Chapter 29
"I've been thinking about why we're doing this," said Granger.
She didn't look up from her book. She didn't look like she was trying to read it anymore either.
"You know why," said Draco, putting his aside; there was nothing they could use in it anyway.
He and Granger were in the secret room again, reading though the books, going over their notes. They still weren't getting anywhere closer to figuring out how to kill the dementors. It seemed like all research on them had stalled when the patronus charm was discovered, and that was so long ago everything they could find was mostly guesswork. He had mentioned that perhaps it wasn't possible to kill them, to which Granger had said that if anyone knew that for sure, they would have written it down, but from what they were reading it looked like nobody had even tried to find out. That was maybe an hour ago and they hadn't said anything since.
He didn't mind so much today that they weren't getting anywhere. He could remember casting the patronus in there the night before. It still felt brighter. But he could tell it was getting on Granger's nerves.
"No, I mean, why we can do this," she continued. "I think your theory might be right. Azkaban is too wrong for people to accept, so they ignore it to make it go away, and that's why they don't question it. It sort of makes sense, except that means we shouldn't care about it either, right?"
"I suppose."
"Because it's not like we're better or more moral people than everyone else in the wizardring world."
"Really?" he said. "I thought that was the whole point of being in Gyffindor."
"Be serious for a moment – so I talked to Ron about it, and he said he was really scared of Azkaban when he was little. And his mother told him he was being silly, that there was nothing to be afraid of because he would never go to Azkaban, and then he said something really interesting: He said he hadn't cared that he wasn't going there, he had been scared because it existed, and he'd wanted it to go away. Do you see? That's exactly what you said, it shouldn't be allowed to exist. So maybe kids know about it, the evil, and the older you get, the better you become at ignoring it."
"But we're not kids."
"I know, but we're not that old either. You said your mother was with you in Azkaban. She saw how horrible it was, she saw all the same things you did, but does she want to destroy it?"
"No. She just wanted to say goodbye to my father."
"Right, but you came away completely shaken, and that's not because you're morally superior to her, but it could be because you're much younger. You haven't had as much time to learn to ignore it. That's why we believed what you told us, but McGonagall didn't."
"She did believe me but-"
"But she didn't want to help. And that's exactly it – all children who have found out about Azkaban have probably told their parents that it was bad and that they were scared, but adults don't listen to kids, and by the time the kids are old enough for people to listen, they have already learned to ignore it."
He nodded.
"That makes sense," he said. "It's a good theory. But it won't help us actually do it."
Granger sighed.
"I know. And I think half these books have just been copying from each, I keep reading the same sentences. And the other half are just making stuff up, it's ridiculous."
"Well, Lovegood suggested, that a horn from the- what did she call it?" he reached for the notes.
"I saw it. I've read all her notes too, you know. She can't be in Ravenclaw for nothing, I've started hoping she will come up with some genius solution to this at some point."
"I hope we're not putting all our faith in that."
"You're not in a position to doubt her."
He was about to protest that when he noticed Granger's expression and knew he had overstepped a line. She obviously knew Lovegood was crazy, but he had not earned the privilege to express that sentiment. Right.
"So do you what the others are finding out?" he asked.
"I haven't talked to any of them recently. Last time I heard anything, they were still talking about broomsticks."
"You're not too happy about that?" he asked.
She shrugged.
"Better than thestrals, I suppose."
Draco raised an eyebrow.
"Thestrals?"
"We flew on thestrals when we had to go to the Ministry in fifth."
Draco laughed.
"Really?"
"You think I'm lying?"
He shook his head.
"No. Sometimes I just can't believe the shit Potter has gotten all of you into over the years. I assume it was his idea?"
"Well, no. It was Luna's idea, actually."
For a moment it looked like she was about to laugh about it too, but then she got control of herself.
"Are you sure we'll have to destroy the whole building?" she asked, changing the subject.
"Pretty sure, yes."
She nodded.
"I was really sceptical about that part, but the more I think about it… I mean, obviously the research is lacking, but there does seem to be some sort of consensus that the dementors are… bred from despair. Or misery, or tragedy, they all use different terms… So I suppose even if we did manage to destroy all of them, with all the prisoners there, there would just be new ones created in probably a matter of hours. And for all we know, the walls could be breeding them too."
"We could just blow it all up, I suppose. As Weasley suggested."
"That would kill the prisoners."
"Yes, I know."
"And the aurors too."
Draco hesitated.
"But if we can't find anything else…"
She was quiet for a moment.
"Do you think it would work? You think blowing it up would make whatever it is, the evil, go away too?"
"No. I don't know. Maybe."
