Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, in no way do I lay claim to Harry Potter – the long and short of it is folks – there'd be no legal ground suing me because I'm not delusional enough to think that I'm a British multi-millionaire.
Author's Notes: In this chapter, just so you are aware, there is a scene I've chopped out of the last segment – just a paragraph I'll grant you, but if you're into that sort of thing you can find it on my Live journal page. In fact, you can find the entire, re-edited, uncut archive (this will include some more NC-17 scenes in later chapters) at Malf0yM0nkeys. Come visit, if you give me feedback, I will give you cyber hugs. Now ya know!
CHAPTER 21: Arguing to Lose
"Don't you think Malfoy could be toying with you?" Hermione sprung the question on him like a well laid trap; she was so casual and unperturbed by the whole thing that it took a solid chunk of time before Harry realized something was amiss with the situation. She was calmly sitting in an armchair knitting, Harry felt an absurd urge to protest this tiny detail, people who were knitting baby socks should not ask questions like that, especially in the same detached tone one might enquire about the weather.
He had been attempting to finish his Charms homework, and unconsciously answered before he had the time to panic about the question. "The thought has occurred to me yes."
Hermione lost her cool and her weave. Harry's mind took another obscure corner through 'it's a good thing Marjorie is out' before she exploded in his direction, the needles and mushroom flying out of her hands. It vaguely occurred to him to wonder if she hadn't been so calm through force of will, this was clearly a litany that had been building for months against his behavior, and he weathered it. "Why are you doing this to us? Hasn't it occurred to you that the people around you are worried? What do you think Sirius would say! For god's sake Harry, it's Draco Malfoy – he's been an evil little twerp since the moment we met him and if you think he's changed at all over the years you've lost your senses! I hardly know you anymore – you don't even care that your relatives are dead! Do you really think Ron, and Hagrid, and Sirius, and everybody else gave their lives for you so you could… throw it away on MALFOY!?"
She was breathing hard, chest heaving. Harry by contrast was calmer than the castle stones; he had been waiting for this moment for some time waiting for Hermione to protest his behavior somehow, but hadn't expected it to be so abrupt, nor so verbal. He thought to console himself, it was the stress, she was under a lot of pressure with grades, and the Weasleys, and still so attached to Marjorie who was expanding by the day. He thought to convince himself that his last friend would understand everything once it was over, once Voldemort was dead, or Harry was dead, or the entire world had burst into flame. He thought to console himself with the cruel admission that Ron hadn't died for him; but he found he didn't need to.
There was something about the hysteria in her voice that put Harry in mind of afternoon soap operas. "No no! Damien couldn't have killed Lucretia, no, not my dear, sweet, beautiful daughter who is also my niece! DAMIEN!!!" It was hard not to laugh in her face, throwing his life away, hah. Where was she when Sirius died, and who did Harry have to turn to when they brought Ron's corpse up from the village? Where was Hermione when Dumbledore announced Hagrid's death and where was she when he came out of the maze with Cedric? For that matter, where was Hermione when Harry was handed the letter about Cho? Not with him, not when he needed her company, or her logical defenses. Had it really come as such a surprise when he began ignoring her entirely?
Malfoy was the only person in Hogwarts not wrapped in their own melodrama, and quite possibly the only person in the world that Harry could stand for more than five minutes at a time. He hadn't needed companionship or Hermione's icy stares, he'd needed help, a sounding board, and Malfoy was the only person left. It had occurred to him, Malfoy's origins, his father, their history of blatant idiocy and enmity, it had occurred to him that Malfoy could be very subtly trying to kill him; it had occurred to him that the whole world might be there to help him if he asked for it. But Harry wouldn't ask, and Hermione's self-righteous anger only made him retreat further into his.
"Quite right." Harry said with calculated calm, "that's not why they died at all."
It was a verbal slap, but she rallied magnificently, using that ever-powerful argument as practiced by parents and bad psychologists across the globe. "Can't you see that everybody's worried about you?!"
Harry wanted to spit in her face, he wanted to reach across the table and choke the life out of her. 'They' weren't worried about him, if 'they'd' ever had the capacity to worry about him it was only in the sense that he was 'the boy who lived' the 'prophecy bringer' blah blah blah., he was all of their hopes and expectations for destroying Voldemort, and he wasn't living up to snuff. Harry very seriously doubted 'they' would blink before finding his replacement. He didn't say anything in response, didn't even clench his fists – the rage was there, but if Hermione was its victim he would only give her justification. Instead, he calmly packed up his quill and ink, carefully rolled his Charm's scroll into a neat little bundle, and made to leave the room.
