Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews. I apologize if this chapter has more typos/is more scattered than usual. I have been extremely sick all week and throwing up all over the place, and was not really in the mood to edit. Also, if I don't update next week, it's probably because I've died... I'm joking, kind of.
CHAPTER TEN
AT ANY COST
o
"So, is that it then? The Purge went dormant before nine o'clock in the morning? Does that mean it's done?"
"No, Headmaster. Everyone survived yesterday. The Purge did not succeed. Either there is no Colossus and the Purge awakened on its own, or the Colossus escaped and shut the Purge down before the end of Samhain. Choose whichever option helps you sleep at night."
"So we call the Dark Lord? It's his… thing. If it's malfunctioning—"
"No. We wait, and we watch. There's no need to poke a sleeping dragon if it doesn't need to be woken."
"Antonin, sometimes I doubt your loyalty."
"Thorfinn, sometimes I doubt your sanity."
"His name, Nott, his name. Out with it!" snapped Adolphus Lestrange, looming over Theo, his golden mask glittering in the eerie green light of the Skull Mask headquarters.
Theo kept his gaze focused on the ground. "Harry Potter, sir."
"What year's he in?" queried one of the Silver Skulls standing behind the king.
"First year," said Theo, shifting his feet. It was the day after Halloween, and Adolphus had called the other Gold Skulls and some select Silver ones to hear Theo explain why Dungeon Two had been decimated. It had been mostly fixed by now, but still. He regretted that so many high-ranking Skulls were here to witness his humiliation, including his goddamn brothers, who were the only Bronze Skulls present.
Adolphus threw his head back and laughed, and Theo took a step back in alarm. The other Skulls all stared.
"Ahahaha! The little babies have been fighting among themselves, have they? Looks like you bit off more than you could chew, Nott! Dirty-blooded though they are, you should never underestimate your enemies. Have you learned your lesson, little boy?"
Theo hid his scowl behind a blank mask. "Yes, sir." It hadn't been his fault. The ropes of Dungeon Two had been faulty, and Potter had escaped somehow—how had he escaped? How had he managed to unravel the ropes without Theo noticing? An itch started up in his brain, telling him he was missing something important.
"Sir, should we kill Potter?" asked a Silver Skull eagerly. "For daring to destroy our property—"
Adolphus waved a hand, shutting the other Skull up. "No. We have to teach the little babies that they have to fight their own battles. Nott, I find your antics mildly amusing, which is the only reason you're not writhing on the ground under the Cruciatus Curse for your slip up. Next time, don't let those antics destroy one of the dungeons. Now get out of my sight."
Theo turned to go, internally fuming. Why was he being blamed instead of Potter?
"And Nott?"
"Sir?"
"I don't want the first-year dirty-bloods blasting the ceiling off even more dungeons. Keep them in line. Especially Potter."
Theo swallowed, and the fury that had been simmering in his stomach started boiling at the thought of Potter getting off scot-free. "Yes, sir," he said, turning to leave a second time.
He was almost at the door before he felt his brothers appear behind him, dark and silent as the shadows dancing across the stone floor. He stiffened and closed his eyes, counting to ten in his head before opening them again.
"Sebastian. Nathaniel," he whispered, looking fixedly at the wall to avoid looking at them.
"Theodore," crooned Nathaniel. Sebastian put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, hard.
Theo refused to wince. You didn't show weakness in front of his brothers, not if you wanted to survive the hour.
"Have you been playing with someone who hasn't been playing fair?" hissed Sebastian, his nails digging into Theo's skin. "Would you like your big brothers to take care of him for you? We'll require payment, of course."
"A few cuts on that handsome face of yours with Father's knife will do," murmured Nathaniel. "Cuts made with that don't heal, you know. But you have a lot of face to offer it, so I think you'll be fine… for a while."
"No," Theo choked out, yanking himself out of their grip and hurrying towards the door. He struggled with the knob, panicking when it didn't turn right away. But after a few frantic seconds, he managed to slip out and shut the door in Sebastian's and Nathaniel's faces.
He was all the way down the corridor before he realized that he was running and made himself stop. They won't hurt me, he told himself, taking a gusty breath.
No, it wasn't because they loved him. It was because they fed on fear, the same way the Dementors did, and if Theo lost his face, they'd lose some of their power over him.
He straightened his back and set off down the corridor. He'd escaped punishment by the skin of his teeth this time, but Potter was still at large since Adolphus was too arrogant to do anything about him, and Theo needed to figure out how to handle him. Of course, he would have to tread carefully now that Potter considered him an enemy.
In a way, Draco had been right. His silly little plan to befriend and then betray Potter for the Second Trial was the only one that had a chance in hell of working, at least where someone as powerful and unpredictable as Potter was concerned.
But that didn't mean Theo thought Draco was capable of pulling it off come the end of the Second Trial. Potter would ensnare Draco in his thorny vines and never let him go—because why would anyone ever let Draco go, once they had him?
It was already happening. Draco was… entranced with Potter, had been ever since that day on the Hogwarts Express. And Potter's presence was changing him subtly, in ways that Theo would've missed if he hadn't been looking out for Draco. Potter made Draco weaker, less devoted to the Pureblood cause.
