DENIAL AND ITS SIDE EFFECTS
HashtagMC
A/N: Bloody fuck, this was a hard one. Took me around two months to write. Anyway, here it is! Not quite as long as the last chapter, but I thought I'd publish this before you had to wait any longer ;)
— Hashtag
CHAPTER 9 – BACK TO NORMALITY
'I'll have to copy your essay for DADA,' Malfoy said when Harry approached what had soon become 'their' spot in the library.
Confused, Harry looked up at the blond Slytherin. So far, their studying sessions had mostly gone by either with Malfoy tutoring Harry, or in silence – except for the occasional 'do you have a…,' followed by the request for a piece of parchment or a spare quill.
They had, after the first, coincidental run-ins, continued to meet for studying – by an unspoken agreement, always at the same time and place. This had been going on for almost two weeks by now, and even in his only half-awake state – and average of two hours' sleep tended to have this effect on people –, Harry could picture Ron and Hermione's reaction all too vividly, were they ever to learn that he voluntarily spent time with Malfoy – on a regular basis even!
But in all the time they had spent in the library during the past two weeks, it had – if anything – always been Harry asking Malfoy for help. Thanks to the Slytherin's tuition, Harry had managed to not only catch up on what he'd missed, but also for once he had understood more than just two words of Slughorn's explanations during the last few Potions lessons. For this, he was probably more than a bit indebted to Malfoy – a thought that ought to startle him, if he would have been fully awake.
And now Malfoy asked – demanded, rather – Harry to let him copy his DADA homework.
'But…,' was all that escaped Harry's lips, and even considering his lack of sleep (at least he had slept at all last night), it was a pathetic answer.
'I mean, sure," he added once his brain had processed Malfoy's request, "but – why?' Malfoy always slipped his homework into his bag as soon as Professor Jones returned it, but Harry had been under the impression that the blond Slytherin got satisfying results. Malfoy wasn't stupid, that much Harry knew. Surely the Slytherin's essay on advanced duelling techniques couldn't be worse than the few paragraphs Harry had scribbled down between dinner and curfew? After all, the spells in question could be practised easily. All it took were two students with duelling experience.
But to his dismay, Harry received no answer. Instead, Malfoy began copying Harry's essay as soon as the Gryffindor had handed it over.
'It'll look suspicious if we both hand in the same essay,' Harry tried again. His opposite only shrugged. 'Perhaps I'll at least get an "E" for "Excellent Handwriting",' Malfoy responded without taking his eyes off Harry's text.
'Or a "T" for "Tricking",' Harry shot back, too tired to think of a better pun, but pleased to see the corners of Malfoy's mouth twitch upwards. 'Maybe even a "D" for "Duplicate",' he added, seeing his goal fulfilled when the other wizard held back a grin.
Seeing as Malfoy still refused to tell why he couldn't write the essay himself, Harry gave up – for now – and focused on his own homework (an essay on carnivorous plants for Herbology). It wasn't until halfway through the five feet of parchment Professor Sprout had demanded that Malfoy spoke up again.
'None of my house mates would want to practice with a "traitor", would they?'
Confused and tired as he was, it took Harry a few seconds to understand the meaning behind Malfoy's words. Once the pieces clicked into place, however—
'What do you mean nobody would want to practice with you?' Lowering the volume of his voice before he drew the attention of Madam Pince, Harry continued, 'Not only they're bullying you, but they keep you from studying? They could ruin your future with this! How sick is that?'
He knew he'd gone too far when he saw Malfoy tense.
'First of all, Potter, I am not. Being. Bullied. I am completely fine, thank you very much. As for the rest of your words, thank you for rubbing it in again. Of course, in Saint Potter's world, nobody even thinks of such things.' He tossed Harry's parchment over the table. 'Thanks for letting me borrow this.'
Determined not to let the blond Slytherin get away, Harry stood up, blocking Malfoy's path.
