DENIAL AND ITS SIDE EFFECTS

HashtagMC

The scene at the end wasn't planned at all… I swear, it just happened! Originally, I had planned another scene for the end, during which Harry would witness the hostility of the Slytherins towards Draco, but I'm afraid that it will have to wait until next chapter. Nonetheless, I had fun writing the Harry/Draco moment at the end of this chapter…

Also, as you may or may not have noticed, I removed the Disclaimer and Warnings/Pairings/Spoiler section at the beginning of each chapter save the first one. So, the warnings, disclaimer, pairings, and everything else at the beginning of the first chapter apply for the whole story.

— Hashtag

CHAPTER 6 – DO THE DRUGS WORK?

'Today, we address the subject of Unforgivable curses.'

Defence Against the Dark Arts. What a laughing stock, Draco thought. Aside from the fact that he knew way more about the Dark Arts than Professor Jones could ever teach them, he also didn't see how this was supposed to help them. For one thing, if one of the rogue Death Eaters out there decided to attack one of them, he would have countless hexes aside from Unforgivables, and seriously, the education in this subject – ridiculous.

First year? Theoretical nonsense on creatures which lived thousands of miles away. Useless.

Second year? A vain egomaniac, who ended up wiping his own memory. Pathetic.

Third year? A… creature, who—which looked like a homeless Muggle, and taught them about pathetic creatures which lived in swamps. As if Draco would ever hike through a swamp.

Fourth year? A mental ex-Auror, who disobeyed the school rules and turned Draco into a ferret, not to mention practised Unforgivables on the pupils. Insane.

Fifth year had been the first more or less sensible year so far – Professor Umbridge hadn't taught them anything useful, but at least she hadn't been a lunatic like her predecessors. Then, of course, sixth year – Dumbledore, the old fool, had finally recognised Severus' talent, and aside from being the most horrible year in Draco's life so far, it had also been the year in which he'd learned the most. And seventh year – well, he'd been too miserable then to pay any attention to the lessons.

'So, who of you can tell me which the three Unforgivables are?'

Of course Granger had her hand in the air before the teacher had even finished the question. While she listed the curses – as if there were people who didn't know them – Draco allowed his mind to wander.

Crucio had been a routine last year. Hey, Draco, fetch me a bottle of Firewhiskey! What's taking you so long? Crucio! Hey, Draco, the Dark Lord wants this mess cleaned up. You're not done yet? Crucio! Hey, Draco, I'm bored and your father has lost the Dark Lord's favour, so he can't help you. Crucio! At the age of sixteen, Draco had been excited at the prospect of following in his father's footsteps and become a Death Eater. But then… the constant pressure. The knowledge that if he failed in this first, horrible task, his family would be punished for his failure. Severus' constant attempts to help him and thus snatch the reward away from Draco.

Then, one year later, living under the same roof as the rundown lot the Death Eaters were at the time. Draco believed in the purity of blood, but these people – there was nothing noble about them except their names. Barbarians, all of them. Aunt Bellatrix and her hysteric laugh whenever her cruelty got the better of her. Greyback, the thing the Dark Lord made use of as a weapon. And always the Unforgivables.

And, of course, Potter. What in the world had kept him from identifying Potter – Draco had no idea. He'd recognised the brat, no matter what had happened to his face, but instead of simply saying, 'this is Potter,' he'd hesitated. He had, honestly, no idea why.

'So, who can tell me what the core arguments of Brutus Malfoy's speech against the classification of these curses as "Unforgivable" were?' Naturally, Grangers hand shot in the air, and involuntarily, so did Draco's. He knew this speech by heart – his father had read it to him often enough, referring to it as one of the countless examples when the noble Malfoy family had been looked down upon by half-bloods and Muggle-borns. But, of course, Professor Jones didn't bother picking Draco – no, she chose the Mudb—Granger instead. It was all Draco could do to keep up the indifferent expression. When the bell rung, he was the first one to leave the classroom.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

Harry had long ago abandoned the Astronomy homework he was supposed to complete. The telescope stood useless on its tripod, the astral map lay on the floor, kept down by the weight of the telescope's case.

