Disclaimer: JK Rowling wrote Harry Potter

I'm not getting as many reviews as before, but I've noticed a lot of people Alerting, so I just wanted to say thank you. *hugs*

Chapter 29

Don't Touch Me

18th December, 1998 – last day before the holidays

Christmas was in the air, but it came in the form of a heavy, thick mist, not pure-white snow, and smelled more of bitterness than of gingerbread and Christmas carols. The weather seemed to reflect their spirits. The Slytherin dungeons were permanently damp, which was worse than dry, freezing cold, because damp seeped into your clothes and stayed there. It was clearly going to be the dreariest Christmas this generation of Slytherins had ever had. It was too bad, because he had always liked Christmas. When he was a child, it meant a pile of expensive presents and an entire day spent with his father, who could always make time for him on this day. The Christmas of his fifth year, after the Dark Lord's return, had been the first he'd spent at Hogwarts, and since then he had stayed at school for every holiday, at his father's request. He hadn't taken the change as badly as one might have expected. The Slytherins were an unfriendly bunch in general, but the few who remained for Christmas – he had never been completely alone – had been compassionate enough. Besides, the expensive presents still came, courtesy of the owl post.

Of course, this year there was no one left to give him gifts.

To keep warm, the Slytherins had taken to scooting armchairs and pillows over and sitting in a huddled mass around the only fireplace in the common room. At first these had been fairly silent reunions, but then the first years had brought down Exploding Snap cards. Now they talked, joked, and played cards around the fire every evening after supper. He sometimes took part, but he was a notorious loser at cards, and since most of the time they played for actual money, he generally avoided the games. He would lean on the side of the tall marble fireplace and watch quietly, as he was doing now. He was so absorbed in the game – Duce had a terrible hand – that he didn't notice when someone walked right up to him.

"Theo," Draco said very softly.

It still made him jump. Draco arched an eyebrow but chose not to comment.

"How was your day?"

"Oh, simply wonderful," Theo said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from dripping from his voice.

Since when did Draco ask about his day? It was unlike him to be the first to seek a conversation.

"I had Transfiguration with you, and then I had Charms with you, and then... Oh, wait. I had all of my classes with you today. I ate breakfast, lunch and supper with you today, and I had Quidditch practice with you today. You know how my day went."

Draco shrugged. "You hardly said a word."

"Well, neither did you," Theo recalled. "Except in Potions, and it wasn't me you were talking to then."

You were with Granger, he thought. What was going on in Draco's head? He'd seen them together in the library. He'd been smiling, she'd been laughing, and their hands, placed on the table between them, had almost been touching.

"Well, how did Potions go, then?" Draco asked, unruffled. He glanced around quickly. "Could we move over?"

Theo reluctantly detached himself from the side of the fireplace – he'd just been starting to feel warm – and followed Draco to a corner of the common room.

"You have something to say?" he asked.

"You're staying for Christmas, right?"

"Obviously," he said, wondering what Draco was about. "Like I always do. Merry Christmas, by the way, since we won't see each other again until then."

"Wait until the twenty-fifth," Draco said. "I'll be here, too."

"You're not spending Christmas here," Theo said disbelievingly. "You have to go home. Christmas is a family holiday."

"I know."

"Your mother thinks the world of you."

"What would you know about it? You haven't got a mother."

This was true. Theo was practically an orphan now that his father was in Azkaban; his mother had died when he was three and he couldn't remember her.

"Anyone with half an eyeball could see," he said coolly. "You can't do that to her."

"She already knows," Draco said. "And she understands. Theo –"

"It's all right."

Theo could see in Draco's eyes that he regretted his words, as he always ended up doing. He found he was beyond caring. Draco had lost the ability to affect his feelings when he'd hurt him physically. When they were kids, Draco had had a much bigger influence over Theo. It wasn't new to him that Draco didn't respect his father very much, because he thought him cruel. He was probably right. Theo had always known, even as a child, that his father was not a good man, but he had refused to think about it. Theodore Senior had loved two people, at least: his wife whom he had cherished and the only thing that was left of her, their son.

In truth, Theodore Senior had been no worse than Lucius, and probably better in some ways. He was good to his servants, trusting them with the care of his son and his domain during his absences, and never resorting to physical or magical punishment. He disdained, not house-elves, but people who employed them as cheap and terrorised service. He inspired respect in the people of his household and expected his orders to be obeyed, but he found the idea of having people working for you because they had to distasteful.

"There's something to be said about mutual trust, son," he had told an enraptured seven-year-old Theo. "Do you trust Pietr?"

"Yes, sir."

"You should. He is loyal. Pietr is the sort of servant I hope you'll find yourself when you're older. Mind you don't be too trusting, of course. No one is ever safe from betrayal. But be suspicious of everyone and everyone will hate you. That's not something you want, son."

"No, sir."

