For the past several days, Harry had gotten himself into the habit of starting and ending his days by unfolding the Marauder's Map. He told himself he was just checking to see if Hogwarts was safe, looking out for Filch and Peeves and all that, but his eyes were always drawn to Malfoy's name.
This time, as Harry opened his Marauder's Map, he told himself he was looking for Dumbledore. Dumbledore had wanted to meet with Harry and it would be silly for Harry to go all the way to Dumbledore's office just to find it empty. As the ink bled over the parchment, arranging itself into a castle diagram, Harry's eyes were drawn to a small, stationary dot at the very edge of the map. In fact, the dot was so far to the edge of the map that the name did not fully register.
At the entrance to Hogwarts on the border of the grounds was a half of a dot and the letters "OY."
What Harry found strange was that the dot did not move at all.
This was a normal occurrence on his Marauder's Map, of course, as not all people moved all of the time, but for this particular location Harry found it odd that the person was not entering or leaving the school. The person was just there.
He shrugged and put it out of his mind. Perhaps they were waiting for someone. Harry drew his finger along the map until he found Dumbledore who was currently in his office, as he had told Harry he would be. "Mischief managed," he said, and carefully folded the parchment and placed it in his school bag.
Dumbledore had asked to meet with Harry privately, but didn't explain what it was for-just that it was "very important." So Harry bid farewell to the Gryffindor boys in the dorm, picked up his school-bag and headed to the office of the Headmaster.
"Jelly Slugs," he told the gargoyle, and was granted admittance to the spiral stone staircase.
As Harry wound his way up the staircase that lead to Dumbledore's office, he heard the greasy voice of Professor Snape, muffled and intense coming out of the room. He tiptoed the rest of the way up and pressed against the door to listen.
"—don't know where he is. He could be dead, for all we know!"
"Severus. You're feeling guilty and you—" Dumbledore's voice was cut off.
"Of course I'm feeling guilty, Albus! I let him go! It's been hours and I haven't received word about—"
"ACHOO!"
Shit.
The voices stopped.
The door to Dumbledore's office flew open, magically, with a bang. Harry stood before his professors with his hands in his pockets, sniffling and looking sheepish.
"Harry . . ." Dumbledore began in a stern voice.
Snape appeared livid, but said nothing.
"Er—sorry Professor Dumbledore. You said you wanted to see me?"
Snape narrowed his eyes. "Don't play stupid, Potter. You were spying!" he snarled.
"Severus!"
Snape continued. "Perhaps you were unaware, Potter, but it is customary to knock upon arrival, as opposed to eavesdropping on private matters then sneezing your way into them."
Harry frowned. If they had wanted the conversation to be private, then they should have cast a Silencing Charm . . . "I didn't hear anything, anyway," Harry muttered, petulantly.
Snape glowered at Harry, then turned to Dumbledore. "I see we are done here. Good evening, Headmaster." He gave a slight bow and turned to leave, his dark eyes shooting daggers at Harry as he passed.
"Severus," Dumbledore called after him. "Do let me know if you hear any news."
Snape paused and turned back, appearing paler than usual. He nodded curtly, then left.
Harry stood in the doorway feeling uncomfortable. Dumbledore appeared to consider him for a moment.
"Have a seat, Harry," Dumbledore offered, finally, looking less than pleased. "We have much to discuss."
Harry swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"Crystallised pineapple?" Dumbledore offered. There was a mysterious glint in his eye.
Harry nodded and took the sweet.
….
….
….
It was nearly suppertime and the sun had set over Hogwarts when Harry left Professor Dumbledore's office, feeling exhausted and utterly hopeless. His mind was spinning with all of the new information about Voldemort and the possibility of these—Horcruxes—added a whole new level of impossibility to what already felt like an impossible task. Now, Harry would have to kill Voldemort not one, but five times, at least. Dumbledore suspected that the madman had split his soul seven times to attempt immortality. Two of these soul-possessing objects, Horcruxes, had been destroyed already.
Harry had stabbed Tom Riddle's diary with a basilisk fang in second year and the object had seemingly bled to death.
Dumbledore's hand had burnt to a crisp over the summer, which was the result of a cursed Horcrux—Marvolo Gaunt's ring. And what of the others, if there were others? Dumbledore seemed to think so, but how could he know for certain? How would they find them? And what if they held dark curses worse than the ring?
Plus, witnessing the Pensieve memories from Voldemort's childhood gave Harry a sense of unease that left a prickly feeling on his skin. He rubbed his arms quickly to try and remove the chill, but the gloom had already been cast.
On top of that, Harry was expected to get Professor Slughorn to not only confess to giving Voldemort information about Horcruxes, but to actually provide Harry with the exact memory of the occasion. Apparently, the man was filled with such guilt over whatever he had told Riddle as a child, that Slughorn had actually tampered with a memory to keep Dumbledore from learning the truth-a truth that could help them to win the war. And, since Dumbledore was unable to get it himself, it was now all up to Harry.
Merlin.
Harry dragged himself to the Great Hall for supper in a dark haze and decided that he would begin schmoozing Slughorn at dinner somehow. How, he did not know. At first he'd considered complimenting Slughorn's wardrobe choice for the day, then quickly chastised himself for his lame plan. He could do this without coming off like a complete ponce.
He could be smooth. Harry could manipulate him, sure. Yeah. Sure. No problem.
Harry mumbled to himself as he imagined several scenarios, playing them out in his mind as though reading from a script. He pictured himself joking around with Slughorn in the corner of the Great Hall or in the Potions classroom. Slughorn would laugh appreciatively at Harry's wit and ask how he could be of service. Harry would then nod his head solemnly as he expressed the necessity of his task and his need for the memory. Each situation ended up with Slughorn patting Harry on the back and calling him a wily, little dickens. Harry would grin, make a cheeky remark about "learning from the best" and saunter off with Slughorn's memory in hand.
Easy. It would be so easy.
Ron, Dean, Hermione and Ginny were already at the table when Harry entered the Great Hall. They waved him over and he gave them a slightly forced smile and sat to join the conversation.
"How'd it go?" Ron asked.
Harry shrugged. He really didn't want to get into it yet and, besides, most of what he learned had to be kept a secret. "Fine."
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
"I'll tell you about it, later," Harry promised. This seemed to satisfy her and she returned to admiring the slinky, pewter bracelet that Ginny had just charmed for her out of a napkin scrap. The girls were poring over Ginny's new book that had arrived that morning—Charming Charms: Charming Charming Charms with Charm . . . on the Cheap! by Charmayne Lockhart, author of the best-selling biography, My Charming Brother: How Gilderoy Lockhart Charmed his way into our Harts. A colorful stack of stickers on the front cover indicated multiple mark-downs in price.
"Lockhart may be washed up, but the charms still work. I got this book half-off!" Ginny chirped, as she ran her finger down a set of instructions that promised to charm a braid into a turquoise headband.
Harry glanced away from the girls to look up at the staff table. Snape was seated in his usual spot, though he was craning his neck and peering into the crowd of the students, as if searching for someone. Oddly enough, Slughorn, who was never one to miss a meal, was not there.
Harry vaguely wondered about Slughorn's absence as he stirred his mushroom soup. He continued to run through the wooing scenarios in his mind as he watched Parvati's quick fingers plait a tight, tiny braid over the top of Ginny's head. Minutes later, when Slughorn still had not shown and Ginny was admiring her charming sparkly, turquoise headband, Harry pulled out his Marauder's Map, recited the incantation and tapped his fingers impatiently as the magical map spread over the parchment in rolling, black waves.
"Oh, how charming, Ginny!" Lavender squealed.
"My, Ginny, what a charming charm you've got there," Parvati drawled.
Ginny stuck out a hand and said in her snootiest voice, "Charmed, I'm sure." The girls giggled and continued this inane charade for far longer than any reasonable joke should last.
When the map was finally visible, Harry surveyed it quickly, glancing first towards the Slytherin dungeons. There was Slughorn, right in his private quarters with . . . Professor Trelawney.
Hmmm, interesting. Very interesting, indeed.
Harry grinned at Ron and pointed to the two dots. Ron raised his eyebrows suggestively and made a rude gesture.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, honestly. Boys."
"I'll bet Slughorn is really turning on the charm down there," piped Neville and the boys audibly groaned. Seamus gave Neville a light punch on the arm.
"Neville!" cried Ron. "Not you, too!"