But Theo wasn't stupid. He knew when he was trapped in a corner. He'd misstepped badly in his desperation to rescue Draco from Potter, and had earned Draco's enmity because of it.
"I hate you, Theo, I hate you so fucking much."
Theo would forgive that slip of tongue, even though it had hurt his feelings like nothing Draco had said in all their years of friendship, and if he let himself dwell on the words, he might end up bursting into tears right there in the middle of the hallway. He reminded himself that Draco hadn't meant it. He had only lashed out at Theo because he feared that his plan wouldn't work now that Potter had seen him punishing dirty-bloods.
Of course, in hindsight, Theo could see he'd been wrong to try and turn Potter against Draco in such an obvious fashion, but he didn't think Draco would have to work too hard to gain Potter's forgiveness. In fact, during class yesterday and today, Potter had barely been able to take his eyes off Draco, and as far as Theo could tell, the two of them were still meeting up at night.
Theo's stomach crawled at the idea. It was disgusting, and just plain wrong, for a dirty-blood like Potter to even think he could be friends with someone as pure and highborn as Draco, and ludicrous of Draco to even entertain the thought of such a friendship.
And Theo wasn't going to let him. He'd ensure Draco didn't stray from his duty, and would watch Potter closely to prevent him from sinking his claws into Draco even further than he already had. Soon, Draco wouldn't be able to pry himself free of Potter, wouldn't be able to betray him. Theo already feared he was too late to separate them.
He had a letter to write to Lucius Malfoy… just in case he was.
It was almost worrying how calmly the week after Halloween went by for Draco. The magical creatures in the forest had resumed their natural state, almost as if the entire month of October had never happened, and Herbology classes were back on.
The Care of Magical Creatures professor was telling everyone that the creatures' behavior could be attributed to a "stomach bug" and they were healed now because he'd finally been able to administer the cure he'd been working on for a month. Whatever made him feel better, Draco supposed.
The next day, he made up some excuse to spend time with Harry even though they really didn't need to anymore, convincing him that it was of vital importance to figure out exactly what the Hunger was in preparation for Beltane. They didn't find anything in the library, of course, and ended up retreating to Draco's room to play chess. Harry was abysmal at it, but considering that he'd just come back from an hour of torture with Dolohov, Draco hadn't expect his mind to be in top chess-playing shape.
"What're you going to do?" Harry asked him quietly, that first day after Samhain, while Draco's white knight was crushing Harry's black bishop.
"About what?" said Draco, satisfied that the amount of broken black pieces far outnumbered the white.
"About Nott, the Elites, the Initiates?"
"I'm still part of them," said Draco, going still.
Harry's eyes hardened. "Even though they tried to hurt me and the rest?"
"That's what we're supposed to do, Potter. Punish dirty-bloods and blood-traitors." Draco's voice was trembling slightly. "I'm just… I just can't sometimes, not in the way they do it." He took a deep breath, but Harry didn't back down.
"And Nott?" he said, unable to hold back a snarl.
"He used to be my friend, but I hate him now, after what he did to you. There's nothing else to say. Your turn, Potter."
Harry's eyes softened. "Yeah. Right. I'm gonna lose this stupid game anyway."
So they continued playing, and Harry didn't ask about the Skulls again that week. Maybe he thought Draco had proved his loyalty by saving his life, or maybe he didn't want to push him away. Either way, Draco didn't question it.
Theo attempted to get Draco's attention several times each day, but Draco was determinedly ignoring him. As far as he was concerned, Theo had given up the rights to his friendship by meddling in his affairs—constantly, no matter how many times Draco had begged him to stop. Draco was done with him, and the sooner Theo came to terms with that, the easier both their lives would be.
But it didn't look like Theo was giving up on badgering him, and he had been glaring at Harry all week. Harry always glared right back. Draco suspected the only reason Theo hadn't attacked Harry yet was because he was afraid of making Draco even angrier, and Harry hadn't struck first because he wasn't a war-mongering fool. He was also preoccupied with Dolohov, who was in a particularly bad mood after Samhain and had used the Justice Whips on Harry twice this week. Harry basically lived in Draco's bed now, and Draco was sick of mopping up blood and sleeping on the floor.
Meanwhile, November had arrived with even more rain than October, which meant December was looming. And December meant the Veritaserum checkpoint for the Second Trial, something Draco had been conveniently forgetting to think about this whole blissful week.
Until something happened—like a dungbomb to the face—that forced him to think of it on Friday.
Though the other Elites had been giving a Harry a wide berth, they hadn't extended the same polite treatment to Draco. At least not Smith and Zabini, who seemed to think Draco's support of Harry on Halloween was proof of his betrayal to the cause. Draco wondered if they had forgotten his big speech on befriending and using Harry or if he had really been that obvious in his worry for the other boy. Or maybe they were just looking for an excuse to hate Draco.
Whatever the reason, Zabini and Smith had been making snide comments all week, but Draco hadn't expected them to go as far as to leave dungbombs in his schoolbag, which exploded spectacularly on the way to Charms and Curses and splattered smelly brown liquid all over his books, the nearby walls, and his face.