"But we can't kill people."
"I know."
She nodded and looked down at her book. Then she put it aside with a heavy sigh.
"This isn't getting us anywhere. I'll head back down to the library. Who knows, there might be something we've missed."
"Good luck," he said.
"Thanks."
She picked up her bag and then stopped when she was at the door.
"I almost forgot," she said, turning back to look at him. "Harry asked me to tell you to meet him at five down by the west wing stairs to the dungeons."
Draco frowned. He had thought he and Potter would be done with their private meetings now that he had mastered the patronus.
"Why not up here?" he asked.
Granger shrugged.
"He didn't say."
ø
The staircase in the west wing was the least used way of getting to the lower levels of the castle, so it was unlikely they would be spotted. Still, Draco couldn't see the point of meeting there instead of in the secret room as they had every other time.
When he came down the corridor, he found Potter leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs, looking bored and like he had been standing there for a while.
"Hi," called Draco.
Potter started and straightened up when he saw him.
"Hi," he said.
When Draco reached him, he turned to walk down the stairs, and Draco followed.
"Why did you want to meet here?" he asked.
"We're not going to the secret room."
"I figured as much. Where are we going?"
"I had an idea," said Potter, and Draco couldn't quite here if he sounded nervous or excited. "Something Lupin did when he taught me how to cast a patronus."
"But I already learned it. It was perfect yesterday, I'm fairly certain I'll be able to do it again."
"Yeah, I don't doubt that, but it's not the same as knowing you'll be able to cast it inside Azkaban. I mean, you probably can, but I think this might be good preparation."
"Fine," he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance with his achievement being so easily dismissed. "So what do you want me to do?"
"It'll work better if I don't tell you."
"Will you at least say where we're going?" he asked.
"An old defence against the dark arts classroom down here. I found it a few days ago, I thought we could use it."
ø
The classroom was in a disused corridor of the dungeons far from both the Potions classroom the Slytherin common room. It was locked, but it only took a simple alohomora to open it.
It was dark in there. Potter muttered a spell and flames seized the wicks of the half burned down candles in the candleholders on the walls and in the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
"In here," said Potter.
There were a few rows of desks along the walls, but the centre of the room was empty, except for a raised dais probably intended for duelling demonstrations. There were scorch marks in the wallpaper and a great, wooden wardrobe in the corner. That was what Potter was headed for.
"Come over here," he called.
"That commanding tone doesn't suit you, Potter. You should try asking nicely," said Draco as he crossed the floor.
"Do you want to see if I can cast the spell here because it's dark and creepy? You do realize my common room is in the dungeons, right?"
Potter closed his hand around the knob. Draco was a few metres back, Harry stood between him and the wardrobe.
"No," said Potter, sounding serious. "It's not that. I'm going to open the door in a second, and when I do, just cast your patronus immediately, like you did yesterday. Got it?"
"What? Why – Potter, what's in ther-"
Potter twisted the knob and pulled open the door, Draco cut himself off midsentence. He raised his wand, opened his mouth to speak the incantation, then stopped. He heard the sound of the low, rattling breath. He felt the brush of cold. A rotting hand grasped the edge of the wardrobe door, pushing it all the way open, and the dementor glided out.
Draco's eyes flashed to Potter, who looked terrified as well, but he was watching Draco, not the creature. Draco felt a rush of anger in the midst of his confusion – how had he gotten a dementor in there? Why hadn't he warned him? He couldn't recall the words of the incantation – he couldn't even yell at Potter; his voice was stuck in his throat. His fingers trembled. The classroom was disappearing before him, he felt the darkness spreading behind his eyes, the clammy grip on his mind. He saw the cells, the corpses, the pit-
"Expecto Patronum," cried Potter, his voice sounding far away.
Then the images of Azkaban were drowned by the light of the silver stag that erupted from Potter's wand.
It charged toward the dementor, that seemed to stumble for a moment, becoming clumsy, and shifting under the cloak. But it did not stop – it continued gliding forwards, and Potter inadvertently took a step back, so he no longer stood between Draco and the creature. Which was when he realized that it wasn't floating over the floor anymore, it was walking towards him with long, even strides. It raised pale hands to its face and pushed back the hood of the tattered cloak – except it wasn't a cloak, they were robes and they were not tattered at all. There was no rotting flesh or gaping mouth hole beneath it. It was a face, as inhumane as a human face can be. The skin was bone white, the nose flat as a snake's and it had only slits for nostrils. The eyes were red and livid.
