Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter (novels, industry, products, movies, person, etc.) that honor belongs to Scholastic Books and JKRowling – clearly if I owned Harry Potter (again, novels, industry, products, movies, people, etc.) there would be a lot more porn.
Author's Notes: Blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah: blah blah. Yeeeah, I'm really good at this whole notes thing aren't I? There's some Slytherin Snarkiness, some Emotional Blackmail, and well… more cattiness, warnings for mild Ginny bashing, though when I say mild I mean vanilla. And yeah – that thing about horse manure, yeah, that's true. I'm not a huge fan of the first segment in this chapter, but what can I say, I really enjoy using the word Acoustics, and teasing the Slytherins - they're fun to rile. Either way, 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 bow and write you haikus (for fun. Of course).
Special Thanks To:
PaddycakePadfoot – Thank you! First off, just: thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you. "You are the blossom / that makes beautiful the world / of banality". I did promise haikus, and thank you so very deeply. That was one heck of a review – the fact that I actually had to scroll down the page made me gleeful (there was actual glee). I think you've satiated my hubris for a whole month, and I'm… just so happy. Happy about everything you wrote really, but especially that you could see Ron as the catalyst for change; I was hoping to get that across but I wasn't sure that anyone was reading, or would understand, or for that matter could get through my ridiculously thick prose. I'm also very relieved that somebody (finally) mentioned liking Draco – it's Harry that I found a strain to write, but never having been born a British aristocrat from a very snobby and possibly inbred family I may have let some of my middle-class slip in and it's been worrying, but I'm relieved to note that his snarkiness won out.
As to your question of why this hasn't garnered more replies? I have absolutely no idea – missed the band wagon I suppose, but your review is clearly worth at least seven 'Loved it's, and therefore most definitely worthy of comment. I was so thrilled to open the review letter, so happy in fact, that you've inspired me to post yet another chapter that, hopefully, will live up to your extraordinary praise – no pressure then. Thank you again, and I hope (with all that my little withered heart contains) that you like this next bit.
Chapter 25: Displacement
The Slytherin dorms were cool, acoustic, footsteps and whispered conversations carried to unexpected corners, and one felt that at any moment things had the potential to become incredibly damp. Harry Potter had nearly taken up residence in the gothic surroundings, and like most things between Gryffindor and Slytherin, the problem started there. It wasn't so much the Slytherin Dorms, or even that Harry was in them so much as the fact that he'd insinuated himself there, he was comfortable there, he was sitting on the plush leather couch drinking a butter beer and reviewing his homework notes in solitude when Blaise Zabini decided he didn't like it. "What are you doing here Potter?"
"Managing to entertain me Zabini," Malfoy's voice floated from across the room, they were nowhere near each other, not even facing each other, the blonde looked perfectly absorbed by his book, and yet he spoke calmly and with authority as though he knew more than anyone else in the room – and by all accounts he did. Harry was fascinated by the Slytherin habit of surnames and their almost vulgar pretentiousness – everything was so serious and Harry rolled his eyes at the drama of the situation. "Don't be a bore."
"Are you sure that he can be trusted?" Blaise asked tersely, though not above a whisper, and Harry had to laugh. His weren't the only housemates concerned for political affiliations; so worried for their precious agendas when they made little difference. In the course of a war few people did matter and Harry could only pray that he would. He had just thought of Hermione as nothing more than a housemate.
"Does it really matter?" He said archly, and deigned to explain himself. It was something this room did, gave you a cool sense of superiority, there was something very restful about knowing you were the best person in the room. "Do you really have the authority to second guess your master?"
"I wasn't talking to you Potter." Was the lightning fast response, he neither refuted nor acknowledged the claim, but Harry knew better than anyone the Death Eaters in the school. He'd done his homework, he'd protected himself, he'd assimilated all of the information necessary to stage a Hogwarts Coup with his own people or Voldemort's, and he'd thrown caution to the winds by trusting Malfoy because his information was redundant. If Zabini didn't trust him that was his problem, and in perfect honesty, the boy couldn't have been as stupid as he looked. "And if I were, Potter, I'd like to point out that you have given us no reason to trust you."