All the Elites laughed, but Zabini and Smith laughed the hardest, confirming Draco's suspicion that they were the culprits.
"You smell a lot better now that the dung's covered up the stench of dirty-blood," sneered Zabini, while Smith doubled over, wheezing with mirth.
Draco wiped the dung out of his eyes and set out trying to put his bag back together, hating everybody. Theo waited for him pick up his scattered textbooks in silence while the other Elites went on to class, though he didn't bend down to help.
Fortunately, Harry wasn't here to witness his humiliation. He traveled to class with the non-Elites, and Draco wasn't—and would never be—desperate enough to join them. He still had some pride left after Halloween, however little of it.
And even if he could admit to himself that he cared about Harry for reasons beyond his alluring magic and the bond, Draco was still an Initiate, and he still had to think about the Second Trial—but not right now. He would not think about it right now. No.
"Scourgify," muttered Draco once he'd collected everything, and the spell scrubbed his clothes, face, and bag clean.
He started to make his way down the hall, Theo hot on his heels. They would be late to Charms, but Dolohov didn't care if an Elite was late, so they could take their sweet time. Not that Draco wanted to be stuck in a corridor alone with Theo.
"I'm not going to interfere in your plan this time. I promise." Theo's voice was infuriatingly quiet. "I—I just panicked. I thought you wouldn't be able to betray Potter for the Second Trial, which is why I tried to break up… whatever it is that you two have going on by reminding him you were an Initiate. I'm sorry."
Draco froze. He hadn't expected Theo to apologize, not so sincerely.
Theo walked past him, his head bent towards the ground. For once, he had ended the conversation without harassing Draco about the Trial.
Somewhat gratified, Draco followed him into the Charms classroom. Maybe Theo was learning, now that he'd realized yelling and lecturing didn't work on Draco. Of course, Draco wasn't ready to forgive him any time soon, but the perhaps the situation was salvageable.
"You're late," spat Dolohov, and Theo and Draco took their seats, muttering "Sorry" under their breaths. Even when they were fighting, they shared a desk in all their classes, something that Harry had pointed out to Draco with a scowl the night before. ("He's insane, and basically tried to kill me, and you're still sharing an inkwell with him?") Theo was a certifiable genius, and copying off his assignments had done wonders for Draco's grades. He wasn't about to throw that advantage away, no matter how much he detested Theo these days.
Anyway, where else would Draco sit, if not with the Elites? With Harry and the rest of the dirty-bloods? Draco would rather sit on top of the Giant Squid out in the middle of the lake.
"And Mr. Malfoy?" said Dolohov all of a sudden, jerking Draco out of his thoughts. The Headmaster wishes to see you in his office. Go now. I'm sure Mr. Nott will catch you up on what you missed in class when you return."
Draco's heart stopped. "The Headmaster, sir?"
Dolohov frowned at him. "Yes, the Headmaster. I just said that, Mr. Malfoy. Was my voice not clear enough for you? Class, turn to page 139. We will be working on changing the color of the ink in our quills today…"
Millicent, who shared a desk with Pansy, leaned over. "What did you do now?" she sniggered as Draco stood up, his legs shaking.
"Nothing!" Draco snapped.
Did it have to do with the Purge? Had they been caught? Harry, who was sitting in the back of the classroom, shot him a terrified look, but Draco didn't dare meet his eyes.
A few minutes later, he arrived at the third-floor corridor where he knew the Headmaster's office was. There was a suspicious-looking gargoyle sitting in the middle of the corridor, and Draco remembered his father telling him you needed to have some sort of password to get inside, but if he was invited, maybe he didn't need one?
"Draco Malfoy," he said importantly, crossing his arms.
"Cleared for entry," said the gargoyle in a very monotone and dead voice, hopping aside to reveal a moving spiral staircase.
The moment Draco entered the office, he almost ran back out of it again. The problem wasn't the room itself, which was magnificent, circular and furnished with dark wood, its walls lined with portraits of famous Pureblood wizards.
The problem was that Lucius Malfoy was sitting in one of the high-backed, red-velvet guest chairs.
"What're you doing here, Father?" said Draco, realizing a second too late that he had been rude.
"Manners, Draco," hissed Lucius, right on cue, standing up.
Thorfinn Rowle sat behind the Headmaster's desk, clapping his hands together as he regarded Draco. "Adorable boy you have there, Lucius. The last time I saw him properly, he was a little baby in his blankets, remember?"
"Thank you, Thorfinn," said Lucius through gritted teeth. "If you would… step out for a moment? I would like some privacy to speak to my son."
"When I said I'd let you use my office to talk to him, I didn't mean you could kick me out, Lucius," he whined, but got up laboriously from his chair anyway. He lumbered to the door and tried to pinch Draco's cheek on the way out. Draco dodged his stubby fingers with great difficulty.
"Sit," said Lucius to Draco, gesturing to the chair he had just vacated.
Draco sat. "Father?"
"Bumbling fool, that Rowle," Lucius muttered under his breath, and Draco snorted.
"Do not snort in public, Draco."
"Sorry, Father." Draco cooled his voice, making it as formal as he possibly could. "Why have you called me here today?"