"Draco Malfoy…"
The voice of the Dark Lord was a gentle whisper of recognition. His face had twisted into a smile, and Draco knew that this could not be real, that it wasn't real, but his thoughts were jammed, he couldn't think.
"Ridikkulus!" said a loud, clear voice to his right.
Of course, Draco thought.
They did not laugh, but the figure of Lord Voldemort had stopped moving.
"Riddikulus," cried Potter again, and then he forced out a "ha!".
The boggart appeared to hesitate, to linger for a moment, before its shape collapsed and dissolved into something like smoke or thick mist. It retreated into the darkness of the wardrobe, and Potter slammed the door shut.
He stood with his back to Draco, his hand resting on the knob. Draco watched his shoulders rise and fall. He was clutching his wand in a tight grip. The room was silent. Draco could hear his own, uneven breath.
"Sorry," said Potter very quietly.
"You should have warned me."
"I'm sorry. I thought… It's not as strong as a real dementor. I thought you'd be able to cast a patronus."
Potter turned around to look at him.
"I'm sorry, I honestly didn't think-"
"No, you're right," said Draco bitterly. "I should have been able to. Like you said, it was just a boggart. And I stood there like a bloody Hufflepuff, I didn't even-"
He cut himself off. He wanted to kick something.
"So that's your worst fear?" he spat at Potter instead. "A dementor?"
Potter made a gesture, half nod half shrug.
"Don't you think that might pose a tiny problem for us when we go to Azkaban?"
He ran his fingers through his hair.
"Shit," he said. "This is ridiculous! Why did I ever think we could pull this off? How come it's a dementor? I don't see why you're afraid of them if you've been able to cast a patronus since you were thirteen! I can think of a million other things it would make more sense for you to be scared of!"
"Like Voldemort?"
"Yes, what a bloody excellent example, Potter! Bravo, absolutely impressive."
He turned away, walked to the side of the room and sat down on the edge of a table. He rubbed his face in his hands then looked up. Potter was still standing by the wardrobe, watching him.
"It used to be a werewolf," he said, speaking more calmly now. "My boggart. That's why it didn't even occur to me… That's why I didn't figure it out."
"I'm sorry I didn't warn you."
"It was a good idea. We should try it again another time."
Potter hesitated.
"If you're up to it…"
Draco nodded.
"Next time I'll cast the patronus charm before it gets past you. And if I can't, one of us will just cast riddikulus if it gets close enough to me to change shape. If we're not taken by surprise, then it should be fine."
"Yeah, you're right," said Potter. "We'll do that."
Draco wasn't looking in Potter's direction. He had his eyes fixed on the floor, not really seeing it, but he could feel Potter watching him. Then he heard him move and the next moment he was next to him, leaning against the edge of the table. He didn't say anything. They watched the wallpaper on the opposite wall for a while.
"I know he's dead," said Draco, breaking the silence. "But it doesn't seem to matter that I know."
Draco still wasn't looking at him. He could hear him breathing.
"I still remember all the things I did," he continued quietly. "It's like no matter where I go or what I do, I can always feel that pressure of his hand on my shoulder. His claim on my life. And I will never be able to forget how it felt."
There was another long stretch of silence. Potter shifted next to him.
"You know," he said. "I know you won't believe me, but I know what it's like."
He paused and waited for Draco to protest, but when he didn't say anything, he continued:
"He had a claim on me too. Because of the prophecy. And my scar. Do you know about the horcruxes?"
Draco nodded stiffly.
"Right," said Potter. "Right, so I know how it feels. I know he leaves deep marks. I never even thought about what I might want to do with my life if I actually survived – if I managed to kill him. I still don't know. I never liked that I was supposed to be some sort of hero, but it's weird to not… Everything's weird now."
"I really wanted to take the mark," said Draco. "I thought it meant I had caught up with you. It was my chance to be the chosen one, you know?"
"Yeah." said Potter.
"And now it's never going to go away. I'll have to look at it every day for the rest of my life. And don't tell me I should have thought about that before. I know I should have."
Potter didn't say anything.
"I regret it so much."
Draco's voice disappeared in his mouth. There was another long silence before Potter said quietly:
"Well, that's the important part, isn't it?"
"No it isn't. It doesn't matter how I feel about it."
"Of course it does - it's what makes all the difference."
"It doesn't make any difference. What do you think would happen if I went up to one of your Weasleys and told them how sorry I am? Do you think they would just forget about everything and tell me that it wasn't my fault and their brother probably doesn't mind being dead anyway? Because I don't see that happening, I really don't. It won't change anything."
Potter didn't argue. Draco didn't say anymore. The silence stretched.