"That's unfortunate," said Harry, and somewhere behind him he could hear Draco hiss, "because you've more or less announced your loyalties right in front of me, and were I not trustworthy I could happily let something… slip. To think, you could end up in Azkaban, surrounded by armed guards, and you'd have your mouth to thank because trials of the Wizengamot are reserved for people with a bit more clout than you." Zabini glowered, and Harry sat on the urge to crow triumphantly, threatening a Slytherin was like walking barefoot on hot coals, you didn't do it unless you knew it wouldn't burn. "Or I could be a reliable asset, and you could simply be a bit of an idiot instead of a felon. So tell me Zabini, which do you think I am?" At which point Draco had decided that Harry should leave well enough alone and only a strong sense of decorum kept him from bodily hauling the Gryffindor out of his common room.
The lights in the great hall were dim, and dull light still shone through the enchanted ceiling even at this hour, signifying the imminent approach of summer. Dinner was in full swing as students bolted down serving after serving of pasta heaped generously with thick meat sauce. Harry Potter's stomach groaned in protest halfway through his second plate. He was fit to burst long before the clock reached 'dessert', and was sorely considering leaving. It was always a feast, people were always happy and cheerful, and there was always some sort of fruit tart, or chocolate confection waiting at the end of every immensely satisfying meal because Hogwarts never did anything without a feast.
Food was never like this at Number Four, Privet Drive, meals tended to be an ordeal punctuated by disapproving comments from his uncle and blatant favoritism by his aunt; said meals were recently made more tragic by Dudley's endless dieting. Harry had come to enjoy his meals at Hogwarts, he'd come to love the sensation of fullness that he'd never quite reached at Privet Drive, he'd come to love the laughing company and the imperfect table manners of his fellow Gryffindors, laughing with them as one of the Weasley twins belched a rendition of the 1812 symphony. Thoughts of Privet Drive were now tempered liberally with the glowing idea of never having to return, and twisted fear of that happiness. Voldemort had actually done him a favor, and Harry wasn't considering the guilty ramifications of his happiness. At least the food was still good.
The Gryffindors had ostracized him completely. His apparently rude dismissal of his former friends had left them angry and hostile towards him, and though still civil in the hallways and in classes, Harry was completely and happily ignored in close quarters. He slept in the far bed, he ate alone, he sat surrounded by other houses in classes, and he thought longingly of the time when this would be over and he could openly mock them for their idiocy. Once this was over – it wouldn't matter much, he would be dead either way, but the Gryffindor tendency towards guilt and masochism would do his work for him. There was no happy company, no raucous laughter denoting some fabulous joke, and certainly no Weasleys still inclined to belch, but at least the food was still good.
It was a surprise when groaning for mercy from his over-full stomach he realized that someone was sitting beside him in quiet contemplation. "We need to talk." Said Ginny Weasley and Harry blinked in confusion. There was no one within three feet of them, the entire Gryffindor House having squashed together in order to avoid his end of the table. Harry couldn't fathom a reason for Ginny, or any Weasley wanting to associate on any level, let alone a verbal one, and said as much. "Well, I fancy you don't I?" She said in a voice so matter-of-fact Harry had to stare.
"Do you?"
"It's what Ron would've wanted." She said instead of answering him, and Harry frowned. He wanted to ask her if she fancied him because she fancied him, or if she fancied him because Ron would approve, but he didn't. Instead he continued to stare at her in the fading light and she squirmed. Ginny was a bit like her brothers, and a bit like her father in appearance, a wider jaw than a girl should have had, and wider shoulders, she wasn't unattractive in a slightly unfeminine way, but Harry didn't think of that. He thought instead of Ron, and how he'd ruthlessly mocked his little sister for having such a crush in their second year, and of all the trouble she'd gotten them both in, and of Gilderoy Lockheart still in the St. Mungo's Ward and now having learned to make joined up letters, re-learning how to perform cheering charms, and of Dean Thomas and how miserable he'd been for no apparent reason. Harry thought of all the Weasleys and their happy acceptance of him into the family, and the nightmarish bundle that she seemed to represent – this wasn't a girl, this was an amalgamation of a surrogate family. She squirmed further. "And I know that you've been… suffering but Harry we can get you some help!"