Lucius smiled thinly. "I have recently discovered that the letters you have sent home about the Skull Initiation process were missing crucial information. For one, you did not notify me that you failed the First Trial, nor did you see fit to tell me that you are not pursuing the Second Trial with as much enthusiasm as you should."
Draco inhaled, clenching his hands into fists. Theo. Somehow Theo told Father about all of this, and he just said he wouldn't interfere anymore—
"Are you paying attention?" Lucius's voice was as harsh as a whip.
Draco nodded rapidly, his heart pounding in his throat.
"Good. I am only telling you once, Draco. I have been informed on what you plan to do for the Second Trial—"
"By Theo," Draco snarled.
"Do not interrupt me," said Lucius, then continued as if Draco hadn't spoken. "And I will admit your plan is amusing, if unconventional. The Potter boy is a particularly dirty specimen. A Mudblood and a blood-traitor's spawn is a potent mix of wizarding filth. Dealing with his kind will be good practice for you. You will need to learn how to control and manipulate this sort of riff-raff if you wish to go into politics, since dirty-bloods make up the masses. All in all, I am impressed at your ability to think up such a plan."
"Thank you, Father," said Draco dully.
Lucius held up a hand. "I was not done speaking yet, Draco. I want to know why you came up with a plan like this."
Draco swallowed. "Har—Potter is… strong. So I believed befriending him, and then breaking it off, would be the most painless way for me to pass the Second Trial."
Lucius inclined his head. "Ah. I am disappointed you cannot handle him with spells, but sometimes these things happen. You will come across many opponents that are magically stronger than you, and you will need to learn how to outmaneuver them without losing your head. I think it will be a good exercise for you. As long as you are not pursuing his friendship because you are… interested in the boy. Are you?"
Draco went completely pink and shifted on the chair. "Interested? What do you mean by interested?"
Harry was sort of nice to look at, Draco could not deny that fact. He had nice eyes, and nice skin—when it wasn't bleeding all over the place, anyway—and his glasses were hideous, but you got used to them, and Draco couldn't imagine his face without them, and now that he considered it they also looked kind of nice, on Harry's face at least, which was also quite nice—where was he, again?
Oh. Right. He was in the Headmaster's office. Having a conversation with his father.
Lucius looked as if he were trying not to roll his eyes. "I meant interested in general, Draco, though your reaction worries me. Please tell me you have not acquired a crush on a dirty-blood. You don't want to go the same way as Professor Snape, do you? Brilliant man, terrible taste. Terrible indeed. What a waste."
"I haven't," said Draco, and scowled furiously while his father started up a long lecture on how lovesick fools like Snape were infecting wizarding blood.
"… Of course, Draco, if you wish to fool around in the future, I will turn a blind eye. But the man or woman you bring into the Malfoy family will be of good wizarding stock, and your children will be Pureblood. I have already been collecting marriage offers for you from various Pureblood families who wish to join with the Malfoys. Of course, I find such ancient customs reproachable, and would much prefer it if you were courted in person. I doubt you will be thirsting for offers. Just look at you. Give it a few years, and half the school will be smitten. I remember when I was in the spring of my youth. Hogwarts was quite the playground—"
"I understand, Father," said Draco, brilliantly red by now, and wondering what on earth he had done to deserve this speech. "Can we get to the point?"
Lucius adjusted himself. "Ah, yes, how maudlin of me. Where was I?"
"You were asking whether I'm interested in Potter," said Draco, face still burning, trying to keep the strain out of his voice. "Which I'm not. In any way."
"Yes, that's right. Though you claim to have no ties to the boy, I am merely concerned that you will grow too attached to him and be unable to pass the Second Trial when the time comes. From what I've heard, you two have been inseparable for the past two weeks—"
"Whatever Theo's been telling you about me and Potter, he's lying!"
"Do not interrupt me," said Lucius, and Draco shut up. "Be grateful that I am even leaving you room to play games with the Potter boy or whoever else strikes your fancy. The Trials are tests, nothing less and nothing more. You failed a majority of the tests I administered in your childhood. I will not accept any more failures. Your most important test is finally here, and if you fail to become a Skull, I promise to disown you. You have been a complete and utter disappointment so far, and I will not allow it any longer. You will either act like my heir, or you will no longer be one. Choose."
Draco stopped breathing and felt the world tilt on its axis, making his stomach lurch. A second later, he realized he was on the verge of puking.
"I… I'll pass the Second Trial and become a Skull, Father."
"At any cost?"
"Yes, Father. At any cost."
November went by like September and October had for Harry—that is, in a haze of pain.
But for the first time at Hogwarts, he wasn't on the edge of despair. He even found himself tolerating some of Dolohov's nastier punishments, if only because he knew Draco would give him pain-relieving paste later. And Draco always insisted on carefully applying it on every single cut himself, every single night, though Harry could never really figure out why.
Then again, Harry couldn't figure out why Draco had risked his life to bring Harry back from the brink of death in the Forbidden Forest either, nor could he figure out why Draco was helping him with his homework, and playing chess with him, and talking with him into late hours of the night. Harry had pretty much moved into Draco's bedroom by now, and Draco had asked the house-elves for an extra mattress so Harry could sleep in his room without hogging his bed.
