Will I finish before my midnight? Oh well... I own nothing.
Harry had thought that the gruesome discussion between Malfoy and Mitxel would be the worst thing to happen before he was sacrificed. He was wrong.
He'd missed what Mitxel had said the time of his execution would be, and was torn between being grateful for his ignorance and frantically wondering which breath would be his last. Malfoy solved the dilemma by turning to conversation to the importance of the thirteenth hour.
1:00 pm. He had less than an hour left before his demise.
The clock ticked on remorselessly. Mechanically. Like a clock. Harry was not impressed with the state of his mental facilities.
He looked to Malfoy. There was someone mechanical, unchanging: he would, without fault, act only for his own gain. Malfoy constantly lied, insulted, pasted on a smile around his superiors, and generally made Harry, as a Gryffindor, feel disgusted to know him.
Of course, Harry was disgusted to know Malfoy in general.
He should have known better, should have known Malfoy could never really change. Looking back, it was obvious that their "deal" really only benefitted Malfoy: Malfoy and the Slytherins were, in the public's eyes, approved by Harry Potter. Harry, on the other hand, enjoyed no similar boost in social status; rather, he was frowned on, but got to feel like a hero. Malfoy must have been so smug about finally finding a way to exploit Harry's need to protect others.
Harry could see it, now: Malfoy kept sending him little glances, each one full of malice that seemed gleeful, as if glad to finally be unleashed.
Mitxel noticed. "I did mention that I wanted others to have their chances for revenge."
Malfoy appeared positively delighted. "How kind of you."
"Yes, it is," Mitxel agreed. "Kind. And definitely not just an oversight and poor planning."
Malfoy ignored that, slowly rising from his black seat to prowl forward. He crouched before Harry, who could only glare. The Death Eater grasped his chin, tilting it up with a jerk, baring Harry's neck. Harry tried not to swallow.
"Hmm," Malfoy almost purred, sinisterly pondering, "what kind of condition will you need him in for the ritual?"
Mitxel had lost much of his obvious distrust of Malfoy when they'd started discussing the ritual, but now, some last bit of wariness bled out of him, replaced by satisfaction. "Too much blood might mar the lines, but besides that, he just needs to stay alive."
"I'm sure his existence is already painful enough," Malfoy murmured. "I mean, considering I convinced him he meant something and he's only just found out I was using him all along."
Harry heard more than saw Mitxel chuckle and lean back in his chair. Malfoy was blocking his view. Harry had no way of knowing if the eye contact thing was even a real custom- did he manage to orchestrate that entire fight and make-up, too?- but Malfoy knew what he'd told Harry. Harry was sure that Malfoy's reason for the proximity was to force him to see the eye contact, to mock him.
Harry had very little autonomy but refused to be mocked, so he dragged his eyes up to Malfoy's.
"Nothing you do has real meaning," Malfoy spat. He was done addressing Mitxel, apparently. "Everyone you've ever met only cares about your name, and how they can use you. And they do use you. Those so-called 'friends' of yours would never have bothered if you were someone normal. You should be grateful that this time you're being used for a greater purpose-"
Harry tuned him out. Malfoy wasn't looking him in the eyes.
Malfoy wasn't looking him in the eyes.
Malfoy was not looking him in the eyes!
Malfoy was looking at his eyebrows very determinedly. Up close, with his back to Mitxel, Malfoy didn't seem calm or composed or particularly evil. If anything, he seemed desperate.
Harry relaxed. It was nice to know that he had not, in fact, been colossally wrong about Malfoy for several months. He couldn't believe he'd let himself believe Malfoy was really a Death Eater after all, for the last several minutes. Was it only minutes? It'd felt like hours. Harry could easily believe Malfoy was managing to save his own skin, even in a situation like this. The insults flowed from him naturally, at odds with his expression. At least Malfoy would get out of this house alive.
But if all Malfoy cared about was saving himself, why had he bothered revealing himself to Harry? Harry would be dead soon; it wouldn't matter if he'd known Malfoy's true alliances in his final moments or not. (Assuming he really did know Malfoy's true alliances, this time.)
Malfoy still looked determined, not at all as if he were searching Harry for forgiveness. It didn't make sense, with Malfoy's plan to save himself- and that had to be his plan- what else was there to do, except sit back, smile, and prepare to run?
Did Malfoy have some other plan?