"That's how they get you," Seamus warned, his face serious. He and Ron exchanged a knowing look. "They suck you in with their mindless drivel until your brain turns to mush and you forget your name."
Harry laughed with the others and began to tuck the map away, when the half-dot by the main entrance caught his eye again.
It had moved slightly—very slightly—but it was still there, hours later, in the snow.
The letters beneath the dot now said "FOY," and Harry could have slapped himself for not making the connection sooner. Malfoy had left Hogwarts that morning to do Merlin-knows-what and now he'd been lingering around the main entrance of Hogwarts, for hours, in the snow. He must have been up to trouble. Or in trouble, that pesky voice repeated and Harry frowned. He had wanted to have a nice evening in his room, mulling over the new information from Dumbledore and beginning to plot his manipulation of Slughorn, but this was, well, it was Malfoy, and it required his immediate attention.
Harry, his agitation increasing each time he glanced at the stationary FOY on his map, quickly gobbled up his mushroom soup.
"What is it, Harry?" Hermione asked as he dropped his spoon into the bowl with a clatter.
Harry forced himself to grin. "It's nothing. I just—look." Harry pointed to the dot on the map.
Hermione and Ron had complained the last time Harry went off on his own, claiming that they wanted to be included the next time. Well, here was their chance.
Hermione squinted at the map and Ron blinked at him stupidly.
"It's Malfoy," Harry explained. "He's been at the front entrance for hours."
Hermione and Ron exchanged a look that Harry did not like. "Harry," Ron said, slowly. "That dot says 'FOY.'"
Harry's felt his eyes bug out of his head. "Ron!" He banged his fists onto the table, causing his spoon to jump out of his bowl onto the floor. "Merlin! Why do you two constantly doubt everything I say? This is getting ridiculous!"
"No, Harry! This fixation that you have on Malfoy is what's getting ridiculous," Ron grumbled. "I can't stand the bugger, either, but lay off of him!"
Harry stood angrily and gestured to the wide expanse of the Great Hall. "Do you see him here? Do you, Ron? Do you, Hermione?"
"He had some family emergency," Ron tried to point out. "That's what I heard Slughorn say."
"Yes, perhaps he did, but that doesn't explain why he's been at the front entrance of Hogwarts for hours—"
"You've been watching him for hours, Harry?" Hermione asked in a small voice. Her nose was wrinkled up, as though she was thinking something over.
"Yes! But—wait, no! That's not—"
"That's a bit weird, Harry, even for you," Ron said.
Harry stood and glared fiercely. "Fine. Fuck it. You know what? You two say you want me to include you and then every time I say something you act as though I'm bloody insane. I didn't think the two of you would start buying into tabloid fodder, but obviously I was wrong."
Harry was fuming. What was their problem? Why couldn't his friends just look at the facts and trust Harry's instincts and support him? He was certain that it was Malfoy. Positive. Harry briefly considered telling them what he had overheard as further proof, but decided against it, knowing they would deem him crazier than they already had.
It wasn't fair. Harry was right and he knew it and he was going to prove them wrong.
He snatched up his bag, grumbling something about unsupportive friends and stalked out of the Great Hall, ignoring calls from Hermione and Ron to 'settle down' and 'come and sit, Harry!'
When Harry reached the hallway, he realized that he didn't know what to do. If Malfoy was stuck outside of Hogwarts, then Malfoy needed to get inside. If Malfoy was up to no good, however, then perhaps there was good reason to deny his admittance into the school.
But if he was hurt . . .
Harry remembered Snape's warning words.
"It could be a trick!"
"I'll handle it . . . just say I have a family emergency."
"Family emergency might not be far from the truth . . ."
Harry bit his lip and began to pace the hallway. Who should he tell? Snape's words to Dumbledore told Harry that the greasy git was definitely concerned about Malfoy's whereabouts. Snape was Malfoy's Head of House, after all. Harry should tell Snape.
But, if Snape and Malfoy were both plotting for Voldemort, then Snape should not be told. What if Malfoy had something dangerous on him or, well, Harry didn't really know, but he didn't think he could trust Snape.
Someone had to check on Malfoy, though, and let him into the school . . .
Hagrid! Of course.
Harry headed first to his dorm to get his weather-proof snow gear and cloak (he had learned this lesson the hard way.) Then he sprinted over the snowy grounds toward Hagrid's hut, illuminated in the darkness by a warm, glowing fire inside.
Harry knocked on the knotted wooden door.
"I'm comin', I'm comin'," Hagrid grumbled, and Harry grinned despite himself. Heavy footsteps could be heard, followed by the clatter of dishes. The door to Hagrid's hut flew open with bang and immediately Fang leapt onto Harry and nearly tackled him into the snow.
"Down, Fang! Ye' crazy—" Hagrid said, then his beard shifted upwards as though he were smiling. "Harry! 'S been awhile! Ye know yer shouldn' be down here. But, ah well. Come on in! I'll give ye a cuppa. Just gotta fill me kettle. . . "
Hagrid turned to head toward the stove. A hot cup of tea would have been wonderful, but Harry had more pressing issues. "Wait. Hagrid. It's-someone's been stuck outside of Hogwarts for hours."
Hagrid turned and frowned. "Outsider Hogwars'?"
Harry nodded. "Yes. I think it might be Malfoy, but I don't know for sure. I just know they've been there for hours . . . in the snow. Might be hurt, I don't know. Will you at least go check?"
"'Course Harry." Hagrid grabbed his furry cloak and, without further questions, began to lumber toward the main entrance of Hogwarts, with Harry trotting at his heels.
Sure enough, when they approached the heavily warded gates of Hogwarts, Harry spotted a crumpled form in the snow. He had expected it, but actually seeing someone collapsed in the snow like that, and knowing that the person had been there for hours, sent an icy chill through him. He sprinted toward the gates, his stomach in knots.
As he grew closer, Harry could see that the snow-dusted hair, illuminated in a streak of moonlight, was unmistakably blonde.
"Malfoy," he breathed. Malfoy was on his knees. His arms were buried in the snow in front of him, as if he were bracing himself from falling, and his head hung against his chest. A layer of snow had gathered on his back. Judging by the amount of snow that had collected on the boy, Malfoy had not moved from this position in hours. Harry moved closer and called louder. "Malfoy!"
Malfoy was shivering violently, but he did not move. He did not acknowledge their presence at all.
Harry scrambled forward with mounting concern. What if Malfoy was seriously injured? Clearly, he was half-frozen, but what were the repercussions of staying in the snow for that long? Why had he been in the snow for that long?
Hagrid was opening the gates as Harry scrutinized Malfoy, looking for clues, something, that would give him an idea of the situation.
As soon as the gates were open, Harry plunged into the snow in front of Malfoy. All fears of what the boy possessed, or planned, were erased from Harry's mind as he placed a hand on Malfoy's trembling back and shook him. "Malfoy," he said again, more urgently. Harry heard the clacking of teeth, but nothing else.
Harry exchanged glances with Hagrid, and looked back to the shivering form in the snow. "Come on, get up. You can't stay here."
Malfoy said nothing.
Growing panicked, Harry took Malfoy's head in his gloved hand and lifted Malfoy's face by the chin. His lips were blue and shivering. There were frozen tear tracks down his face and his swollen, red eyes stared vacantly beyond Harry.
"Shit," Harry muttered, then looked to Hagrid again for help. Hagrid clamored forward and stooped down on one knee.
"Come on, Malfoy," Hagrid said, gently. Malfoy did not respond. Hagrid sighed, then stepped around him. He wrapped his bear-like arms around the boy and hoisted him up to a standing position.
Light sounds of frost cracking and ice breaking could be heard as Malfoy's legs were forcibly straightened and his body was uncurled.
What had happened to him? Harry was almost certain that Malfoy had gone to see Voldemort that day. What had that bastard done to him?
Hagrid went to lift Malfoy to carry him, but Harry protested. "No, Hagrid. Let him walk himself. He can stand. He should try and walk and get his blood moving around, right?"
Hagrid grunted in agreement and set Malfoy back in the snow.
Hagrid and Harry had walked a few steps towards the castle when they realized that Malfoy was not with them. Harry stopped walking and looked back. Malfoy stood, hunched forward. His limbs hung limply, like a wind-up doll with a broken motor, waiting for someone to guide its next move.