It felt like having a friend.
"Harry?" whispered Draco, one night at the end of November. Their—well, technically Draco's—room was in pitch darkness, but neither of them had fallen asleep yet.
"M'awake," Harry mumbled.
"Tell me about your mother."
Draco, the self-centered prat, usually never asked Harry—or anyone else, for that matter—about themselves, but he got in these moods sometimes, and would throw piercing and awkward questions at him. Harry couldn't decide whether he should feel flattered or uncomfortable.
"Why do you want to know? She's a Mudblood, according to you."
"Can't I want to know what your mother's like? I'm just curious. If it helps, I'll tell you about my mother first."
Harry rolled his eyes. Leave it to Draco to turn every conversation back to himself. He didn't think Draco was capable of letting someone else talk about their life for more than three seconds.
"Feeling homesick?" he teased, playing along, trying to ignore the lump in his throat.
"A little," Draco admitted, rustling his sheets. "Mother spoils me. She lets me go to bed after midnight and wake up at noon. Father gets so mad at her when she does that, but he loves her. At least he used to. They fight a lot now. About me, I think. She wanted to send me to a school in America, you know?"
Harry laughed derisively. "Why? You get everything you want here. She must've known that."
Draco let out a little whine. "That's not the reason why. She didn't want the Skulls… the environment here for Purebloods, to pressure me. She stopped fighting Father a long time ago, but she really fought to send me abroad. In the end, Father made her agree to send me here. He said it would be good for me. Maybe she was right. Mother usually is."
When Draco said things like this, Harry found himself fantasizing about Draco abandoning Theo Nott and the rest of the Elites and joining Harry in some glorious fight for half-blood rights, though he knew it was just that—a fantasy, one of many that he was having about Draco these days. Just because Draco was nice to him didn't mean that he was going to throw everything away for him.
But it was nice to pretend, sometimes.
Draco still spent most of his day with the Elites, though the atmosphere around him and them was icy and tense. He tried to avoid speaking to Harry in public, though they were fooling nobody. Enough people saw them huddled together in the library or sharing covert glances during class that their friendship—alliance, whatever it was—wasn't a secret anymore.
The reception to this was understandably lukewarm.
Seamus had asked Harry if he enjoyed being the "charity project" of an Initiate, but the other non-Elites left him alone, as usual. They probably hadn't forgotten what he'd done to help them in Dungeon Two, and he didn't think they'd be bothering him about Draco or anything else anytime soon.
Theodore Nott, surprisingly, had left Harry alone these past few weeks, though he didn't let a single day go by without giving him a baleful look. According to Draco, the older Skulls blamed Nott for letting Harry destroy the dungeon, and he had retreated into a corner to lick his wounds. Draco wasn't speaking to him anymore outside of class, which made Harry irrationally happy. He still couldn't get his head around the fact that Draco had actually been best friends with someone as batshit insane as Theo. Heck, if this ridiculous trend continued, next Harry would find out that Draco was buddy-buddy with the Nott twins.
That reminded him of something he'd been meaning to ask. "How's Skull Initiation working out, now that you're helping me instead of targeting me? What do the rest of them think?" He heard his own heart thud in the silence as he waited for Draco's answer.
Draco shifted restlessly in his bed. "I don't know, Harry. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Let's not talk about this. Tell me about your parents."
Harry sighed. "Fine. There's not much to say. My dad's dead, you know that. Mum's… not well. She doesn't like my magic. She says it smells bad when I use it, but I always rebelled and used it anyway. She didn't like that."
"Typical Mudblood—" Draco started, but Harry's snarl cut him off.
"The reason she's not well is because your kind killed everyone she loved. What would've happened to you, if your parents and your friends were dead? Do you really think you would've been much better off?"
"I wouldn't have hated your magic, no matter what," said Draco adamantly, and Harry blushed, glad it was dark so Draco couldn't see him.
"The specifics don't matter," he finally managed to say. "Anyway, I don't really miss her, most of the time, but I liked it much better back at home than I do here."
When Draco spoke next, he sounded odd. "Harry… I'm sorry we destroyed your family. I know she's a Mudblood, and I think maybe she would've acted the way she did no matter what, but your father might've been nicer, or maybe your parents' friends."
"You're not the one who killed them," said Harry, thinking about what Dolohov had said about Snape helping kill Harry's father and somebody named Remus. He wondered what it must do to his mother, knowing that her husband's murderer had saved her life. Did she even know? Did she even have the capacity to care anymore, after so many years of madness?
"I know I didn't kill them," said Draco. "But I'm going to destroy more families, aren't I? When I become a Death Eater. Some of them deserve it, for letting Muggles into our culture, but—"
"No, they don't," said Harry.
"But—"
"NO."
"Let me finish—"
"Good night, Draco."
"…Good night, Harry."
"You know who deserves death, Draco?" said Harry after a minute.
"I thought we were supposed to be sleeping, Harry."
"Your father. Dolohov. The Skulls. The Death Eaters. The Dark Lord, most of all, because he started all of this. And I swear I'll put them through justice."