"I'm so disappointed in you Harry." Came floating from behind him, and Harry wondered what right she had to feel anything for him.
"The boy is an idiot and a danger to us all, if you don't do something about him soon he'll only become worse."
It was not the first time Severus Snape would be leaving the Headmaster's office with a grimace. Snape was a typically caustic man, full of rage that he carefully contained and siphoned off with stinging force through vicious rhetoric. The first twenty four years of his life had been spent in the company of dark magic, his parents both ardent practitioners of the less-than-savory arts. At age twenty-five he had turned to Albus Dumbledore seeking refuge from the Death Eaters who he could no longer bear to associate with, going so far as to offer his resignation from the position of Potions master. A resignation that Dumbledore had refused to accept. The man had been a spy it was true, but he was an excellent teacher, and at the time there was no information Dumbledore would share that could be a detriment. The Headmaster had not regretted his decision to keep Snape on his staff, nor had he regretted the decision to welcome him into the folds of the Order, but he did occasionally wish the man would refrain from sharpening his tongue on the other members – including himself. "Yes Severus, I'll give it due consideration thank you."
Professor Albus Dumbledore sighed. Yes, he would consider the situation carefully and with great reluctance, because someone had to. In all his years as a human being, Dumbledore had never been married, never had children, and never regretted their lack. The school was his home and his fortress, every student within his walls a charge and child of his, but he never really understood the responsibilities of parenthood. Until now. Perhaps Severus had been right all along in his assumptions that such blatant favoritism had spoiled the boy rotten. But like every good parent he let guilt and familial love blind him to the truth.
If Harry hadn't been given to the Dursleys, would Sirius Black be dead today? If Harry had been introduced to wizardom earlier in life would he still be so incautious of Voldemort, so brash? If Dumbledore had just taken him in hand and explained the circumstances of his life would he still consistently go chasing his death? There were a great many things about Harry Potter that Dumbledore could blame himself for. Had the protection that had kept him hidden for so long jaded him to authority; if Harry had had caring adults in his life would he still be so reluctant to come to them for help? For that matter, if the ministry and the staff of Hogwarts hadn't so obviously thrown the rules to the four winds, would Harry Potter still flaunt them, or was it in his nature to defy command in favor of instinct?
Yes, Dumbledore felt a great deal of guilt for his mistakes, and it was because of those self-same mistakes that he could not bring himself to give up on him. Harry would surely overcome this phase and become a better person for it – Dumbledore had to believe that or he had nothing left to hope for. He sighed again. Neville Longbottom never would have given him this trouble.
"You sybaritical son of a bitch!" They were arguing. It was high time, the nonsensical camaraderie had been niggling at him like Luna's nonexistent Bertwangles because there was no possible way he got on with Draco Malfoy. It was begun as something trivial, but a pervading sense of wrongdoing had been seeping through Harry for some weeks, wriggling around under his skin whenever they shot each other sardonic grins, and eagerly awaiting its opportunity to come to a head – it had found just such an event. Surely this wasn't what he'd had in mind when Harry promised himself resolution, but he hadn't seen another way.
Now he couldn't know what he was thinking, the world seemed full of other ways and it was a suddenly nerve-wracking place. This was Malfoy! Was he really so desperate to replace Ron, did Hagrid die so he could sell himself to Voldemort? Where was Hermione with her cool logic to smack some sense into him? She had tried, and he hadn't seen until now how right she'd been; her words had been eating at him, burrowing under his skin until he couldn't see logic in his decision to trust Malfoy. It was about the plan, the terrible plan that wasn't much of a plan at all. Harry had been stupid enough to express his discontent because it was a bad plan that admitted no modification and would undoubtedly degenerate into 'running away and trying not to die' – granted he was never the most tactful person, but it was a bad plan. Malfoy was going to get him killed, he was totally isolated and dependent now, and if he didn't back out…. Voldemort wanted something – this time he'd actually get it. Tensions were running high, and they finally had snapped.
"What the hell would you know about it Potter?!"