"I've got him," Harry said to Hagrid. Harry walked back to Malfoy and wrapped an arm around Malfoy's waist. He began walking and, to his relief, Malfoy went through the motions of walking beside him. He did not speak, did not acknowledge Harry or Hagrid, and his chattering ran so deeply, it seemed to begin right at his core.
The three quickly made their way over the grounds toward the castle.
"Wouldn' it be quicker if yer Levertated 'em, Harry?"
Harry shot Hagrid a glance. "No. Malfoy'd kill me if I did that."
Hagrid gave a humorless laugh. "I reckon he would."
"This is fine," Harry insisted. "He needs to go to straight to the Infirmary, though."
Hagrid, Harry and Malfoy reached the warmth of the castle and began making their way to the Infirmary. Either Malfoy wanted to go to the Infirmary, or he was too out of it to know what was going on. Harry couldn't tell if his silence was intentional or if it was caused by a spell, but Harry was certain of one thing—Draco Malfoy was distraught beyond anything Harry had ever seen before.
Thankfully, students were still in the Great Hall, so no one saw Harry and Hagrid guide a frozen Malfoy through the castle.
When they reached the Infirmary, Harry tentatively removed his supporting arm from Malfoy's back. Malfoy promptly collapsed onto Harry, who was so startled he simply grabbed him around the middle to keep him from falling.
"Malfoy," Harry murmured into his frozen hair. It smelled like snow and sweat. Harry pulled back and looked carefully at him, wanting to ask if he was okay but knowing that he would get no response.
The answer was obviously no, anyway.
Malfoy turned to Harry with with miserable eyes. Through his chattering teeth, Malfoy held Harry's gaze for a moment, then appeared confused. "Potter?"
"Malfoy—what happened?" Harry glanced up at Hagrid, seeing his own relief reflected in the large man's eyes. Malfoy had responded! But when Harry looked back at him, the recognition had died from Malfoy's eyes, and his brief moment of lucidity had passed.
"Madame Pomfrey!" Harry called out, still clutching Malfoy, but trying to shift the boy so that he was not lying fully against him. Malfoy's cloak felt ice cold and the snow and frost on the wool was just beginning to melt. A glint of silver caught Harry's eye, and he noticed that Malfoy was clutching what looked like a Muggle coin in his trembling, left fist.
Madame Pomfrey came hustling around the corner. "What is it now, Mr. P—oh, dear. Mr. Malfoy! You're blue!" Madame Pomfrey looked frantically from one person to the next, waiting for an explanation. "Well?" she demanded, already busy preparing warming potions for Malfoy.
"Foun' em like this, Madame Pomfrey. Looks as though e's been outside fer hours."
"Mr. Malfoy, are you alright?" she asked him, as she dosed out a potion into a small vial. "What happened? Are you injured?"
Malfoy stared, expressionless. Madame Pomfrey stepped forward and tilted a potion into his mouth. Malfoy swallowed obediently.
Madame Pomfrey frowned at him, then looked to Hagrid and Harry for further explanation. "Is he under some kind of spell? Why isn't he speaking?"
Harry shrugged. "I don't know . . . I don't think so, but maybe. We just found him like this. I think he's.. er…upset. But I don't know. Mostly, he's frozen."
She nodded. "Okay. Okay. Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing him here. You may go."
"But—" Harry protested, "is he going to be all right? What's wrong with him?"
Madame Pomfrey frowned. "I think he is going to be fine with a few potions and a good night's rest. You may go now."
"Can't I just wait around until you know what's wrong with him? To be sure?" Harry asked. Hagrid was peering curiously at Harry and Madame Pomrey's face held a similar expression.
"You will be of no further assistance to him, Mr. Potter. He appears exhausted and needs rest. Your presence here is unnecessary."
"But—"
She gave Harry a patronizing smile. "Mr. Potter. Should anything happen to him, I will be sure to let you know. In the meantime, you are distracting me and you need to leave this Infirmary at once. Mr. Hagrid, please escort Mr. Potter to his room."
"Okay, okay! I don't need an escort, Madame Pomfrey. I can find it myself."
"Yer sure Harry?" Hagrid patted him on the shoulder and Harry gave him a tight smile.
"Yeah. Thanks for your help. Good night, Hagrid. Madame Pomfrey. Malfoy." Harry gave a little nod to each person, then turned and left for his dorm.
Harry would come back tomorrow morning and check to be sure.
He would come back tomorrow morning and check.
He gave a self-deprecating head-shake. This was getting insane. Maybe Hermione and Ron were right. Maybe Harry was obsessed with Malfoy.
But he hated Malfoy.
No, he cared about him. Harry had said as much to the prat.
So why the hell was he obsessively caring about Malfoy?
Because! Malfoy was in trouble—er—causing trouble.
Regardless, Malfoy's current condition could not reflect anything good. Whatever Malfoy was planning, whatever he was mixed up in, it was bad. It was really, really bad. Perhaps worse than Harry had initially thought.
Harry wanted to help Malfoy, but if Malfoy was truly a Death Eater whose life was on the line, then Harry was his enemy. Malfoy would hurt Harry in order to protect his family. He would not change allegiances, not that Harry had hoped for that.
Bullshit. He had. But he'd known it was a long shot. And yet, he felt drawn to the boy like a magnet. He wanted to be around him.
He wanted to be around him?
Harry sighed. It was the truth. He did. But maybe Harry could still help Malfoy in another way, in the kind of way that he had been, unwittingly, for the last month . . . Harry could be there for Malfoy. He would support him. He would try, really, truly try to just be there for Malfoy despite his allegiance with Voldemort.
This was completely insane, he knew, but the boy needed someone. Harry would be that someone. Harry wanted to be that someone. He couldn't explain it, but when he saw Malfoy's crumpled, broken form on the ground outside the gates of Hogwarts, something shifted inside him permanently. They could never go back to the way they used to be, or, at least, Harry could not. Not really. He could never truly hate Malfoy. Too much had happened.
Malfoy had taken care of Harry and read to him when he was sick. Malfoy had laughed when Harry told him terrible fairy tales and he had liked making Malfoy laugh, even when the laughter was at his expense. Harry had given the git his stupid-looking green hat and Malfoy had paraded around Hogwarts in it for two weeks because he was embarrassed about his spiky, baby-chick haircut and only Harry knew why he was wearing it.
Malfoy had eaten coins when he got hungry.
He talked to himself when he was nervous.
He memorized nursery rhymes from beginning to end.
And he could sing unlike anyone Harry had ever heard before.
Malfoy was being used and manipulated, strung along like a puppet in Voldemort's hands. Despite the fact that Malfoy had been a prat for the last six years, the things going on in Malfoy's life now were out of his hands. He was acting on Voldemort's orders, under fear of death.
Harry was determined to try and support the fucked-up boy without challenging him for his faults and choices. He would try. Would he be able to? Probably not. Would Malfoy want him to? Definitely not. But, dammit, Harry was in too deep and he could not ignore what he saw happening in front of his own eyes. He had to try.
Harry would be back tomorrow morning.
Fucking hell.
….
….
….
"Hey, Harry," Ron clapped a hand onto Harry's shoulder when he entered the Gryffindor Common Room later that evening. Harry flinched and stepped back. "Oh, come on, Harry! Hermione and I were just—"
"I'll have the two of you know," Harry began and eyed his friends with disgust, "that I was completely right."
Hermione was petting Crookshanks from a spot on the floor by the fire. Ron was standing a few feet away from Harry, looking hurt from the unexpected snub.
"Right about what?" Hermione asked, gently.
"About Mal—" Harry realized he was shouting and cut his voice down to a whisper. "About Malfoy!" he hissed.
"That he's up to no good? Or getting in trouble?" Ron asked. His voice was edged with scorn.
"Both!" Harry exploded. He could feel his heart rate rising as he grew inexplicably angry. He began to pace the Common Room, raving. "It was Malfoy at the front gate of Hogwarts! And it's a good thing I went, too. When Hagrid and I found him he was half frozen and completely out of it! He'd been there for hours."
Hermione paled.
"Hagrid?" Ron asked, stupidly.
"Yes, Hagrid. You know, since you two were too busy to take me seriously."
"It's not that we were too busy, Harry," Hermione began, but was cut off by Ron.
"We just didn't take you seriously."
"Ron!"