If he focused hard enough, he thought he could make out faces in the sky – Remus, Sirius, Dumbledore. Those whose advice he would need at the moment. Dumbledore would have some wise words for him, Remus would tell him that it was only natural to feel guilty, and perhaps have words of advice as well, and Sirius would assure him that he would be fine over time. That was how it would be if they were there. They wouldn't bugger him about imagining things, or try to talk sense into him. They would understand, Harry was sure.

This place alone was enough to make Harry relive memories. Dumbledore, knowing full well what would happen, had chosen to protect Harry rather than defend himself. Draco, panting, hands trembling, the point of his wand shaking as he stared wide-eyed at the man he was supposed to kill. In a way, Harry pitied the Slytherin. Almost made a murder at the age of sixteen, when other boys worried about girlfriends or driving lessons. And the breakdown Harry had witnessed had made it plainly obvious that Malfoy had been broken by the terrors he'd witnessed. In a way, Harry mused, the Slytherin was similar to Harry in this regard – no physical damage, but victims of this war nonetheless.

Harry couldn't help but end up thinking about the recent change in Malfoy's behaviour. Today, in DADA, Ron had made some clearly audible comments about Malfoy, such as suggesting they renamed the subject to 'Defense Against Malfoy', or snarky remarks about how Malfoy had probably practised the Crucio with his 'Death Eater' friends. That wasn't the worst, though. The Malfoy Harry once knew would have fought back, or at least sneered at Ron, or anything. But although the blonde had heard Ron, he hadn't even turned his eyes away from the school book. And then the incident in the library. Two or three years ago, Malfoy would have happily hexed Harry into the next month if he really thought Harry had deliberately tackled him. He would not have settled for a scornful comment.

'Harry? Are you okay, mate?' At the door which led downwards stood Ron, his face dimly lit by the light from downstairs. 'Uh, 'Mione send me to make sure you were okay. She's worried, you know.'

Trying very hard to hide his frustration, Harry stood up, collecting his belongings and storing his telescope away. 'Sure. Just lost track of time, that's all.' He sent Ron one of the fake smiles he'd learned to perfect over the past weeks. 'Let's go, then. Wouldn't want your girlfriend to worry, now, would we?'

Visibly relieved, Ron followed Harry, oblivious to the act his best mate was playing.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

…grows only in a high-temperature environment, and is an ingredient to various potions. It lives off unfortunate insects, which are attracted by the scent of its flower, and lured into the plant's alimentary canal.'

Deciding that this would have to suffice for Professor Sprout's demands, Draco stuffed away his quill before furling the parchment and storing it away in his bag. Glancing at the clock, he decided that it was too early to go to bed, and wondered what he would do for the next hours. His house mates never went to bed before ten, which meant that Draco would have to stay up until at least half past ten if he wanted to make sure they were all sound asleep when he went to bed.

Sighing, Draco reached for the first book he could find, grimacing as he found it to be a Muggle fiction book. Unfortunately, there weren't many magic fiction authors – a deficiency which ought to be eradicated, in Draco's opinion. He'd heard of a Muggle invention called 'film' once, which supposedly were moving pictures telling stories. To Draco, this sounded like normal portraits, but apparently, Muggles needed an additional device for this.

Nonetheless, midnight found Draco sunk in the Muggle book. Draco found the story highly unrealistic – for example, it painted a completely wrong picture of magic creatures. Trolls were not made out of stone, and not every Dwarf wore a beard. And why would only witches use flying brooms? Not to mention the preposterous storyline of the book – an ex-trickster turned good and saving the citizens of his city from a greedy businessman. Gryphon dung.

One hour after midnight, he put the book away, deciding that by now, his house mates definitely were asleep.

Turned out, they were not.

Apparently, Theo Nott had somehow smuggled Firewhiskey into the school, as the eighth-year Slytherins were happily drinking themselves into oblivion. Currently, most of them were in the state of Not-Much-Longer-Peaceful-Drunks, on the verge to Very-Quarrelsome-Drunks. While Goyle was a sniggering mess on his bed, laughing over a corny joke one of the others had made, Nott himself obviously had enough of his brain cells left to recognise Draco when the latter one made his way to his bed, and Draco was fairly certain that Edward Jugson and Zachary Thorley had also spotted him.