Harry had quite forgotten the initial argument, he couldn't exactly recall if it were about the nuances of potion making or about relative genealogy, but he was more than ready to continue the spite on another thread. "Exactly." He said with unerring malice, "How do I know you're not going to just hand me over to Voldemort?" And that was the source of it really. It wasn't any of the things that he'd been telling himself; it wasn't that Ron would be disgusted, Harry was too angry that Ron wasn't around to care about propriety to really feel concern for his feelings. It wasn't that everyone and their dog apparently wanted to die for him – it was because he trusted Malfoy implicitly and wanted a reason not to.
For whatever reasons of his own, Malfoy had proved to be the perfect solution to his problems, he kept his word and his silence like Ron and Hermione never quite managed to, he lied to both Dumbledore and Voldemort with a straight face and barely a flinch – Malfoy was so suspiciously unsuspicious that it made Harry's skin crawl and his mind trying to wriggle out of his ears to come apart at the seams.
Malfoy looked gobsmacked – staring blankly at the spot somewhere above Harry's shoulder with his mouth slightly ajar. "Who's to say," Harry continued, not quite knowing where this urge stemmed from, of course Hermione wasn't right, "that you haven't been feeding him information all along. That you haven't been trying to worm into my life just to kill me in my sleep!?" He was being completely irrational now – where were the good fairies with the reality sticks when he needed them – even as the words left his mouth he realized just how ludicrous they sounded, but he couldn't stop himself.
Draco clamped his jaw shut with effort, grinding his teeth together. He charitably neglected to point out how easy it would have been. Of the times Harry had practically passed out in his arms, didn't mention how sick and wasted Harry looked until Draco shoved a sandwich in his mouth one afternoon. Draco was even kind enough not to suggest that it was well within his abilities to indeed smother him in his sleep, let him starve, shove him bodily from the astronomy tower, or (the much more attractive notion) throttle him on the spot. Harry still wasn't worth it. "Look you," He practically growled, fumbling the button on his sleeve open and violently yanking it past his elbow, exposing his inner arm. "Whenever I think about him, it aches. Whenever he calls me, I would rather saw off my own arm than deal with the pain. But I put up with it, I obey the summons, I even put up with you, and if you insist on being such a bloody-minded moron you should at least know that I have just as much reason to hate him as you do!"
Harry glowered; shoving the branded arm aside, feeling stupid, put upon, and defensive all in one go. Once again Malfoy refused to let him be the unfortunate orphan, Harry wanted more than anything to resent him for it. "So why did you join?" he spat, knowing the answer, "why don't you run? Too afraid they'll kill you?" Malfoy's silence was further leave to berate him – Harry kept on as a singular corner of his mind wailed for absolute cessation of verbal contact, his brain had clearly taken a walk and had left his idiot mouth in charge. "You know what, you're just a coward! Too scared to pick a side until you see who's winning!"
Malfoy moved. Harry didn't even have time to blink before Malfoy's right hand came sweeping around to catch him a blow on the cheek that knocked stars into his eyes. Harry was absurdly grateful that Malfoy was left handed, or he would be sitting quite firmly on his rear. "Dying would be the easy thing." Draco said tersely, hardly trusting himself to speak. Harry was being an idiot – it wasn't very difficult to spot, mostly his mouth was moving – but he had managed to strike a nerve nonetheless, and it was a near thing to keep his own tongue. He was afraid, "But if you want to pussy out, you can stop blaming me and go hang Potter."
Harry was left standing in the hall with a bruise rising on his cheek as Malfoy stalked away. All of this was so wrong.
Malfoy was right, of course he was right. Harry cursed himself roundly, furiously berating his own idiocy and belligerence. The mental tirade carried him all the way up to Gryffindor and landed him in an armchair where he sat fuming, glowering at the brick wall. Stupid Malfoy. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't apathetic, or distant, or any of the things he had strived so hard to be this year; he resented the world, hated people and their idle thoughtlessness, despised the fact that when he died he would still be known as 'the boy who lived.' He wanted to be left alone for all of eternity, wanted to shove people away, wanted to leave them without a shadow of a doubt that he was not to be approached.