"I see." Harry went to shove past them towards his room when he stopped and turned back. "You know. You two complain that I don't tell you what's going on or what I'm up to. This," he gestured wildly about the room, "is why. Don't expect me to ask for your help in the future."
"Harry, come on," Ron cried. "Don't be like that. I was joking."
Harry ignored him and turned to stomp off to his dorm and sulk when a hand caught him around the upper arm and spun him around. It was Hermione.
"What?" he snapped.
Hermione frowned and looked at him closely, then dragged him to the opposite corner of the room, where Lavender and Parvati usually sat, and pushed him down into one of two purple, suede chairs that winged a small, glass tabletop. Hermione took the other.
"What?" Harry asked again, irritated.
"We need to talk," Hermione said.
Harry crossed his arms and turned his head away from her, his body language indicating everything but the desire the talk. "Fine. What? I'm listening," he said to the wall.
"Harry," she began tentatively. She stopped and shifted. "Alright. What's with you and Malfoy, anyway?"
Harry scowled deeper. "I'm not obsessed, Hermione. I've told you, and now I know with certainty that he is up to something—that he has a task for Voldemort—"
She waved her hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, you've told me all of this but . . ." her voice trailed off, uncertain.
Harry's heart began to beat faster. "What? What else is there?"
"That's just it." She looked up at him, softly. "I don't know, Harry. You tell me."
"What are you—?" Harry stuttered. "What, what do you mean?"
Hermione sighed and folded her hands in her lap. "He asked about you, you know."
He asked—
He—
What?
Harry said nothing for a moment. He pressed his lips together then tried to take one controlling breath. "Wh-who did?"
"Malfoy."
Harry felt his cheeks heat up and adrenaline sprint through his body. "What did he want?" Malfoy had asked about him? Malfoy had asked Hermione about Harry? What the hell?
She nodded, smiling slightly. "It was when you had the flu. He asked me how you were feeling."
"He did?" Harry asked in a small voice, wondering if his reaction to this news was entirely wrong. He couldn't remember. Was Harry supposed to be angry about this? Because he wasn't angry. Not at all. He felt confused and . . . pleased. Harry frowned as he traced a capital H into the purple suede lining of the chair.
Hermione nodded again and her smile grew. "Yeah. I asked him how he knew you were sick and he said because you had a fever. And then he more or less admitted that you two had been stuck in the Shrieking Shack together."
"H-He did?" Harry undid the capital H and started over.
Hermione's smile slipped from her face and she placed a hand on the arm of Harry's chair to quell his tracing. Harry stared, unblinking, at her hand, then shifted and began rubbing circles in his forearms with his thumbs.
"Harry," she asked. "What happened there?"
Harry jumped as if stung. "What ha . . ? N-Nothing! Nothing happened! Why would you—? He's just. Just being. Stupid." Harry took a deep breath and tried again. "What do you mean, he asked you about me? How were you even talking in the first place?"
She grinned then, as if enjoying the memory. "Let's just say . . . he wasn't quite himself at the time."
Not himself? Had the idiot been under a Sleeping Charm, again? Oh, Malfoy, you stupid, stupid fuck.
Harry pinned Hermione with a wild stare. "What do you mean, not himself?"
She shrank back, slightly affronted by Harry's reaction. "I just—he was, um. Altered?"
Harry threw his head back against the chair. "Fuck. Hermione. You need to tell me what you mean. Like he was asleep altered or what?"
She shook her head in wonder and gestured at Harry. "This. This is exactly what I'm talking about. Like you're worried about him or something!"
Harry narrowed his eyes. "And if I am?"
Hermione's mouth shrunk to the size of a buttonhole. "Oh. Y-you are?"
Harry let out an exasperated sigh and buried his head in his hands. "What's wrong with me?"
He felt her gentle hand on his shoulder. "Nothing is wrong with you, Harry. I just find it, well, odd, that you all of the sudden care this much about someone you've proclaimed to hate for so many years."
Harry groaned into his hands. "He's still an arsehole."
Hermione shrugged. "But you care about him. For some reason. And, to tell you the truth, I might know why."
Harry peered at her from over his hands. "Why?"
"I told him the same thing. That I think he has some human in him, after all."
Harry felt his mouth quirk up at the corners. He felt a rush of gratitude toward his friend for at least trying to understand. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, I reckon that's why." He took a deep breath. "Probably more human in him than any of us. He's . . . falling apart, Hermione," Harry confessed. "It's a bit frightening to watch."
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. I guess I just haven't been paying much attention, but you're right. And if what you say is true . . . about him being a Death Eater, well, I don't know, Harry. Shouldn't you avoid him? He still can't be trusted."
Harry dropped his head back down into his hands again. "I know, Hermione."
She patted him on the shoulder, reassuringly. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you, Harry."
He grunted.
"But," she continued, "I guess this obsession thing is a bit different when you realize it isn't coming from a place of hatred. It seems to hold a bit more bearing when it comes from a place of concern."
Harry nodded meekly. "But I still think he's up to something."
She smacked his shoulder and they both laughed. "Oh, do shut up, Harry."
His face suddenly sobered. "Speaking of Voldemort, Hermione. Uh, I met with Dumbledore and—"
"And?" she pressed.
Harry glanced over to where Ron was muttering angrily to himself while scribbling with a gray crayon on a large piece of parchment.
"And—we should get Ron."
Hermione nodded, then hurried over to Ron. He looked up and shot Harry a mean look. Harry rolled his eyes and motioned for Ron to come over. Hermione pulled Ron by the upper arm. He set his crayon down and the two joined Harry. Hermione returned to her seat on the purple chair and Ron dragged the glass table back and perched on the edge, carefully.
Harry cast the Muffliato spell that he'd learned from the previous owner's annotations in his Advanced Potion Making text. Hermione frowned at him.
"What? It works!" Harry protested.
"I still don't like it, Harry. You shouldn't be using spells that some student scribbled in an old Potions text. It could be dangerous. We've been over this."
"Oh, come off it, Hermione," said Ron, suddenly eager to hear about Harry's meeting with Dumbledore. "You're only jealous because Slughorn thinks Harry's a Potions genius!"
"It isn't fair," she admitted, sounding sulky.
"Well, it actually might come in handy more than we think," said Harry. He then explained to his friends the first assignment that Dumbledore had given him—to find Slughorn and procure the untainted Horcrux memory.
When his friends began to wonder about what the Horcruxes were made of and where the Horcruxes could be and how one would go about destroying one and if Voldemort could tell when they were destroyed and couldn't he just make others and no, Ron, he has hardly any human left in him as it is and . . .
Harry was more than ready for bed.
….
….
….
Draco Malfoy was released from the Infirmary at 7:54 a.m. After a night of blood-warming potions, multiple treatments for frostbite in his hands and feet and hours of rest, his vitals had returned to normal and he was deemed physically healthy.
The problem was, Draco still had not spoken a word.
Madame Pomfrey had checked his body over and over again for undetected curses, but found none. If Draco Malfoy was not speaking, it was because he was choosing not to speak. Madame Pomfrey could recognize the signs of emotional trauma and Draco had them all. She wrote Draco a pass that excused him from participating in class and a pass to return to her that evening so that she could check on him.
Madame Pomfrey did not specialize in emotional care, but even she could see when a patient needed help. She had alerted Professor Snape of Draco's state the evening prior and he had burst into the room, face awash with both panic and relief. Professor Snape's eyes had narrowed when he heard that Harry Potter was the one to rescue his favorite student, but, nevertheless, relief had overwhelmed the man and he sat in a chair beside the sleeping boy for an hour, keeping watch. Once Madame Pomfrey had properly assured him that Draco was fine, Snape had muttered his thanks and returned to his quarters to sleep.
Once released, Draco had found himself heading toward the dungeons.
He stood outside of the Slytherin Common Room for twelve minutes until Malcolm Baddock, giving Draco a strange look, spoke the password. Draco then entered, collected his school supplies, turned around and walked to the Great Hall for breakfast.
He ate four bites of unbuttered toast and took seven sips of water. Pansy and Crabbe exchanged concerned looks when Draco completely ignored their attempts at conversation and chose, instead, to stare at the remaining toast on his plate.
When breakfast was over, Draco walked to his Defense Against the Dark Arts class and sat in his usual seat. When Professor Snape put the students into pairs to practice their defensive spells, Draco pointed his wand at Kevin Entwhistle, but said nothing. Kevin promptly knocked him on his arse, as Draco failed to conjure so much as a defensive shield.