Harry's disgust must have been evident on his face because her chocolatey brown eyes, so much like Percy's were filled with a hopeful pity. He wanted to ask her who she thought she was, and he wanted to tell her how revolting this whole scenario was, how the spaghetti in his stomach was churning, and how he'd love nothing more than to vomit on her shoes. All that came out was, "No." no, he would absolutely not be seeking her aid, nor her companionship for the rest of eternity, and he would absolutely not be returning to that vile expression. "You're out of your mind." Said Ron's best friend, and abandoned the table before the chocolate mousse.
Once out in the air, the world seemed so much clearer than it ever had before. The Quidditch pitch was fresh and green, it practically breathed spring life, birds twittered, ants made their merry way from picnic to hill and back, Hagrid's indomitable garden was practically spring-loaded with flowers and coiling vines. Harry Potter was not a happy young man. This clear and crystal spring thought was not a happy one – there was no Philosopher's Stone. He and Malfoy had a potion, they had incentive, they had the blinding need to meet with Voldemort before the world fell down around their ears, and they had nothing but a dead end to get them there.
The pitch was overgrown with disuse, the students hadn't been allowed out on to it in the months since February, and even the Quidditch gear seemed lonely as Harry handled it reverently his first flight in months. They weren't supposed to be out here – they weren't supposed to be a lot of things, but Harry's recent philosophy ran the lines of 'what good have the rules ever done?' He sighed and the flame of hope dampened, "We're never going to find the stone Malfoy." Was all he said, and he said it to the world at large because the trees seemed to hear it and the silence it perpetuated was deafening. It wasn't as much of a tragedy as he would have liked, and if Draco's reaction was anything to go by, he'd been expecting it too.
In the hearty afternoon light that filtered through the clouds, the Slytherin looked healthy, and Harry hated himself for resenting that fact. If Drama had its way, he would have been gaunt, he would have been horribly pale and the sound of dying ambition should have echoed across the castle grounds like a thunder shot, or possibly an earthquake – but drama rarely had its way. There weren't enough rainy days for cast-over funerals, there weren't enough malicious families to produce tortured lovers for every valiant hero, and not everyone found themselves staring a riddle in the face when they desperately needed one. This was one of the many times that Drama was denied, Malfoy stood before him with a hand resting against his Nimbus 2001, and Harry felt a bit like laughing.
"Yeah," Said Draco, and it was a sign of how awful things really were, because Malfoy never said 'yeah'. "I know. But what can we do?" It was stubbornness at it's most basic; the world could fall down, the school could crumble, society could fragment into a million shocked little pieces and they would still look, because there was nothing else. Harry couldn't justify it, couldn't put the words into place, but somewhere between his stomach and his heart lay the undeniable feeling that if he stopped, if he just gave up trying… then that was it. He was insane and could feel it bubbling out of him like pus squeezed from a boil, he was insane, Malfoy was insane with him, driven, and without the attempt, without doing something he would lose his mind as well. Which also made him feel like laughing; he was right back at semantics where he'd started.
"Exactly. What else can we do?" Draco shrugged, and Harry muttered something in frustration. He wasn't adverse to change, if there was something he could do, something that could work for them, he would do everything in his power to facilitate it, but the plan couldn't die. Admittedly 'everything in his power' was quite possibly began and ended with begging the fates for a solution and pitying himself in the meantime, but one day something would emerge that would help him find what he was looking for if he didn't snap and go on a homicidal rampage first.
Voldemort would be expecting him, he needed the stone, he wanted it so badly he could taste it, and yet there was nothing. Not a clue, or a whisper of its existence, and Harry was genuinely afraid, he relied so heavily on being able to find it – it hadn't occurred to him just how dead he would be if he didn't. It had, however, occurred to him that Voldemort wanted his company simply to cut him down where he stood, but he was counting on Voldemort's pride to keep him alive for a few precious moments, to humor his victim before deciding to kill him. A few precious moments where he needed the stone more than anything, and Harry didn't have it. "Is there any way we could make our own?"