His father had smiled and ruffled his hair. "Well, I'm a fool. All this doesn't mean anything to you, does it? Run along now, Theodore." He never shortened his son's name. None of the servants did, either; Draco had given him the nickname. "It's long past your bedtime."

It was hard to reconcile that smiling man with the one who had tortured Muggles, killed Mudbloods and followed the Dark Lord. The Death Eater who had grown more and more haggard in a month of pre-trial imprisonment. The man who had lost some of his reason to the Dementors and who had begged him, over and over again, to forgive him. "Please." The man who had finally completely lost touch with reality, calling his son Serene, his wife's name, when he came to visit. The man who had been too addled to care at his own trial, who had stayed silent all throughout it, his eyes flat and empty even when his son rose to his defence. Theo had lost his father to the war and he would never forget it.

Though he hadn't shown his son much attention, Theodore Senior hadn't been harsh, just... preoccupied. When his wife, seven years younger than him and full of idealistic, pacifist notions, died from tuberculosis, there had been nothing left to keep him from falling into shady, illegal activities. He hadn't really been there for his son, trusting his education to family servants who loved their young master enough to overlook his few misdemeanours. As a result, Theo grew up mellow and mild-mannered, soft-spoken but confident that his word was law, and rather critical of the business that kept his caring father away from him. "Dad" was, to Theo, the tall, strongly-built man he saw twice a month at the most and who always spoke kindly to him. Whereas Lucius had been, to Draco, the constant reminder of a model to follow, of steps to walk in, of a name to live up to, with always a sharp word at the ready if he were to stray from the beaten path.

What did it matter now, anyway? None of that would ever be true again. His father would never get out of Azkaban, and there was no Malfoy name to live up to anymore; it had been dragged in the dirt and trampled on so soundly all Draco could even attempt to do was keep the rags that remained in the sorry state they were in.

So Theo simply didn't care anymore.

"My situation has nothing to envy yours," he heard himself say, and saw with some satisfaction that Draco flinched.

He'd met Draco when they were six, and liked him instinctively, maybe because there were so different. Draco was – had been – loud-mouthed and had felt the need to constantly assert his superiority over everyone, even his so-called friends. He found in the quiet but clever Theo an ideal companion who wouldn't overshadow him too much. They had become fast friends. Did it hurt that Draco would always put himself above everyone else?

It was the Slytherin way. Tracey was like that, too. Pansy was the only Slytherin he knew who was truly selfless – at least when it came down to the one thing that counted: Draco.

"That's for sure," Draco said.

"Well, that's not quite true," Theo said. "I could envy you one thing. Your father's freedom."

Draco blinked. "You could."

"But quite frankly, I don't envy you at all. You're in worse shape than any of us. But you deserve it, after all. We don't."

The meaning was implicit, and Draco caught it. He had been the Carrows' favourite, bowing his head to their every command and turning his wand even on his friends to protect himself. And Pansy, Theo had to remind himself. Always Pansy. The two were inseparable. Pansy, even now, was watching them from the fireplace. Ostensibly she was playing cards with Blaise and two fifth-years, but her eyes kept darting over to them. Draco followed his gaze; his eyes landed on Pansy.

"She deserved better," Theo said.

"So do you," Draco pointed out wryly. "And so does Hermione."

"At least you care for Granger." He kept going back to her.

"If you're talking about Pansy, you know I –"

"I was referring to myself."

Draco looked surprised. "It isn't like you to be so emotional."

"On the contrary." He just tried not to let it show. "It just isn't like you to notice."

"You're my friend, Theo. You know that."

"I know I am," he agreed. And I know I hate myself for it. "But are you?"

"Ah," Draco said, and was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "So it's come to this, at last."

"You couldn't expect me to ignore it forever. Unless that was what you were planning to do?"

"I don't know," Draco admitted. "You were so... so strange, after it happened. After I did it," he amended quickly when Theo shot him a look. "Almost like nothing had happened. It was only when Astoria..." He stopped, hesitated, and started again. "After a while, you started being moody, going from friendly to cold in seconds, and I knew it would never be the same. But I didn't know what to do about it."

"Talking would have been a start," Theo said. "Talking is always a start."

"I've never been good at talking."

"No," Theo agreed. "You haven't. But there's always a first time."

"I –"

"Until it's too late," Theo finished.

He let his meaning sink in, waited for Draco to understand.

After a moment, Draco said, quietly, "You can't just throw our friendship away."

"Why not? You did it."

"You can't –"

"I can. And I will."

"Thirteen," he said. "Thirteen years since we met. And it ends now?"

"It ended last year," Theo corrected him. "Through your fault. It almost ended eight years ago, when we came here and you 'threw our friendship away' because –"

"You broke your promise to me," Draco said suddenly. "You swore, and you didn't do it. I don't blame you. Can't you forgive me for my mistakes?"