After Kevin Entwhistle knocked Draco on his arse five times, Entwhistle gave the boy a funny look and lowered his wand. He turned to Professor Snape and shrugged. Snape, appearing bewildered, helped Draco off the floor and told him to organize his desk drawers. Entwhistle was matched up with Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott for the remainder of class.
Draco grouped together the rolls of Spell-o-tape, placed loose paperclips into a cup and arranged all of Snape's quills by color. He stacked all of the collected homework and organized the assignments alphabetically by last name. When he had finished that, he began to make a paperclip chain with the clips in the cup. He had chained together a little more than half of them in a pattern of alternating size, before class was over. He placed the paperclip chain back into the cup, gathered his supplies and left.
In Potions, Professor Slughorn called on Draco to describe the combined reaction of elderflower extract and powdered lizard eyes. Draco flipped through his pages of his notes until he arrived at the answer. He then stared, blankly, at his parchment.
"Mr. Malfoy?" Slughorn asked, looking about the room with a jovial grin as though Draco's reaction were some sort of practical joke.
Draco continued to stare at his notes.
"Mr. Malfoy, it's all right there on your parchment. Come, tell us, what is the combined reaction of elderflower extract and powdered lizard eyes?"
Draco blinked at his parchment, but did not look up. On the top of his desk, neatly placed in the upper left–hand corner, was the medical excuse for class participation from Madame Pomfrey. Draco did not refer to it or hand it to Professor Slughorn.
"What's his problem?" someone whispered from the Slytherin side of the room. This comment was followed with laughter.
"I reckon he's finally lost it," said another.
"Not so 'with it' when daddy's in jail, is he?" It sounded like Theodore Nott. Several students snickered behind Draco's back.
Slughorn frowned and stepped up to Draco's table. "Mr. Malfoy?" he asked again. "When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. If you—"
"Professor!" A girl's voice rang out from the Gryffindor side of the room. "Er, Malfoy is not, uh, feeling well today, sir."
Slughorn still standing in front of Draco, turned his head to the girl. "Is that so, Miss Granger?"
"Yes, sir. I can answer that question, though."
Slughorn indulged her with a chuckle and walked away from Draco's table. "Yes, Miss Granger. Very good, very good. Yes, I'm sure you can."
Draco stared at the response for the reaction between elderflower extract and powdered lizard eyes for the rest of class. An hour later, he had memorized the entire page of notes. He had also memorized the layout of the medical excuse, down to the number of dots in the border. Three hundred fifty-two.
After Potions, Draco went to the bathroom.
Draco left the bathroom and headed to Care of Magical Creatures. While the students followed a family of Jarveys as they scampered about the lawn, shaking their tiny fists and hurling insults, Draco stood in one spot of ankle-deep snow with his arms at his sides, gazing at the Forbidden Forest.
At one point a Jarvey escaped the others and made its way over to Draco.
"Hey, pinhead!" it shouted.
Draco stared at the forest.
"Hey you stupid git, are you deaf? Those ugly, pointy, little ears can't hear?"
The Jarvey stomped in a circle in the snow, annoyed by Draco's inattention.
"Hey!" It shook an angry fist. " Hey! Look at me, you bloody wanker, git, goddamn stupid white-headed, thinks-he's-special, prat of a prick-loving, mother-tosser, gormless, witless, brainless, dickless, worthless, useless, lifeless, soundless, gormless, witless, brainless . . . " The Jarvey's voice trailed off as he gave up on Draco and ambled away to instigate fights with more responsive students.
When class was over, Draco turned and left.
For the next week, Draco's behavior was much the same. He changed his clothes, he took his showers, he ate very little and he attended his classes. At night, he would lie in bed and stare at the canopy of his four-poster. Sometimes sleep would come to him. More often, it would not.
Draco would not speak.
To speak was to think, and Draco was not ready to think.
So Draco remained silent.
Pansy tried to get him to talk. Crabbe gave him a piece of pie, but he would not eat it. Professor Snape called him into his office on Wednesday night and the two sat in dead silence for forty-three minutes until Snape gave up and dismissed Draco back to his room. Madame Pomfrey suggested calling his mother and Draco promptly hopped off of the examination table and left the Infirmary.
On Friday, Draco stood, ankle-deep in snow, staring at the Forbidden Forest again during another Care of Magical Creatures class. His clothing hung loosely on his thin frame, the shadows under his eyes resembled bruises and he swayed on his spot with the gentle dizziness of malnutrition.
Hagrid dismissed class. Draco turned and began walking back to the castle.
As he was walking, Potter, who'd been lingering around the forest during Draco's class, caught up to him.
"Hey, Malfoy."
Draco watched the ground move in front of him as he walked.
"Er . . . how about those Jarveys? Bunch of arsehole-creatures, huh? Remind me a bit of you." Potter laughed at his own joke. When Draco did not respond, Potter's laughter trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.
Draco blinked.
"Um . . . so, I finished A Christmas Carol. Seamus Finnegan let me borrow a copy. Not bad. I suppose you've written your book report by now."
Draco blinked again and watched his walking feet.
"Yeah, I suppose you have," Potter carried on. "I'll bet your take on it is a bit different than mine, seeing as you're so fond of that Scrooge character. Plus, I'm always terrible at book interpretations. Hermione says I'm a bit too thick for them. I reckon she's probably right."
Draco turned his head, then, and locked eyes with Potter. He inhaled once, exhaled once, rolled his eyes, and dropped his gaze back down to the ground in front of him.
Potter laughed. "I reckon you think I'm a bit thick, too."
Draco snorted.
They reached the castle. "All right," Potter shoved his hands in his pocket and looked around. "See you, Malfoy." Potter gave Draco a short wave, then turned and left.
Draco headed toward the Chapel.
….
….
….
"You were right, Harry," Hermione said again, once they reached the Great Hall for lunch. "Something is definitely up with him."
"Bloody weirdo, if you ask me," Ron muttered thickly, his mouth stuffed with rosemary quail. He reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth. "Did you see him? Bugger hasn't said a word all week! Complete nutter. And Merlin! Last week in Defense, whenKevin Entwhistle just kept knocking him on his arse?" Ron laughed and a bit of food flew out of his mouth. "It was bloody hysterical!"
"Ron, ew," Hermione said, pointing to the glistening bit of food on the table. Ron quickly wiped it up.
"It wasn't hysterical," Harry said into his plate. "It wasn't funny at all. He didn't even try to defend himself. He could have gotten hurt."
"Who cares, Harry? Honestly, the git deserves it!" Ron was looking about the table wildly for agreement. When no one seemed to look his way, he pressed on with determination. "Malfoy beat the piss out of you a few weeks ago. The least he deserves is to fall on his arse a few times. Blimey."
"He did not beat the piss out of me," Harry sulked.
Ron shrugged and pulled a bone out of his mouth. He tossed it haphazardly onto his plate. "Point is, he deserved it."
Harry looked up sharply. "The point is, he is not okay. Apparently everyone else thinks this is funny. Well, I don't. It wouldn't be funny if it was Neville we found half frozen in the snow, so traumatized he couldn't speak for a week!"
"Well Neville's not stupid enough to get mixed up with You-Know-Who's lot! Malfoy asked for it, Harry. He deserves it."
"He doesn't know what he's doing. He needs help," Harry mumbled.
Ron wrinkled up his face. "Harry, have you lost your bloody mind? This is Malfoy we're talking about here, not Neville or some innocent kind of person . . . Draco bloody Malfoy."
"Yes, I know," said Harry.
Ron huffed. "Forget it, Harry. I don't get you, lately." Ron shook his head and took his last bite of food. "Dean? Seamus? Let's go sell some forecasts."
Harry shot Ron a glare and Ron returned it. Then Harry felt bad about being nasty to Ron because, really, how could he possibly understand? Hermione understood, but it was only because she'd had some weird conversation with Malfoy. Plus, it was Hermione. Ron, on the other hand, would likely never understand. It was a waste of Harry's time to even try and it was bound to end in an argument, anyway.
Harry sighed and looked over at Hermione. She offered him a small smile, then returned to her conversation with Ginny. It seemed Harry had her support, anyway. Sort of.
….
….
….
"Professor Slughorn?" Harry asked at the end of Potions. "Can I speak with you for a moment?"