"Don't talk about my father or the Dark Lord deserving death. Go to bed, Potter, or I'll kick you out."
Harry felt his stomach sink to the ground at Draco's dismissal, at the confirmation that, yes, Draco really did think him inferior, no matter how much he seemed to care about Harry on the surface.
That was the end of their first and last conversation on blood purity. Harry didn't think this fragile sort-of-friendship could survive another.
Sometimes it was just easier to bury his head under the pillow and pretend Draco didn't believe what he did believe, wasn't what he was. It was easier to see Draco as the boy who chattered nonstop about pointless things like clothes and Quidditch, who spent hours looking through the library to help him with the Purge, who squeezed Harry's hand while he screamed and cried after Dolohov's punishments, who saved his life and sanity over and over again without asking for anything in return.
It was easier than seeing him as the boy who would one day grow up to be a Death Eater.
The first week of December, Harry finally had his chance to repay Draco for everything he'd done. He only wished that it hadn't taken him this long to figure out that Draco needed help.
Between classes on Thursday, Harry dropped by Draco's room to "borrow" some fancy peacock-feather quills that he was sure would not be missed from Draco's massive collection, but didn't get past the threshold. Draco was standing in the middle of the room, sniffling and attempting to wipe slime off his face. He tried "Scourgify" several times, but that only made the slime stretch further across his face, like some sort of sentient alien creature.
"What happened?" Harry spluttered from the open door, finally resuming control of his mouth, and Draco jumped about a foot in the air, registering Harry's presence.
"Close the door!" Draco growled, his eyes pink and puffy like he'd been crying. "And why're you even here? Class is in fifteen minutes!"
"I forgot …uh, my textbook. Anyway, we have class at the same time, so you shouldn't be in here either," Harry said, approaching Draco slowly as if trying not to spook him.
Draco shrunk away, but Harry was fed up with his antics. He snapped his fingers, and the slime disappeared off Draco's face.
"Can you tell me what happened now?" asked Harry, sitting on Draco's bed with his shoes still on, something he knew drove Draco mad.
Draco spared him one withering sneer, the effect of which was ruined slightly by his trembling lower lip, before bending down to grab his schoolbag. "None of your business, Potter."
"Who did that to you?" said Harry, narrowing his eyes.
"I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Potter—" Draco began.
"Stop calling me Potter when you get mad at me!" Harry barked. "It's annoying, and it's childish."
Draco ignored him and walked out the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Harry quickly grabbed the peacock quills he'd come here for in the first place and sprinted after Draco, his schoolbag swinging wildly from his shoulder.
"Draco, I won't do anything to them, I promise," said Harry, catching up to him. "I just want to know because I'm curious." He chewed on his lip. "Well, all right, I might do something to them. But if you tell me who they are very nicely and politely, I'll consider not doing anything."
"I'm not telling you!" Draco yelled over his shoulder, breaking out into a run. Harry, whose legs were longer, kept up with him easily and pulled him into a side hallway.
"We're going to be late to Potions, Harry," said Draco, trying in vain to escape Harry's grip.
"They're doing this stuff to you because of me, aren't they? The other Initiates?" Harry threw out.
Draco's eyes widened, confirming Harry's guess.
"Is it Nott?" Harry asked hopefully, raring for a fight. "The Bulstrode girl?"
"No," said Draco, after a long pause. He seemed to have decided that Harry wasn't going to let him go unless he gave in. "It's not any of the Initiates. It's Zabini and Smith. They think—they think I'm soft, that I don't deserve to be an Initiate. They think they can intimidate me, which they can't, and you'll make it worse for me if you go after them. Now, can you get out of my way so we can get to Potions on time?"
Harry was quite certain there would be too little left of them to "make it worse" for Draco once Harry was finished with them, but it wouldn't be wise to mention this fact right now.
"How long has this been happening?" he asked, following Draco out of the hallway and up the stairs.
Draco shrugged. "Since Halloween, pretty much."
Harry's mouth fell open. "How come I didn't know about this until now?"
"Because," Draco hissed, "they usually do this stuff between classes. Also, I don't want you going after them and blowing up any more dungeons. It's a miracle you got out of that as easily as you did. You can't just hex Elites like Zabini and Smith in plain daylight, you idiot! You're a half-blood. If you hurt them, they'll tell the professors, and you'll get punished."
"Oh no," Harry drawled. "They'll give me to Dolohov. Again. The horror. Whatever shall I do?"
"Don't test them," said Draco. "I doubt Dolohov's the worst thing that can happen to you here."
"Are you worried about me?" Harry asked, a grin spreading slowly across his face.
Draco's ears went pink. "No, I secretly hate your guts and want you to die, Potter. Besides, I can deal with them myself. They know what you're capable of since they were in Dungeon Two on Halloween, and they've told me if I get my 'dirty-blooded dog' to go after them, it'll prove that I'm not a true Initiate. Sorry, but I'm not in the mood to deal with that right now. Don't do anything to them, Harry. Please. I can handle their dumb pranks on my own."
"Oh, I see," said Harry, "because you weren't crying in your room just now."
"I was—panicking. Scourgify wasn't working on the slime, so I was worried I was going to be late for class, that's all," Draco sniffed, opening the door to the Potions room in the nick of time.