"Don't you ever pay attention Potter?"
Harry rolled his eyes and fiddled with the snitch between his fingertips, Malfoy had a tendency to ask the stupidest questions at the worst time and he never knew whether to laugh or hate himself. Yes he paid attention, yes he knew that the stone had never been recreated, yes he knew it was a singular phenomena, and yes he knew that more accomplished wizards than him had tried it, but he was damned if he wasn't going to give it a try. "No."
"Harry!" It wasn't necessarily the fact that Malfoy lost his temper, because he did that quite frequently, and it wasn't because he elicited an outburst of such impotent frustration, but simply because Draco's hands cramped at his sides and his eyebrows twitched that Harry lost it. He couldn't help himself, he really couldn't. The whole scenario was just so ridiculous that Harry laughed until he had tears in his eyes and laughed harder still when Malfoy looked about to storm off.
He had managed to convince Voldemort that he was going to the Death Eaters, and he knew in the pit of his stomach that Voldemort only wanted an audience so that he could kill him for being a general nuisance. He also knew that Voldemort probably realized this about him, and they would have to be polite to each other for the sake of temporary politics. Possibly the worst of all, he was using Draco Malfoy as a go-between. It was just so hysterically funny, his great plan, his preemptive attempt to save his ass once again was failing simply because he was making an effort, and Harry just couldn't stop laughing. They didn't have the stone, and they never would. It was the one thing he absolutely needed to succeed, the one thing he could conceivably give Voldemort, and the one thing Voldemort's greed would allow him to take – and he didn't have it. Harry just couldn't let the hilarity go, and he was no longer sure if he was laughing, or crying in an amusingly loud way.
Malfoy was trying to explain something so he got himself under control, wiping his eyes and excusing his sore stomach muscles for the sudden activity. "I know, I know, I'm sorry," he said, and snorted, though managed to keep the hysteria at bay. "Never been reproduced, secret's never been shared, I got it, but… I don't see why we shouldn't try."
"Because Potter, I don't have two hundred years to sit around and wait while horse manure and cheap wine boil down to a semi-explosive sludge that might produce tin and a cure for constipation." It was said with spite, a kind that hadn't really been seen since they're unorthodox truce, Harry was thrilled, so much of Malfoy was in his sardonicism, and so much of that rancor had been quashed. There was just something about the day, something in the air that was allowing him to laugh, to be angry, something about the way Malfoy was scowling at him that he found irresistible. "Or maybe you think the Dark Lord is going to wait for your convenience, his patience is limited Harry."
It wasn't masochism, he wasn't deliberately trying to frustrate Draco, but something inside of him had cracked, and he felt strangely liberated. Yes, Voldemort would lose his patience, Voldemort would demand his presence, Voldemort would kill him, and it was such a certainty he could almost forgive himself for not trying. Dylan Thomas in all his morbid fear of death could rage, and go not gently, but Harry Potter was exhausted – it was a relief. A manic light-headedness improved only by the withering scorn and Quidditch successes that Malfoy seemed to provide in spades, because when he took himself seriously he would forget the irony, and the good humor; he would be alone, and useless, and nowhere again. "So what do you propose we do?" He said, and it seemed so inadequate for the question.
Draco scowled, frowning more in contemplation than at Harry. Somewhere deeply hidden within Harry Potter was a grain of insanity, it resided in his stubbornness, his willingness to dive, in his unerring ability to push the buttons of all the wrong people and set the press on its ears. Somewhere in Harry Potter was a madman waiting to consume him, and Draco couldn't be bothered to prevent it because he was just as dead, and just as acerbic. "I don't know Harry," He said sarcastically, "but I hear he's partial to lemon tarts."
This time Malfoy joined in the hysteric laughter.
I promise, absolutely, that there will be a bit of story soon.