'Like hell you're fine,' he protested. He knew that the other boy tried to hide them, but he could see the remnants of poorly healed wounds on Malfoy's forearms even as they were talking. Following the Gryffindor's gaze, Malfoy quickly rolled down his sleeves to cover them.
Harry tried again. 'Look, if you would just tell me who's doing this –' '—then you could ride to my rescue and solve my problems without asking me whether I want you to do so? Thank you, but no. Not that there were any problems to fix.' The expression on Malfoy's pale face turned stony. 'If that was all, I'd like to get back to my house's dorm.' With that, he brushed past Harry and out of the library.
— Denial and its Side Effects —
Bloody annoying Potter with his bloody annoying prying. Couldn't he already give up? Draco thought he'd made it more than clear that he wasn't a damsel in distress, waiting to be saved by Potter. He could deal with his own problems by himself – which meant, in his current situation, to live through it until he could leave this damned place behind.
Malfoy men did not show weakness, and Malfoy men never required somebody else's help – a lesson Draco's father had made sure Draco remembered. Malfoy men – or women, they weren't any less dangerous – could forge alliances, but they never relied on anybody. They had a plan B in case their allies failed them, and they made sure never to reveal to an ally how much they needed them. Peasants had to know that they were exchangeable.
And Malfoy men were not subject to bullying, under no circumstances. Malfoy men might bully – but never get their own hands dirty! –, but the idea that an heir of the Malfoy family might be in the situation to be unable to defend himself against harassment – unthinkable.
Draco's father was gone, locked away into Azkaban, and never to return, but Draco's upbringing was still as present as ever. From the day he'd learned to walk, he'd been taught never to drop his mask, never to show emotions – unless to show servants just how much their failure had upset him, so they learned to fear him.
Potter and Granger had, of course, managed to make his façade crack too many times to count, making his blood boil every time a teacher chose them over Draco, but other than this, he liked to think that he had managed quite well.
And now that it didn't matter, because his father wouldn't come back, these lessons Lucius had taught him were what Draco clung to. It was, in a way, the only constant he had left. His family might have lost their influence and reputation, but he could still keep his distanced demeanour up.
Not that it could help him much, Draco thought as he entered the Slytherin's dorm. That day had been fairly decent so far – only a few shoves from his dorm mates, all Slytherins from his year teaming up not to let any seat for him, and a Disarming Spell that had barely missed Draco. Could have been worse. But of course Potter had to go and bloody ruin Draco's day by reminding him of what he could neither change nor forget.
Stupid Gryffindor git.
— Denial and its Side Effects —
They call him their Saviour. The Boy Who Lived. And now their hero has failed them. He has failed them, and they'll find out just how weak he is. He couldn't protect them. The crowd is staring at him, wordlessly asking how he could allow so much death and destruction, why he didn't end it sooner. Demanding to know where he was while they fought for their lives. The crowd will be his prosecutor and his judge.
Every single face is trained on him. He can't recognise the people, but he knows that their expression shows resentment and contempt. And they are right, because he couldn't save what they lost, couldn't protect whom they loved. He deserves their hatred.
But somebody stands behind him, silently assuring him that he has done all he could. He can't see them, but their mere presence assures him that somebody cares. Somebody who forgives him when they should hate him.
Harry woke up feeling like he hadn't slept at all. Groaning, he opened one eye – only to close it at the brightness of the sunlight in the Gryffindor dormitories.
He hadn't slept well the night before – he never did, but it had been especially bad this night. He hadn't managed to fall asleep until sunrise, and even then his sleep had been disturbed by bad dreams. His dreams had slightly improved recently, but they were still bad enough to have Harry bolt upright in the morning in cold sweat.
This night's nightmare hadn't been as bad – Harry only remembered bits and pieces of it, but as in most of his dreams lately, there had been the feeling of something or -body shielding him from the worst terror. Harry couldn't exactly place it – whether it was a thing or a person, something familiar or not, he never remembered. When he'd first remembered it, in the Hospital Wing, he'd thought somebody had held his hand.