Then Draco felt the brush of Potter's hand against his own. They had both been holding on to the edge of the table they were leaning against, but now Draco's grip was loosened and he felt Potter's fingers sliding into place between his own, holding his hand in a determined grip. Potter's palm was soft and warm and Draco found himself having to force down a panicked laugh.
"Shut up," said Potter.
"I didn't say anything."
He wanted desperately to turn and see Potter's expression, but he was sure he would burst out laughing if he did. Or maybe he would start crying, he honestly wasn't sure. He felt very far from being in control of himself, still rushed with adrenaline from the encounter with the boggart. So he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.
"Is this supposed to make me feel better?" he asked, keeping tight reins on his voice.
"I don't care how it makes you feel."
He still hadn't let go.
"I thought you weren't into handholding with other blokes."
He sounded spiteful and hated himself for it. It was such a kind, gentle gesture. Why the hell did he feel the need to mock it?
"It's just your hand," said Potter.
He had to have figured it out, though Draco couldn't imagine how. He had been careful to act normally around him, he had almost made himself forget it. But Potter had to know, and this was him trying to be nice about it.
"You shouldn't do that unless it means something," he said.
He didn't want him to be nice about it.
"Really?" said Potter. "You're the one who said it didn't mean anything when you kissed me."
His heart was pounding hard.
"I thought we were pretending that never happened."
"Were we?"
Draco pulled his hand back. Potter let go.
"Yes," he said firmly.
"Sorry, I was just trying to-"
"Well don't, Potter. Don't try. Leave it alone. I don't know how the hell you figured it out, but I'm ignoring it until it goes away and I suggest you do the same. Azkaban is what's important, I'm not letting this interfere with it, okay?"
"What?"
"You heard me. Pretend you don't know. Ignore it."
"What is it you think I know?"
"Don't be an arsehole, Potter."
"I'm trying really hard not to be, but you're not exactly making it easy!"
Draco started walking away from him. He was getting angry, and it wasn't Potter's fault. Just too much humiliation at once. He had never been good with humiliation. He would just leave before he said something stupid.
"Malfoy- Draco, wait!"
Potter had lurched forward and grabbed his arm. Draco stopped and turned around to look at him. Potter still didn't let go. His grip was tight, a little painful. He couldn't just shake him off.
"Look, why can't you just tell me what's going on?" demanded Potter, looking frantic and irritated and slightly panicky. "I'm sorry about whatever it was I did, but you can't just walk away!"
He was standing too close to him. He would have stepped back if Potter hadn't still been holding on to his arm so tightly one would think he was afraid Draco would apparate away.
"It's nothing," he said. "You didn't do anything. Now let go of me."
"Just tell me what you're mad about."
He looked so worried. His face was only inches away from Draco's and Draco was trying not to breathe. He could see how greasy his glasses were from here. He could see the thin, white lines of the scar. He could see that his lips were chapped; they were slightly parted, he was still breathing fast.
He couldn't think of any words. He was staring at him, he knew he was staring. He could feel his breath on his face too, and it was impossible not to think about it. That he was close enough to kiss him. Because he could. He could just do that.
He didn't say anything. Instead, he reached out and touched his neck, and Potter looked confused, but he didn't pull away. He didn't let go. Draco's fingers rested lightly against his skin. Maybe he had flinched just a little at the touch, but it might just have been that Draco's fingers were cold and Potter's skin felt burning hot beneath them.
Draco kept his eyes open as he leaned in. He regretted it even as he did it. He was being an idiot again. Potter was being an idiot too, just standing there.
He was preparing for the backlash, for the shove and the fight that would follow.
It didn't come.
So he kissed him. Gently, carefully. Potter's lips chapped and dry, but his mouth was soft, he did not pull away. Draco could feel the warmth of his breath on his mouth when he pulled back. He lowered his hand. Potter had let go of his arm.
There was no shove, just a long stretched second roaring with the silence of Potter not asking and Draco not explaining.
Then Draco stepped back, putting the proper distance between them, trying to ignore the feeling of his heart trying to smash its way through his chest. He forced his face into a grin.
"Well," he said, sounding almost normal. "I suppose that makes us even for the handholding, right?"
Potter looked disoriented for a moment and Draco felt like he was in free fall, not even sure if he wanted Potter to go along with his ridiculous excuse or not. Then Potter halfway returned the grin, though it was more of a grimace.
"Yeah," he said lamely.
"See you tomorrow for another go with the boggart?"
"Right," said Potter. "Sure. Tomorrow."
Draco nodded.
"Okay. See you."
He reached behind him for the door handle, turned it, and hurried out and away down the corridor as fast as he could.