"Of course, Harry, of course! I always have time for my best and brightest." Slughorn busied himself straightening up the classroom, and Harry grabbed a tray of snake tongues and began to help.
The other students were leaving in groups of two or three, chatting animatedly about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend as they left. Malfoy was mechanically placing items back into his school bag. Slughorn paused for a moment and watched him with a slight frown.
"A bit odd, that one," he murmured, after Malfoy had left the room.
Harry widened his eyes. "Malfoy? But, he's really good in Potions. Better than me, that's for sure."
Slughorn stared at the doorway as the last of the students left. "Perhaps, Harry. If you say so, if you say so." Slughorn shook his head and cleared his voice. "But you!" He beamed proudly at Harry. "What a promising young student. Cheeky, bright, just like your mother, you are."
Harry flushed at the undeserved praise, knowing that he was a piss-poor Potions student and had been consistently pulling the wool over Slughorn's eyes since September. However, it just might play to Harry's advantage in trying to get this damn memory from the man.
Anxious to get the conversation over with, having practiced it in his head so many times, Harry fixed Slughorn with a direct look, much the same as Tom Riddle had in the Pensieve memory.
"Professor Slughorn," he said, as though the man's presence had suddenly reminded Harry of something. "What do you know about . . . Horcruxes?"
Slughorn paled and dropped a vial on the floor. His bewilderment quickly gave way to suspicion. "I beg your pardon?" he asked coldly.
Harry swallowed. Shit. He was supposed to start with a joke! Why hadn't he started with a joke? Harry quickly tried to think of a joke, then shook his head in defeat. He didn't know any bloody jokes.
Well, there was nothing for it, now.
"Um. Horcruxes," Harry repeated, trying to sound confident. "What do you know about them?"
Slughorn fixed Harry with an icy glare. "All I know is that Dumbledore put you up to this and that this conversation is over. Good day, Mr. Potter."
Bloody hell. Harry had fucked it up in two seconds flat. Smooth. "Er—sorry, Professor. I meant no offense. I was just—"
"I said good day, Mr. Potter." Slughorn was gripping his desk so tightly that his knuckles were white. Harry nodded quickly, gave a short, awkward wave and stumbled from the room.
When he reached the hallway, he let out an exasperated sigh and threw his head back against the corridor wall. If Dumbledore couldn't do it, how in the hell was Harry supposed to willingly retrieve this memory from Slughorn?
Damn.
….
….
….
The rainbow was white. Shockingly white. It didn't make any sense, but somehow every shade of the rainbow was white.
Draco lay on his back on the cream-colored rug with his feet resting under an ivory bench.
Rosmerta had the necklace. Rosmerta had the message. Tomorrow, a student would go to Hogsmeade and Rosmerta would place the student under the Imperius Curse. The student would deliver the necklace to Dumbledore. The deed would be done. Draco and his mother would be safe. Tomorrow, the deed would be done.
Tomorrow, Dumbledore would be dead.
Tomorrow, Draco would murder Dumbledore.
The instructions had been given and the plan was put into place. All Draco had to do was let it unfold.
He watched the rainbows shift overhead and let the white light wash over him, willing it to fill the emptiness he felt inside, wanting desperately for the whiteness to burn him clean.
He stared—for hours—and thought of nothing but the whiteness that enveloped him until it seemed so hot and so bright that he felt as though he were a ray of sun, illuminated, reaching forward, stretching out in beams and touching every corner of the room.
He let the whiteness fill the emptiness. Draco became the void expanse around him as he melted into the room, unwilling to think, unwilling to feel, willing himself only to be in this moment, with this room.
In this moment, Draco was not a murderer. Draco was not a student. His standing appointment with Madame Pomfrey may have come and gone. He was not sure. Time and reality held no meaning. Here, Draco was nothing. He was everything and he was nothing.
He heard a small noise.
….
….
….
"We're gonna make galleons upon galleons tomorrow. Business is expanding to Hogsmeade," Ron announced, as he paced back and forth in front of a grinning Seamus, a smiling Dean, an eye-rolling Hermione and a foot-jiggling Harry.
"Don't you think adult wizards know how to conduct their own Weather Charms, Ron?" Hermione asked.
"Perhaps," said Dean. "But perhaps not."
"And for those who can't forecast the state of the air, Weasley's Weather Watcher will gladly be there!" piped Seamus.
"Ooh, that's good," said Dean. "Write that down."
Ron snatched a scrap of parchment that was slipping from his schoolbag and scribbled it down.
"Okay. Be like Seamus, everyone. More ideas, that's what we need to keep this business fresh. More ideas." Ron snapped his finger once in each one of their faces. Harry flinched back when the snap reached him.
"Can I be excused?" Harry muttered under his breath. Hermione elbowed him.
"What was that, Harry?" Ron asked.
"A dissenter in the group?" added Seamus.
"But I'm not in the group, remember?" Harry asked, trying to keep his tone polite.
"We still need input from our valued customer," pointed out Dean. He shook a knowing finger at him.
Harry huffed. "Fine then. Dean should make your next Weasley's Weather Watcher sign."
The Gryffindors' eyes were drawn to the poster on the floor. Ron had colored a brand new business sign complete with wobbly zig-zags of lightning, five tornadoes that resembled coiled springs with various debris throughout, and the words "Weasley's Weather Watcher" sketched out in umbrellas. V-shaped birds flew all around the top and a big, smiling sun wearing sunglasses flanked not one, but two corners of the picture. The overall effect was that of a not-very-bright six-year-old scribbling with the wrong hand.
Ron frowned at the insult. "Hey! That's not very nice. I spent a lot of time on that, Harry."
Harry shrugged unapologetically. "You asked."
"Harry, if you're going to act like a moody arsehole, then I don't want you to come to any more business meetings," Ron grumbled, eyeing his poster and looking crestfallen.
"Okay," said Harry. "See you later!" And with that, Harry hopped off the couch and headed for the dorms.
"I reckon he has a point," Harry heard Seamus say as he exited the Common Room.
"He does not!" Ron snapped.
Muffled voices of argument could still be heard as Harry made his way to his dorm.
The minute he entered his room, he plopped down onto his bed and began rifling through his school bag.
That afternoon, Harry had tried to talk with Malfoy after watching him drag himself through the week like he was half-dead. Malfoy hadn't spoken with Harry, just as he hadn't spoken with anyone else, but he had responded to him. As Harry was blathering on about something completely stupid and pointless, Malfoy had rolled his eyes at him and snorted.
As far as Harry knew, no one else had managed to get a reaction out of him. Harry wanted to try again. He wanted to be there for him. Something terrible had obviously happened, and it seemed that everyone was just laughing at Malfoy's peculiar behavior.
He shouldn't be alone, Harry decided.
"I solemnly swear I am up to no good." Harry let his eyes rove over the map, first checking the dungeons, the Great Hall and even the seventh floor, where Malfoy had been spending much of his recent time. Sometimes Malfoy disappeared off of the map entirely. Harry carefully checked to be sure that this was not one of those times.
He spotted the dot labeled "Draco Malfoy" in a room in the lower North Tower that the map had labeled "The Chapel." What the hell was the Chapel?
Harry shook his head and studied the map, memorizing the directions. Slughorn-wooing could wait until tomorrow, Harry decided. He snatched up his wand, threw on his Invisibility Cloak for good measure, and began making his way to the Chapel.
….
….
….
Harry read the inscription on the doorknocker. "Firmitas mea caelo oritu." What did that mean? Firmitas . . . firm? Mea. My. My firm cello orator? A speaking cello. . . Just as long as it didn't mean "Beware of three-headed dog" or anything. He shrugged, yanked off his Invisibility Cloak and opened the door.
Harry was not sure what he was expecting, but it had not been this.
The room was lit in autumn, earth tones beaming from crystal-prism windows. Greens and browns and goldenrod yellows crossed paths overhead, leaving the wooden floor with gleaming light patterns, sunshine shifting through forest leaves. On a basket-woven carpet of brown and green lay Draco Malfoy, flat on his back, illuminated in patterns of light. Malfoy gazed at the ceiling. His face appeared relaxed and his hands were open, palms-up at his sides with his fingers slightly curled.
Harry took in a sharp inhale of breath, and Malfoy rolled his head slowly toward Harry.
Harry felt the urge to apologize, but something told him to stay quiet and be respectful. He wasn't sure what kind of a chapel this was, but Malfoy was clearly having a moment.