… he was afraid. Voldemort was terrifying, but terror faded. Their encounters were agony, but pain receded. The only thing Harry could rely upon was this: facing down Voldemort inevitably resulted in death. His parents, the Dursleys, Quirrel, Cedric, Sirius, Cho, Ron… who would it be this time? Hermione, Malfoy, Lupin, Dumbledore… him? Harry prayed for the last, but couldn't stomach the permanence. It was the irreversibility that scared him, and once he was truly committed there was no going back – beyond the theory was the wide world of practice and the terror of absolute finality. Malfoy had been right all along, he wanted to curl up in a ball and hide for a week, a month, the rest of time – he wanted to sleep until eternity came.
And everything would be wasted. Malfoy was leaving in the morning to settle some affairs at the manor and suffer his bi-weekly interview with the Dark Lord. The mark on his arm had stood out black as pitch, it must have been throbbing like fire, and even that would be useless. Harry felt more guilt than anger now, it sent his stomach seething and his heart to the vicinity of his toes. He fought valiantly against wallowing in self pity, and very nearly succeeded.
Four hours after Harry's attack on his loyalties, Malfoy was furiously shoving things into a bag. Signed documents claiming rightful ownership of the Malfoy vault at Gringotts were pushed in and a list of research texts followed it with a terrible crunching noise. Crabbe and Goyle fled the scene with a sharp look, MacDougal and Zabini followed them at a more sedate pace, excusing themselves for dinner an hour too early, but their actions left little room for doubt that Draco was lord and master of the dorms.
Stupid Potter, he viciously rammed the final scroll home and yanked up the zip. Draco wanted to lose his mind, and all because of Stupid, Idiot Potter. It had been so hard not to blurt out what was really on his mind: his concern, his weariness. He couldn't sleep anymore than Harry could for waking up in cold sweats, dreading exposure, and never said a word. Potter could hang for making him so… illogical.
The door creaked and closed behind him. Malfoy spun and glared, expecting to see an idiot lackey standing in the causeway, but he saw nothing. There was no wind. Draco sat at the end of his bed and sighed helplessly. "I owe you an apology." Said Harry Potter's head as it emerged from the invisibility cloak, followed swiftly by the rest of him.
"Yes you do." Draco looked up with his chin in his hands, Harry moved very slowly, gingerly choosing a seat as though Draco were a rabid dog, ready to lunge.
He had stood outside the Slytherin portal, impatiently waiting for someone to move the statue aside, but it was some time before anyone did. Having hunted Malfoy down and stationed himself outside the dorm (with liberal instruction from the Marauder's Map which nonetheless refused to give up the password) Harry prepared to wait until after dinner and thought it was a minor miracle that he didn't have to. "Neffarium" snuck him through the door and into the cold and elegant common with its perfectly maintained leather couches. "I'm sorry." That was the easy part. "I … you were…"
"Shut up Potter."
Harry shut up and Draco turned around scrutinizing him as though he were an unusual specimen of beetle. "Some bruise you have there." He said, leaning in to gently touch Harry's cheek. Draco's fingers were icy, Harry winced.
"Yes well, we both know which idiot to thank for that." Malfoy laughed and Harry sunk towards him, the stiffness evaporating from his shoulders and anxiety leaving him in mass exodus. It wasn't quite normal, of course it wasn't, because it was never normal, but if Harry couldn't be safe here then there was nothing for him and loyalties didn't matter. "I know you're not working for – "
He had been told to shut up. Harry's problem often lay in when. Draco ended the sentence quite effectively by holding Harry's mouth closed with his own. It was a very reasonable solution to idiot babbling he always thought, and Harry's eyelids flickered shut in agreement.
Look, every time I post anything that's mildly risqué I get in trouble for it. I kid you not, I have this horrible tendency to write stories to which no one responds, and yet I always get in bloody trouble. I've had this account suspended more than once. If you'd like to read the following two paragraphs, get your butts out to my LJ page and read 'em there.
Morning found Harry in Hagrid's cabin having taken refuge from the early morning breakfast goers. The smoked hams and rabbit furs still hung from the walls, but there was something missing. The fire hadn't been lit in months, the perpetual smell of roasted stoat and large dog didn't hover around the kitchen table, the milk in the cupboard had lost its preservation charm. There was no noise, no Hagrid. Malfoy had gone. Harry had a great deal more than Quidditch scores on his mind.
End of chapter, yes I'm sure you hate me. I find this bit to be a bit tedious (excepting the part with Snape) but I really like the next chapter for some terrible reason – I suppose it's the beginning of the end, though Chapter 20 (in all fairness) was The (true) Beginning of the end. Point is, hopefully you'll like it too.