'Uh, look, our favourite traitor wastes some of his valuable time upon his unworthy comrades. Hey, traitor scum, what'cha think you're doing here?'

'Betrayed anyone lately? Your father, maybe? Right, he's already in Azkaban! Maybe one of your friends then? Oh, I forgot – you don't have any!'

'Yo, Malfoy, why don't you go to McGonga – McGonal – the headmistress and turn us in? Let's see how well it serves you!'

Draco gritted his teeth as we walked past the drunken students, skilfully avoiding the ones trying to trip him up. Why his classmates had been allowed to return to this school, he had no idea. Oh, sure, they hadn't been convicted of any crimes, but the names of their fathers should have been enough indication.

Well, he was one to talk in this regard.

Tuning out the spiteful comments of the people which were supposed to be the substitute of a family, Draco awkwardly climbed into his bed, settling for changing behind drawn curtains. After he'd changed into his pyjamas, and cast several Silencing and Protecting Charms to his bed, he curled himself up under the blankets, finally allowing the tears he'd gathered over the day to flow.

At least, no one could hear him weep behind the charmed curtains.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

For some reason, this night, the potion took some time to kick in. At 1 in the morning, Harry still lay awake, gazing at the sky outside the window. He hadn't had much time to think that day, something he was catching up on now. Surprisingly, the most important thing on his mind was Draco Malfoy, and his strange behaviour since the beginning of the school year.

Memorising all facts again, Harry tried to put the puzzle pieces together. Malfoy looked rather tired as of lately. He also was obviously on the outs with the rest of the Slytherin house, and got injured regularly. From what Harry could tell, he was doing fairly well in classes, but rarely ever rose his hand, and even more rarely was picked by the teachers to answer a question – the only exception being Potions. And, as their encounter in the library a week ago had proven, he believed that everyone was out to get him – a belief which may prove to be justified.

So, all these facts led to which conclusion? That Malfoy was pretending and secretly plotting something? A few years ago, Harry would have been the first to agree (alright – second, since Ron would have been first) and pull out the Marauder's Map to track every movement of Malfoy. But now? Harry would rather believe in a sudden change of heart – which actually seemed plausible – than in a new master plan of Malfoy's.

Groaning, Harry turned around in bed, freezing as he heard Ron shuffle beneath his covers before the breathing of his best friend returned to normal. Glancing at the Muggle alarm clock at his bedside drawer (mechanic, of course – an electronic one would have gone bonkers anywhere near Hogwarts), he let his head fall to his pillow – 2 a.m.

It seemed as if this was going to be a rather restless night.

Harry woke up feeling like he hadn't slept at all, but at least, the potion had done its work in the end – he had fallen asleep before the sun rose, that much was for sure, and he hadn't had any nightmares, so that was a plus. But still, this couldn't have been any more than maybe five hours of sleep. Stifling a yawn, Harry dragged himself towards the bathroom, hoping that a quick shower would help himself to fully wake up.

But as he sat down at his usual spot at the Gryffindor table, he could tell by the worried expression on Hermione's face that the ten minutes he'd spent under the hot water hadn't help conceal his lack of sleep at all. Although she didn't comment on it, he could guess her questions, which he postponed by mouthing 'LATER'. He didn't need his sleep habits gone on about in front of hundreds of students.

Now he only had to come up with an explanation for later.

Over the course of the day, his tiredness subsided, leaving only a numb hollowness behind. While he was almost falling asleep during Herbology, he managed to stay awake through Charms – thanks to a quick nap in History of Magic during third period. He was even paying attention during double Potions – nothing unusual normally, but a surprise considering the tired state he had found himself in this morning.

Only problem: He didn't get the fourth line of the recipe of today's potion. It was something about chopping the ingredients in a certain way, but Harry didn't get the hang of it, and, judging by her puzzled expression, neither did Hermione. Unnecessary to mention, Ron didn't get it as well. Meanwhile, one table to Harry's right, Malfoy was happily hacking at the whatever-their-name-was-beans, half of them already swimming in the blubbering cauldron. Looked like at least one student was going to earn himself an 'O' for today's period.

