANT you here! I don't want your help. Listen—listen to me, Potter. I'm going to use this dream because you can't use it against me, but listen to me and listen good. Stay away from me. Do not trust me. I'm not your friend, I'm not good for you. This will only end in hurt and betrayal."
"Why warn me then?"
Malfoy shook his head. "Dunno," he muttered. "Consider it the only nice thing I'll ever do for you."
Harry looked at him sharply. "Fine. If we're using the guise of this dream to be honest, then let's just be straight and honest with each other. You're going to deny everything said here anyway and there's no way I can prove any of it."
Malfoy sat up straight and inhaled. "Fine," he hesitated then nodded and opened his hands up, seeming to regain his composure. "Fine. Go ahead. What do you want to know?"
Harry stared closely at Dream-Malfoy and noticed how remarkably similar he looked to the real Malfoy. "I can tell you what I already know. I know that you have a task for Voldemort. You as much as told me yourself."
Malfoy bit his lip and stared at the wall. "Did I," he rasped. He took a deep breath then and clutched his knees tightly, steeling himself to speak. He shrugged, rigidly. "I knew you knew."
"So why the pretense?" Harry asked.
Malfoy scowled. "You really have to ask?" he hissed.
Harry shook his head. The darkness around him seemed to pulse with Malfoy's anger and humiliation and fear. Yes, Harry could discern each of these emotions around him as though he were feeling them himself.
"And don't waste your breath asking what it is," Malfoy continued. "I'm not telling you that. I can't tell anyone that." His voice sounded sad.
"Then why?" Harry pressed.
"What makes you think I don't want to do it?" Malfoy bit out, inclining his head and sticking out his pointy chin.
Harry gestured to Malfoy with his hand. "This is not the picture of a happy person."
"Happiness is a fucking sham!" Malfoy shouted suddenly and kicked the wall. His voice did not echo. It was sucked up as though he were in vacuum. His face screwed up in pain, but he ignored it. "I'll never be happy again, Potter. And if I thought I was before I was lying to myself. It isn't real. Happiness is ignorance. At a certain point you grow up and you see the world—and humankind—for what it truly is.
" Power, greed, destruction, lies . . . that's what my life was built on Potter. That is the foundation of Draco Malfoy. You think I'm intriguing? I'm not. This is what I am. Selfish, greedy and power-hungry. The reason I look miserable, Potter? I don't have everything I want. I desire more. And I'm doing every nasty and despicable thing in my power to get what I want.
"I'm just like everyone else—there's no goodness buried deep down inside, if that's what you think. You can't save me because there is nothing to save. A good person would never do what I'm planning to do."
"But a desperate person might!" Harry interrupted. "What is it that you really have to gain out of this, Malfoy? Are you really that power-hungry?" Harry wanted him to deny this, even though it was always what he had assumed about the Slytherin. Until recently, anyway.
Malfoy rubbed his eyes and exhaled heavily. "I'm not like you, Potter. I know you find it easy to sacrifice your life for a noble cause, but I'm just a coward, I guess. I want my life! I'll do anything to keep it. I'm greedy for a . . . for a fucking life, Potter, and a shite one at that."
Harry pressed a knuckle to his mouth and tapped his teeth, thinking. "You know," he commented, offhandedly. "You really have a way of stating a million things at once and hiding what you really mean somewhere at the bottom of it all."
Malfoy rested his chin in his hands and held Harry's eyes in a cold, grey gaze. He said nothing.
"Has Voldemort threatened your life, Malfoy?"
Malfoy stared at him, seeming to consider his response. After some time, he raised, then lowered one shoulder in a slow shrug. "And if he has?"
Harry's thoughts were spinning, but the static darkness seemed to snub them out. All that remained was the desire to help Malfoy, to offer him a way out. "That doesn't make you greedy or selfish. People should be entitled to their lives, if anything! Doing what you can to preserve yours is human. You haven't done anything wrong—"
"Yet, Potter! I haven't done anything wrong yet." Malfoy buried his face in his hands. "Just wait." His voice, muffled, was difficult to hear.
"Then do something different, Malfoy! Dumbledore could protect you if you just—"
"Oh, Dumbledore! Oh, God, all hail fucking Dumbledore!" Malfoy stood up and started pounding down the steps. "All powerful, all good, helps Mudbloods and gives to the poor!" He stopped walking and whipped around to face Harry who was sitting on the stone steps, turning his wand round and round in his hands. "And what's Saint Dumbledore going to do to help my parents, hmm? How's he going to prevent the Dark Lord from torturing my m-mother and killing my father, a sitting duck in Azkaban? Answer that, Potter!" Draco walked back up the steps and hissed in Harry's face, "You fucking can't, can you?"
Harry stood and followed Malfoy down the stone steps, the blackness nearly scalding him. He didn't feel cold anymore. He felt hot, smothered, suffocated. "Where are you going?"
Malfoy's voice responded, but it seemed to come from all around, and not from down the stairs. "I need to get the fuck out of here. Out of this stupid dream."
"It's not too late, Malfoy!" Harry called out, changing the words he had said so many times to Malfoy in this very dream.
"Ha, bloody, ha, Potter. Now try and wake the fuck up." Malfoy's voice seemed to grow and melt around him, like warm vanilla ice cream. Harry fought and struggled to get out of the static, black current of Malfoy's thoughts. He pounded on the wall and stomped on the stone floor. He listened for Malfoy, but it seemed that he was gone.
"Malfoy?"
There was no answer. The blackness shifted. It grew colder and sharper, but no less consuming. Harry began to panic that he was stuck in this wretched dream. He ran back down the steps towards the Potions classroom, but there was nothing left. Just sharp, empty nothingness that stole his breath and vision and hearing and tasted like candle wax. He beat his fists on nothingness and prayed for escape.
ooo
A/N Please, please, please review! Let me know what you think! Or just a quick little review! pleeeeease! -Kristen :)