Theo froze and stared. Disbelief filled him. Was he really talking about – ?

"We were fifteen, Draco."

"I was eleven when I pushed you away," Draco countered.

"You can't compare that to this. I couldn't do it."

"You had the opportunities. And you had promised me you would."

"You can't blame me –"

"I don't," Draco interrupted him. "I'm glad you didn't do it. But it was a promise. Forgive me for failing you, like I've forgiven you."

Fifteen years old, the summer before their fifth year. The Dark Lord was back. Both of them knew what that meant for them: join, or die. Draco had been terrified. He had made Theo promise to choose the first option.

"We'll do it together," he had murmured that night, looking straight up at the ceiling. "Side by side, always."

"Always," Theo had echoed.

They never spoke about it again, but the promise remained fresh in their minds all through their fifth year. There was something reassuring in the knowledge that you would never be alone. But things hadn't gone according to plan. Theo expected it to happen after Hogwarts; of what use could two school-aged wizards be to the Dark Lord? But the next summer, Draco hadn't written a single time. And when he saw him again in September, Theo knew. The drawn, pinched features, the resentment and bitterness in his eyes.

Draco had taken the Mark.

It was too early. Theo hadn't followed. His father had suggested it once or twice, had mentioned "pulling strings" and "putting in a word for you," as though the Dark Lord might be as easy to manipulate as a puppet. As though his father had any true power. Theo had ignored the feeling of debt to Draco and had said, every time: "After Hogwarts, Father," to delay the inevitable. He didn't want the Dark Mark. He didn't want Draco's stress and nightmares and guilt and anguish and secret plotting and murder attempts. He didn't want the sleepless nights, the crying, the threats and promises. He didn't want any of it.

Draco had never mentioned it before, because doing so would invite talk of his initiation, something he didn't want. If he was finally bringing it up – had he been bottling up his resentfulness up until this moment? Even so... there was no comparing, he told himself. But there was. If he had joined Draco, then the incident that still kept him up at night would never have happened.

"I didn't want to do it," Theo admitted. "I wanted to delay it for as long as possible. And I'm not sorry about it."

"You're not supposed to be." Draco looked at him and let out a breath that might almost have been a sigh. "I wish I had half your strength."

Theo snorted. "I let you down."

"You saved yourself. And I – I wasn't even able to do that. I miss you," Draco admitted.

"I've missed you since our first day here. I don't remember it bothering you too much."

Draco looked like he'd been slapped across the face; his eyes looked wildly at him. Hurt, madly hurt grey met blue, and memories flashed before Theo's eyes again, but not the same kind. He closed his eyes, wrestling with himself, trying to keep them out. Blood, so much blood... betrayal...

Draco's hand settled on his arm, his voice rising as he said something, asked a question maybe, and Theo's eyes opened again and he pushed him away abruptly.

"Don't touch me!"

Draco drew back sharply. Stared at him. Then turned and leaned against the table, looking blankly at the wall across them. People were staring, now; Pansy had stopped pretending not to look.

"I'm sorry," Theo said immediately, not stepping forward to reach out to his friend. "I wasn't –"

"Will you ever stop being afraid of me?"

"I'm not."

"You're terrified!"

"I'm not," he snapped. "It was a reflex. It isn't something I can control. But I know you would never hurt me."

Draco laughed. Bitterly. " But I did hurt you. That's the problem, isn't it? I let the Carrows – I cast the curse –"

Whatever Draco was trying to say was cut off short when Theo took three steps forward and gripped his shoulders, spinning his friend around. Forcing himself to look into his grey eyes.

"Draco, look at me," he said slowly. "You're my best friend. You know you are – I know you are."

His mind was racing. He had no idea what he was going to say – what he was saying.

"You're not going to hurt me. I know you didn't –" he had to force the words out, trying to accept them as truth – "you didn't have a choice."

"There's always a choice," Draco murmured, his eyes never leaving Theo's face. "I should never have done it.

The flashes were coming back, and Theo blinked twice. Hard.

"It's all right. I've forgiven you. It wasn't your fault."

Draco shook his head wordlessly, but still he looked into Theo's eyes. The silence stretched on. Theo kept his hands on Draco's shoulders. They kept their eyes focused on each other. At some point, Theo drew his friend closer and they fell into a sort of embrace that was warm, desperate, and somehow comforting. Draco might have cried. Theo stared straight ahead, trying not to think that the arms that were holding him had once held the wand that had sliced his skin open.

Draco said, "I'm sorry."

I know. Gods, Draco, I know.

But was sorry ever enough?

Ta-da.

Rereading this, I'm not sure it's all very understandable, but it will be, soon. I hope. Please drop a review. :) Next update is next weekend, possibly over the course of two days since there will be three chapters, titles are:

30: I See You in My Nightmares

31: His Eyes

32: CHRISTMAS.

Guess away at who the characters are.