Harry didn't want to give himself false hope, but- but could this plan end with Harry being alive, and very much not sacrificed?
Harry concentrated, and told himself he could feel the magic holding him. He pushed.
And he felt something.
There was a definite feeling of pressure, a little bit of give, but it didn't seem to quite match what he thought he'd done. It had almost felt as though the magic ties were already moving.
He looked at Malfoy again. Malfoy had stopped his stream of world-shaking insults, and was looking him in the eyes.
Malfoy looked away without moving his head, and started speaking again; Harry didn't listen. He'd thought something had flickered when he pushed, so he tried it again.
This time, there was a definite silvery flash. Mitxel's spell felt more like a serpent than rope. Mitxel himself was still motionless in his chair. Harry had no way of knowing for certain, but it seemed that this was something only he was seeing.
So Harry took a deep breath, and pushed without stopping.
He had to squint to see anything. There was silver everywhere- in the walls, in the pentagram, in Malfoy. In Harry.
In this world of silver, there was a snake partially wrapped around Harry. Harry decided it must be the spell, because his own silvery arms were pushing it off. There was a dark mass to the side- his real arms, Harry realized with a start. They were still. Without stopping his pushing, Harry tried to crane his neck around. There was a dark figure- himself?- that was more or less where Harry felt he was. There was silver where his magic was moving, and while none of this had ever been explained to him, it seemed to make sense. There were probably worlds of meaning in everything, things Harry wouldn't know how to describe later, but for now, he just knew he needed to get the snake off of him.
He kept pushing, and the snake went, slowly. It's head flicked up at him, once, and seemed to measure him and his intentions. The moment seemed to drag on, probably because everything in that world seemed to move slowly. He looked to Malfoy, or where Malfoy was; there were arms hauling the snake away from Harry, directing it toward Mitxel.
That made sense, Harry reflected, slowly. That would help.
In the strange world of silver, of magic, Harry had no concept of strength. There were no muscles burning or simple explanations for why moving the serpent was slow, it simply was.
The snake itself seemed to understand it's own nature. It was initially reluctant to leave, but when Malfoy continually pointed it toward Mitxel, it seemed to make a decision.
The snake slithered, calmly, steadily, toward Mitxel.
Harry and Malfoy weren't helping it go any faster than it was going under its own power. Harry stopped pushing.
His vision distorted. Mitxel had left him with his glasses, which he appreciated. He tried clenching his toes.
He couldn't.
For a second, Harry panicked. Had the silvery vision been a hallucination, induced by extreme stress? Had he imagined Malfoy's determination?
He tried again. This time, he felt a definite twitch.
Harry made eye contact with Malfoy.
Malfoy carefully angled his head so that Harry's face was completely hidden from Mitxel. He was still speaking- "Of course, it doesn't help with your parents, it seems getting killed by Dark wizards runs in the family- did you ever hear about your grandparents?"
The pause felt natural, in context. Hopefully Mitxel thought so, thought that it was simply a case of Malfoy mocking Harry to the fullest.
Malfoy made eye contact with Harry. He looked terrible, Harry noticed. His face was shiny with sweat, and was red- that wasn't just a sign of nerves. Harry frowned. It seemed he had the muscles for that at least. He should have felt happier, but Malfoy didn't seem to be in any state to do anything except talk.
Harry didn't know what he himself looked like, but he didn't feel terrible. He was tired, certainly, but thought he could manage to stand, which was more than Malfoy looked capable of.
Harry looked at Malfoy. Malfoy looked at Harry. Now, Malfoy seemed as though he were looking for something.
Harry nodded, hoping he could pull off whatever task he had accepted.
Malfoy glanced away, resumed his verbal abuse, and carefully, oh so carefully, drew his wand out of his pocket. He laid it down against Harry's fingertips.
Harry's breath caught. He would only have the energy for one spell. He'd have to hope that the binding snake had left him completely and was as unrelenting with Mitxel as it had been with him.
Without moving his upper body, Harry curled his fingers around the wand.
He hadn't exactly conquered it, and it wasn't the missing one that had worked so well for him before, but he felt a warmth from it that, for the last few hours, had been well beyond his most desperate wishes.
Harry closed his eyes. He pictured where Mitxel was, how he was seated, how only the chair and Malfoy were between them.
He moved.
"Stupefy."
Chapter word count: 1699
Story word count: 46830
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