Harry took his seat in the back of the classroom as usual, his eyes following Draco to where the Elites were. As usual, Draco sat down next to Nott, who resembled nothing more than a kicked puppy these days, and Harry's gaze wandered over to where Zabini and Smith were snickering.
Harry leaned back in his chair lazily, sifting through knowledge of countless Dark spells that he had gathered in these past few months. He chose the spells he was going to use on Zabini and Smith with care, and even beamed at Snape when he glided over to criticize Harry's potion.
Two hours later, both Zabini and Smith were tied up in the middle of an empty hallway Harry had cornered them in after class. He'd wasted no time in using Incarcerous, and was now circling them like a particularly large vulture.
"So," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "you've been bothering Draco for how long? A month now? You should've known I would've found out eventually, even though Draco tried to keep it from me. You saw what I did to Dungeon Two, didn't you?"
"You're barmy if you think Malfoy's your friend, Potter," Smith gasped out, struggling hopelessly against his bindings. "He's just using you; he told us himself on Halloween. You're making a huge mistake hurting us, when he's the one making a fool out of you—"
Harry faltered, almost dropping his wand. For a moment, all the colors in the world bled sideways, like a wet painting that had been smeared by a hasty hand, and his head burned.
The Insanitas bug jerked awake just in time to see a jagged tear appear in the magical bond, which manifested as a shimmering, thrumming braid of multicolored light in the boy's subconscious mind. The Insanitas bug lunged and sunk its teeth into the little rip, and an infection spread out from the wound in inky tendrils, tainting the rainbow bond a murky gray.
The bond began to sicken and unravel and fray—slowly, ever so slowly—and the Insanitas bug sunk back into sleep, satisfied with itself. Distantly, it wondered how many blows the bond would be able to take and hoped it would be fully shredded by Beltane, so that the bug's master could enjoy a hearty feast.
"Holy shit! Did you see his eyes?" Zabini was howling when the world came back into focus for Harry a second later. "I swear they went red—did you see that, Zach? Holy shit, what the hell is he—?"
"SHUT UP!"
Zabini and Smith both shut up, white-faced, and Harry took a moment to praise himself for having cast a Quieting Spell on the area around them beforehand so that nobody wandering past the corridor could hear all this commotion.
"Stop wasting my time with your stupid little stories," Harry spat, kicking Smith in the leg for good measure, then firing off two spells in succession at both boys. "Arcana Verba, Inverto Corporis!"
Smith and Zabini squealed like stuck pigs when the spells hit them, but calmed somewhat when they realized that nothing had happened. Knowing it was too good to be true, they shifted in their ropes to face Harry, eyes wide and terrified.
Harry resumed his pacing, lowering his voice to deadly levels. "The first spell forces you to never speak of what I did to you here, not to a professor, not to a Skull, not to your parents, not to anyone at all. And if you do—or if you ever harm Draco again, in any way—the second spell will turn your body inside out. You won't be able to say much with your mouth on the inside of your head and your brains and organs dripping out onto the ground, will you?"
Zabini and Smith shook their heads. Zabini was letting out little gasping sobs, but Harry had no pity for either of them. They had been tormenting Draco for a whole month. All those nights he had diligently healed Harry's back and taken his mind off the pain with absurd stories and bright smiles, had he been returning from a long day of suffering at Zabini's and Smith's hands?
And Harry hadn't even known because Draco had wanted to protect him from getting into trouble, and these bastards were telling him that Draco wanted to use him?
Draco hadn't asked Harry to do a single damn thing for him. In fact, he'd straight out begged Harry to not do anything.
Unable to contain his rage, Harry whispered, "Displodo Vultus!" Zabini's and Smith's faces swelled like balloons, threatening to burst.
Harry left them tied up in that corridor, keeping the Quieting Spell on so nobody could hear their wailing. He wondered how long it would take for someone to find them, and decided he didn't really care.
Draco wasn't sure how Harry had done it, but he'd managed to take Zabini and Smith out of commission without getting caught. They'd spent about three days in the Hospital Wing before coming to class with lumpy faces, which regrettably returned to normal within a week.
And now they were too afraid to even look at Draco, much less taunt him and spread rumors about him about being a traitor. Theo hadn't managed to get anything out of them about who had given them such a bad scare, but he had probably guessed.
Draco hadn't expected Harry to go this far, and to pull everything off so well that he had laid rest to every one of Draco's fears about Zabini and Smith getting back at him or getting Harry in trouble. But that he had done all this proved that Harry cared. He showed that much in all the little things he did, like listening to Draco blabber on and on about topics Harry found uninteresting, and in all the big things, like hexing Zabini and Smith to within an inch of their lives.
In fact, Draco often found himself wishing that Harry wasn't turning out be such a good friend. The guilt was eating him alive, especially because he knew that everything he did to get Harry to like him was part of his complex plan and flawless act to become the ideal friend, to gain Harry's ultimate loyalty and affection.
Well, that wasn't actually true. It wasn't an act. But it was supposed to be an act, and that was what mattered most.