Following a hunch, Harry leant towards the Slytherin and hissed, 'Malfoy!'

'What is it, Potter,' came the hissed response, both the Slytherin's voice and stance indifferent and hard to read.

'I need your help,' Harry forced through gritted teeth, and seeing Malfoy arch one eyebrow in amusement didn't help improve his mood. 'Excuse me?'

'I said I. Need. Your. Help.'

'And why is that so?'

If Harry kept gritting his teeth like that, he'd lose them by the end of the period. 'You're really going to make me say this, aren't you?' When the lack of a response confirmed his suspicions, he tried to steady his breathing and force out the words the other boy wanted to hear. 'Fine. I need your help, because I don't get this stuff, and you're better with this.'

Malfoy smirked, though a satisfied smirk rather than his old, gleeful smirk. 'What was the last part?'

He'd better pass his N.E.W.T.s with an 'O++' in Potions, Harry decided, because nothing else would justify this ordeal. 'You. Are better. Than me, for Merlin's sake. Will you help me now, or not?'

The grin on Malfoy's face – how Harry had wanted to wipe this stupid grin off the Slytherin's face moments before – grew into an almost genuine smile. 'See, Potter? Wasn't that hard.' The blonde abandoned his cauldron and stepped behind Harry, grabbing the Gryffindor's wrists to guide his hands. Harry tensed at first – under different circumstances, he would have never, never ever let Draco Malfoy stand this close behind him – but he relaxed when he saw pale hands move his own hand, guiding the knife across the beans.

'You see?' Malfoy whispered from behind, his breath tickling Harry's neck. 'You need to slice them in a certain angle to get as much out of them as possible. Like this,' the hand which held Harry's knife raked across the bean. Since Malfoy was slightly taller than Harry, his head was more or less resting in the crook of the Gryffindor's neck.

Malfoy let go of Harry's hands. 'Try it yourself.' Harry found that he could repeat the movement which the other boy had shown him quite easily, and even managed to mutter a 'thanks' towards Malfoy when the blonde returned to his own cauldron.

One row further towards the front of the classroom, Hermione cursed under her breath and jabbed her knife into the table when she missed the small fruit in front of her. Unable to suppress his amusement at the thought that he, Harry, had – with Malfoy's help – managed to achieve something Hermione hadn't, Harry leant forward to tap on his best friend's shoulder. 'Trouble with line four, too?'

Without tearing her gaze away from the textbook, Hermione nodded. Grinning at the thought of the frown which was most likely gracing his friend's features right now, Harry tapped her on the shoulder again. 'Ask Malfoy.'

Well, now she turned around to face Harry. 'Could you repeat that?'

Harry shrugged. 'Ask Malfoy. He's helped me to get these,' he gestured towards his own table, 'chopped.' Hermione's face read incredulity, in bold, capital letters. 'What? You just have to ask him.'

'Harry,' there it was, Hermione's earnest voice, 'are you sure you are alright? Do you feel dizzy or something?'

'Of course not!' Harry responded, barely keeping his voice quiet. 'Why would I?'

'Because you've just told me that you've given Malfoy a knife –' '—more like let him guide my hands which held a knife –' '—and actually asked him for help?'

Harry shrugged again. 'As I said, I just had to ask.'

Hermione obviously wasn't convinced that Harry hadn't gone mental, but she pressed her lips together in a gesture which, as Harry knew, signalled (temporary) defeat. 'Fine. But I'm not going to ask Malfoy for help.'

'Good, because I wouldn't grant it to you, Granger,' came Malfoy's voice from Harry's right. He rose an eyebrow – was that all facial expression he could muster? – at Harry and then said, addressing Hermione, 'bet unlike Potter here, you wouldn't even admit that you need help, would you?'

Well, Harry thought, Hermione's scowl was definitely worth it, because at the end of the period, Harry was pretty sure he had seen Slughorn write an 'O' onto the label of the flask which held the potion Harry had brewed.

'I owe you, Malfoy,' Harry whispered as he walked past the other boy – something he would have never thought he'd say. Although, at the sight of Malfoy's grin, he thought that maybe admitting that he had a debt to Malfoy wasn't the most intelligent thing he'd ever done.

'You so do, Potter.'