Malfoy stared at Harry for a few seconds, then rolled his head back to gaze at the gleaming wooden beams of the arched ceiling.
Harry observed Malfoy for a while, then carefully shut the door behind him. He inched slowly toward the middle of the room and stepped onto the leafy carpet. He dropped beside Malfoy and lay down on his back, copying Malfoy, palms up, gazing at the soaring ceiling. Harry was unsure of what he was doing, but it just felt right, and, having never been in this situation before, he decided to trust his instincts.
Their heads were now so close together that Harry could hear Malfoy breathing deeply and evenly. He matched his breaths to Malfoy's and imagined that they were camping in midday, Northern Scotland in early autumn. Harry had never actually been camping, but sometimes had dreams in which he lived in a tent, traveling with friends, searching the countryside.
Dudley had gotten a tent once for his tenth birthday. Dudley begged Uncle Vernon to build it for him that day. Seven grueling, cursed hours later, the result was a pile of broken tent pieces, poles jammed in the wrong slots and a migraine that lasted two days. The tent project was abandoned in the corner of the backyard, never to be played with by Dudley. Sometimes, though, when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had gone to bed, Harry would sneak into the backyard with a pocketful of pilfered graham crackers and the emergency flashlight and lay on top of the collapsed canopy, enjoying a few stolen hours out of his cupboard. This felt like that, only a bit more peaceful.
They lay side by side for what could have been hours, breathing and existing in a warm, comfortable silence. He was surprised when he noticed that their thumbs were touching. Harry couldn't remember when that had happened.
Malfoy, it seemed, had realized this at the same time that Harry did, but when Harry went to move his hand away, Malfoy reached out and wrapped his fingers tightly around Harry's in a firm grip.
Malfoy's fingers were warm. Harry imagined that the touch spoke the "thank you" that Malfoy could not. Harry gave Malfoy's hand a light squeeze, accepting his gesture.
After some time, Malfoy released Harry's hand and rolled onto his side to face him. Harry turned to look at Malfoy and found himself gazing into clear, grey eyes. The same eyes that had looked so broken a week ago seemed, now, to possess a glimmer of hope. Malfoy continued to stare directly at Harry, in a way that would normally make Harry uncomfortable but, for some reason, didn't bother him now.
"Terry Boot got me high in here."
Harry nearly choked on his own spit. "What?"
"Terry Boot got me high in here," Malfoy repeated. He blinked and said nothing else until it dawned on Harry exactly what Malfoy was doing. Malfoy was going to talk to Harry. He wanted to talk to Harry, but only if Harry kept to comfortable subjects. Malfoy was not about to discuss what happened last week, and Harry was going to try and respect that.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Harry rolled over to face Malfoy fully. "High on what?"
Malfoy smirked. "Muggle weed."
Harry smirked back. "Did you like it?"
"No." Malfoy widened his eyes and shook his head. "No, I hated it."
Harry snorted in amusement. "I've never tried it, myself," he offered.
"That's not surprising."
"Why not?"
"Because, Potter. You're a morally upstanding Gryffindor who would never ingest recreational poisons."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "I drink, remember?"
Malfoy raised his eyebrows back. "Hmm. Good point."
Their conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun, but neither boy minded or noticed. They just continued to stare at each other.
At first it felt almost like a game. How long could they stare at one another before looking away? Who would give up first? Harry felt his face quirk into a smile a few times and saw Malfoy do the same, but neither boy rescinded. But after several minutes, it became something else entirely. It was both hypnotizing and terrifying and Harry realized that neither he, nor Malfoy, was going to stop.
As the minutes ticked by, both of their masks seemed stripped away and they were left bare and unprotected, at the mercy of the other. Nothing, really, was happening, but that didn't stop the unexplainable fear from choking Harry or stop Malfoy's bottom lip from quivering suddenly. Could Malfoy see everything in his eyes?
Malfoy's breath hitched and Harry reached forward to grasp his hand. Malfoy took it and the tiny crease between his eyebrows smoothed out as his breathing steadied.
Once or twice, the thought "This is really strange, Harry. Blokes don't hold hands and stare at each other's eyes in rainbow-lit rooms" flit through his mind, but he promptly shoved it away and trusted his instincts. It felt right.
….
….
….
He knew. Potter knew. He had to know everything. Draco didn't want him to know.
Draco suddenly wanted to tell him everything, but Draco didn't want him to know this.
Tomorrow, this time, Draco would be a murderer. He would be off with the Dark Lord, singing his pleas to keep his mother from being Crucioed . . .
Draco felt a familiar stinging behind his eyes. He couldn't. He couldn't let Potter see.
Then, suddenly, he felt his hand in Potter's warm grasp, steady and sure, and he felt renewed. Tomorrow was tomorrow . . .
But, here, now . . . Potter was here now and Draco wanted to stay here forever, suspended in non-time, memorizing Potter's face and his missing left eyelashes, noticing that he, again, needed a shave, and doing it all under Potter's permissive gaze. Draco realized that he felt . . . well . . .
Safe.
He knew that part of the reason he felt this way was because the Chapel was designed for relaxation, but something told him that there was more to it than that. Draco had not felt safe when he was here with Boot. Relaxed, yes, among other things, but never safe. He hadn't even felt safe when he was in the room alone, desperate to escape the darkness that filled him, that had strangled him all week.
But earlier that day, Potter spoke to him. Draco could hardly remember what he had said, but from the moment Potter started walking with him until he gave Draco that awkward wave of goodbye, Draco had felt, for the first time all week, safe.
Draco knew that, come tomorrow, he would probably never feel safe again, so he tried not to think about tomorrow. Tomorrow was tomorrow. Right now he felt safe, here, with Potter.
Tomorrow was for questions, tomorrow was for regrets, but now was for . . .
Now was for kissing, Draco decided, suddenly.
He dropped his gaze down to Potter's lips and watched as Potter tensed up, jerked out of his meditative game.
"Malfoy, you—"
Draco reached forward then and grasped Potter's warm cheek with his other hand. Potter drew in a gasp of breath and opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could speak, Draco leaned forward and touched his lips, lightly, to Potter's.
And Potter felt warm and safe.
Draco leaned back, panting slightly, and searched Potter's face for some sign that it was okay.
Potter stared back at him, looking completely gobsmacked. He was breathing heavily and his mouth was hanging open . . .
. . . in invitation, Draco decided.
Draco leaned forward and grasped Potter's cheek again. Potter's eyes were round and surprised behind his glasses, but Draco kissed him again, this time fully, on the lips and suddenly he wanted more, he wanted more of Potter now, but he pulled away when he realized that Potter's mouth was frozen beneath his.
Then the enormity of what he had just done hit him and he drew back, horrified. Draco had just kissed Potter. Draco Malfoy had just kissed Harry Potter. Alone. In a weird room. Kissed him. On the lips. Harry Potter.
And, to make matters worse, Potter wasn't moving. He didn't want him back. Draco's deluded mind had not only convinced himself that this was a good idea, but that if he kissed Potter, Potter would kiss him back.
Except Potter didn't and now Draco was humiliated on top of everything else.
Draco took a deep breath and turned away from Potter. "Sorry." It was barely a whisper. He felt his ears burn with embarrassment and tried to swallow the hot lump in his throat. "It was just . . . the room," he finished, lamely. Draco felt Potter's hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off. "Stop it." He didn't need Potter's pity or guilt on top of everything else.
"No, Malfoy, I . . . it wasn't the room," Potter said.
Draco sat up sharply and turned back around to face him. "I said it was the room, so it was the room. Just. It was the room, Potter, I—"
"It wasn't the room!" Potter insisted, then lowered his voice. "I feel it, too."
Draco scoffed. "Oh, don't get all sentimental on me now." He turned away, angry at himself for feeling hurt.
Potter reached forward for Draco's hand, but this time Draco snatched it back. "You, um. Caught me off-guard is all," Potter mumbled. "But, I get it, Malfoy. I feel it, too."
Draco scowled at his knees. "Feel what?"
Potter shrugged. "I don't know. This." He gestured between them. "Us. Whatever the hell this is."
"Liar," Draco barked back, then realized how pathetic and desperate that made him sound. He cleared his throat and tried again. "There is no us, Potter."
"I'm here, aren't I?" Potter asked and raised an eyebrow.
Draco regarded him closely. "And why is that?"