Harry's friendship reduced Draco to a sappy, giddy fool, but he knew he had to make that a friendship a lie, even if it wasn't. Because the week before Christmas break was finally here, and the Veritaserum checkpoint for the Second Trial was coming up in two days.
The Veritaserum would pull the truth out of him, and Draco knew what that terrible truth had to be if he wanted to become a Skull.
He was going to break off this friendship with Harry when the Second Trial ended in April or May—neither he nor any of the other Initiates had been informed of the precise date—and that was all that mattered to the Veritaserum. Draco didn't have to like it. He didn't have to want it. All he needed to do was pass this checkpoint.
Then maybe he could figure something out with Harry come spring. Maybe he could get Harry to pretend to be all broken, shattered, and destroyed. But surely the Skulls would have some way to see through lies like that? How exactly would the Second Trial end, anyway? Was there going to be some big finale of torture and mayhem?
Draco was dreading it, and he was dreading what he would have to do Harry to pass.
So it was with a heavy heart that he descended to Dungeon Seven the day before Christmas break, Theo, Millicent, Vince, and Greg with him. It was funny how much this scene reminded him of the one on the first day of school. He had been on much better terms with all of them back then, but now cold silence thickened the air where there had once been camaraderie.
Theo had long since given up trying to get Draco's friendship back, but he hadn't stopped watching him and talking to him. Sometimes he'd make annoying comments like, "Make sure you stick to your plan, Draco," and "You know I sent that letter to your father for your own good. I wasn't interfering."
Draco wanted to strangle him, and he'd suspected for a while now that Theo had secretly approved of Zabini and Smith's little crusade on him. Theo hadn't done anything to stop them, that was for sure, almost as if he thought that Draco deserved it for ignoring him for more than a month.
"Draco, are you ready?" Theo said when they reached the door of the dungeon, the sound of his voice making Draco's stomach crawl.
Draco didn't respond, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. It was mostly empty, since this was only supposed to be a meeting for the Initiates. A few Silver Skulls were the only others present, and mercifully Sebastian and Nathaniel were nowhere to be seen. Not even the Skull King was here for this relatively unimportant event.
Theo sighed at Draco. "We'll be seeing each other during the holidays, you know. Christmas parties and stuff."
"I know," said Draco. "Doesn't mean I have to talk to you."
"Draco, why can't you forgive me already? Is it because of Potter?" Theo's eyes flashed. "Because if you think you don't need me because you already have him, you'd do well to remember that you're going to break it off with him soon. When you do, you'll be friendless. Do you really want that, Draco?"
"Oh, stop talking already," Draco snarled. "Has it ever occurred to you that I'm no longer friends with you because you're a shit friend to me, and a tattle—no, a rat, that's what you are—and a badgering, meddling, whiny little—"
"Shhh!" Millicent hissed. "They're passing out the Veritaserum."
Draco took his bottle with trembling hands, remembering how he'd held a different bottle—with a very different potion—for his First Trial with these same trembling hands. He'd hoped, back then, that he would've been less scared the second time around, but he was even more terrified now. He wanted to throw up everything he'd ever eaten and run out of this dungeon, out of this school, out of this damn country.
One of the Silver Skulls cleared his throat and began to speak. The sound echoed in the deserted chamber, sending shivers down Draco's spine. "You will be called up one by one to the stage, where you will take the Veritaserum. We will ask you a series of questions. If you fail this checkpoint, you will have to modify your behavior in order to pass the Second Trial. If you pass the checkpoint, you will have our approval to continue."
Draco waited for ages. The fifteen second-year Initiates were with them, so he definitely wasn't ahead in line. From their first-year group, Millicent was the first to be called. She went on and on about the many things she'd done to punish Ron Weasley, and Draco felt sicker and sicker with every word she spoke. It got even worse when it was Theo's turn; his target was Neville Longbottom, and while Draco thought the boy was a sniveling fool, some of things Theo had done had been a bit… well, they didn't call Theo the best at Dark magic in first year for nothing. Additionally, Millicent and Theo elaborated on what they had done to non-targets, and the Silver Skulls seemed extremely impressed with their proactivity.
Then it was Draco's turn, and he found his legs dragging him up to the stage against his will. He shoved the bottle of Veritaserum against his lips, forcing the clear, tasteless liquid down his throat.
He clenched his eyes shut and waited for the questions.
"Name?" the Silver Skull prompted.
"Draco Malfoy."
"Target's name?"
"Harry Potter."
"Tell us how you've been working on the Second Trial so far."
And Draco did, going into detail about all the things he had done to gain Harry's admiration and devotion. Luckily, because this was an open-ended question, he could twist the Veritaserum to be vague about the whole Samhain business, equating it to saving Harry's life. The Skull nodded as Draco spoke, intrigued, calling some others over to discuss Draco's unconventional methods.
"We approve, Draco Malfoy," said the Skull at last. "Break, shatter, and destroy. Complete emotional destruction and trauma, instead of physical. Nothing will punish this half-blood more than being reminded that he does not deserve to be your friend or your equal. We find this technique of yours fascinating, Mr. Malfoy, and are eager to see if it succeeds. You may step down now."
And Draco did, feeling like he'd left his entire body and sense of self back on that stage.