Potter had the nerve to laugh. "I don't know. Because I wanted to be. Do you want me to leave?"
Draco shrugged and looked down. The next thing he knew, Potter had his hand on Draco's knee. Draco quickly slapped it off.
Potter inched closer and did it again.
"Stop, Potter," Draco said, but this time he did not bat him away.
Potter, keeping his eyes trained on Draco's face, scooted closer.
Draco had had enough. "Listen here, Potter." Draco was not going to be the object of Potter's pity, Potter's weird pity that had him do things like touch Draco's knees. "I'm not going to—mmph!"
Potter had yanked Draco's head forward and their lips were crashing painfully together. Draco's first instinct was to struggle and shove him off, but Potter quickly tightened his fingers around Draco's wrists and squeezed until Draco and his hands had yielded completely, melting into Potter's warmth. He knew he could push Potter off of him if he really wanted to, but he didn't because, God, it was Potter's lips and they were soft and warm and wet and Draco wanted them. Wanted this.
Potter held Draco's hands out to either side and released his grip, slowly sliding his fingers up Draco's palms, interlocking their fingers and squeezing tightly.
Draco's hands drifted up to explore Potter's shoulders, neck and back. Potter's glasses kept pressing into Draco's right eye, so he plucked the interfering object off of Potter's face and flung it carelessly aside.
Draco rubbed his thumb into the glasses dent behind Potter's ear and Potter sighed in contentment, so Draco did it again. He smiled into Potter's mouth and felt Potter smile back. Desire and curiosity fueled Draco's need to discover and he wanted it all, wanted to touch it all, feel it all, have it all, while it was being offered to him.
He reached a hand out and tangled it into Potter's hair, clutching a handful of it and yanking on it, causing Potter's head to jerk back with a yelp. Potter then reached up and did the same to Draco and Draco immersed his fingertips in the oils of Potter's hair, massaging, digging, bracing himself. Potter mumbled something that sounded like "What the fuck?" but he wasn't stopping, so Draco decided it didn't matter.
He tilted his head back and allowed Potter to trail kisses down the side of his face while Draco tugged fistfuls of Potter's hair. Potter mouth came to a rest on Draco's collarbone and focused its attention on one insanely sensitive spot that left Draco gasping. Draco never would have imagined that someone's—Potter's!— mouth on his collarbone would feel that good.
God.
He stretched up on his knees and buried his face into the wild, black waves and inhaled deeply, smelling the chestnut-rich oils as he clutched Potter's entire head with a needy possessiveness. He dug his thumbs behind Potter's ears and rubbed up and down. Draco wanted it. He wanted it all.
Potter was panting into Draco's neck as Draco rubbed behind Potter's ear and an image went through Draco's mind of his childhood crup, Perkis, blissfully panting in the sun while Draco scratched behind his ears. The more he tried not to think about Perkis, the more he could only think about him and Draco laughed softly and kept scratching.
Potter removed his lips from Draco and glanced up at him nervously. "What? Am I-?" Potter was still panting and Draco laughed louder.
"You're like a crup, Potter. Scratch you behind the ears and you're hopeless."
Potter relaxed then and grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, well. I reckon it's the glasses. They squeeze behind my ears a bit and I hardly take them off, only—"
Draco pulled on Potter's ears. "Shut up, Potter," he told him, then effectively shut him up with another kiss. Potter's rough facial hair scratched his skin, and Draco ran one hand over the stubble on Potter's cheek.
Draco placed a kiss directly into his mess of waves. Then, unable to resist, he bit lightly on a tuft of Potter's hair until it shifted between his teeth with a crunch. He sucked on the hair, tasting carrots and earth, then punctuated his movement with another kiss. Draco slid back down, running his hands over Potter's shoulders, and digging his fingers and hands into Potter's arms and back, touching and squeezing.
Potter's mouth was open, breathing hot moisture onto Draco's neck. He seemed momentarily enraptured, as he allowed Draco to look, and touch and taste. Then suddenly he reached up and ran his thumbs along Draco's jaw-line. Potter stared at him, just like before, only this time Potter looked curious. He blushed as Draco allowed Potter to slide his fingers over Draco's face, and touch his eyebrows, and tickle his eyelashes. Then Potter looked at Draco with sudden yearning—just looked at him like he wanted him, too—and Draco allowed his heart, for one, brief moment, to soar. Potter wanted him.
The minute that thought went through Draco's mind, a darkness began to creep over him, but he shoved it aside and kissed Potter hard. It didn't matter if Potter wanted him. Draco wanted Potter, right now. Draco had Potter right now and right now was all that Draco would have.
He would take right now. That was all that mattered.
Draco held Potter's head between his hands and traced his lower lip over the shape of his scar. Potter let out a strange little whimper, so Draco did it again. Suddenly Draco felt Potter's hands on the top of his own head, on his scar, and he drew back with a gasp.
Potter was staring at him, breathing heavily. Draco unconsciously wiped at his bottom lip. Potter smiled shyly, then, and it was the warmest thing Draco had ever seen. Draco gave him a timid smile back.
Potter took Draco's hands into his and he sat back, cross-legged, and faced him.
Draco dropped from his knees and crossed his legs, as well. It seemed fitting.
They found themselves without words because, really, what could they say?
They watched the mist. They watched the lights. Potter rubbed small circles into Draco's palm with his thumbs and Draco stared at Potter's red trainers and smirked, feeling giddy and ridiculous.
After some time, Potter dropped Draco's hand. "We should probably go," he said, softly, as though it were the last thing he wanted to do.
Certainly, it was the last thing Draco wanted to do. "Yeah."
Potter stood and reached a hand toward Draco. Draco took his hand and Potter pulled him to his feet.
"Can I—" Potter started then looked at the floor and blushed. "Will you be here tomorrow?"
Tomorrow.
"Um, yeah," Draco lied, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking forward on his heels. "Tomorrow."
Potter grinned and stepped forward. "Well, okay. Um, good, then!"
A gripping chill settled again over Draco, but this time he couldn't shake it off. Draco had somehow managed to make tomorrow worse. How was that even possible? How in the fuck was that even possible?
"What is this place, anyway?" Potter asked as he searched the floor for his glasses.
Draco saw them, so he handed them to Potter, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. He couldn't look at him. He couldn't see that smile on Potter's face, see that same giddiness that Draco, himself, had felt only moments ago, all the while knowing that in addition to ruining himself, he had somehow dragged Potter down with him.
Potter wanted him back.
Potter wanted him.
Draco couldn't do this. He snatched up his bag, keeping his eyes averted. "It's called the Chapel," Draco mumbled, then bolted from the room.
"Malfoy—wait up!" Draco heard Potter's voice before he slammed the heavy, wooden door behind him.
What had he done? Why had he done that? What in the hell made him think that he deserved one last night of doing what he wanted?
And Potter fucking wanted him! The idiot had no fucking idea. No goddamn clue. How the hell could he?
Well, Potter was in for a shock tomorrow, that was for sure. They all were. Draco laughed, but it was an ugly sound.
Murderer.
Draco clenched his teeth as he felt the familiar prickle of undeserved tears. No. He was not going to cry. He was not going to cry, damn it! He ran down the corridor and pounded up the stairs, when suddenly two hands pinned him against the wall.
It was Potter, he knew, though his eyes were squeezed shut—a physical attempt to block out his emotions. A failing physical attempt to block out his emotions.
"What the hell, Malfoy?" Potter sounded angry and hurt. He grasped Draco's shoulders again and slammed him against the wall a second time.
Good, he thought, let him. He deserved it. Maybe Potter would just kill him now and spare him the repercussions of the house of cards he had built to fall.
"Malfoy, answer me!" Potter shook him again, less violently. His voice was tinged with concern.
Draco's body trembled and his face was screwed up tightly, as if in pain. He was not going to cry. He was fucking wretched, but he did not deserve tears, nor was he going to leave here tonight with Potter feeling remotely sorry for him—with Potter feeling anything for him.
"God damn it, what is your problem?"
You! Everything! The world!
"Malfoy!" Potter shook him again.
Draco grasped Potter's shoulders and kneed him in the groin as hard as he could. Potter cried out and staggered back against the wall of the stairs, cursing. He sank to his knees, physical pain and betrayal written on his face—the face that, moments earlier, had been in Draco's hands. Draco paused and gaped, horrified.
Monster.
Draco ran.
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