Briefly considering to just stay in bed (and quickly discarding the idea), Harry folded back the covers to head for the bathroom. While the cold water always woke him up enough to get to breakfast without falling asleep, it didn't help against the stinging headache Harry suffered through after a night spent mostly staring at the ceiling.
Stepping into the empty common room, he took a look at the time. To his horror, it was already well past breakfast – in fact, he was already late for Transfiguration. Cursing the world in general and nightmares in particular, Harry quickly grabbed his bag, guiltily remembering that he hadn't even touched his schoolbooks the evening before. After stuffing some parchment and a quill into the bag, he hurried through the portrait hole and through Hogwarts' corridors.
Much to Harry's relief, Professor McGonagall read out his name on the list just as he slipped into the classroom – technically, he wasn't late, thank Godric.
'I nicked some toast from breakfast for you,' Ron whispered as Harry sat down between him and Hermione. 'Dreams again?' Harry nodded, flipping through the pages of Transfigurations Training, Vol. III in search of today's topic.
'You look really terrible, Harry,' Hermione stated from his other side. 'Maybe you should go and see Madam Pomfrey?'
'I'm fine.'
'You're not. How much sleep have you had?'
'I'm fine,' Harry stubbornly insisted. Merlin's beard, couldn't those two just leave him alone?
'Mate,' Ron carefully said, 'you can hardly keep your eyes open. Are you sure you don't want to go to—'
'I'm not dead yet,' Harry snapped, louder than intended, 'so bugger off, will you?'
Around them, the class fell silent. Unable to ignore their conversation any longer, Professor McGonagall interrupted her explanations.
'Is there something you'd like to share with us, Mr Potter?'
'No,' Harry shook his head, 'but perhaps I could work better if I sat somewhere else.'
'I see,' the Transfigurations Professor nodded. 'It appears that there is a free seat next to Mr Malfoy.' She scrutinized Harry over the top of her glasses. 'I advise you have your arguments outside my classroom, Mr Potter. The same goes for your Mrs Granger, Mr Weasley.'
Harry pretended not to see Ron's incredulous expression as he sat down next to his Slytherin nemesis.
'Now,' Professor McGonagall continued, 'as I was just explaining, there is a hypothesis that explains the process of transforming lifeless matter into organic matter.' The class groaned in unison at the prospect of studying more theory. 'I know, I know,' Professor McGonagall continued, 'but this is a necessary qualification if any of you plan to pass your N.E.W.T.s, and I expect nothing less from you. Now, who can tell me the title of the hypothesis I am talking about?'
Next to Harry, Malfoy's hand shot up. 'Yes, Mr Malfoy?'
'Johnny Folsom-Gilbert's Theorem on the Magical Nature of Life, Professor.'
'And do you happen to know the year in which Folsom-Gilbert published his essay, Mr Malfoy?'
'Yes, Professor. 1955.'
The headmistress nodded appreciatively. 'Very good, Mr Malfoy. Take ten well deserved points for Slytherin.' She turned to the chalkboard, filling it with words with a flick of her wand. 'Folsom-Gilbert later died in an American Muggle prison, but his theories served to bring Magic Theory forward. In fact, some of his works are still being studied by today's scholars.'
From behind them, Harry could hear Ron whisper, 'Ten points, just because the slimy git gets something right for once?'
— Denial and its Side Effects —
'So, these beauties over here are our topic for the next few weeks. Don' let the teeth deter you, they're completely harmless. Now, get over here and take a better look at 'em!'
Hagrid's current favourite beasts were – if not only the teeth, but also the tails and claws, were something to go by – quite far from harmless. Nonetheless, Harry and the rest of the students carefully stepped closer to the fence that separated the creatures from the class.
'They're Altdeutsche Burgdrachen,' Hagrid explained with more pride Harry thought appropriate when it came to creatures looking that deadly. 'Their name means "Old German Castle Dragon", but they aren't real dragons. Just as deadly, though, so be careful.' The half-giant opened a gate in the fence and stepped into the corral.
Frankly, the creatures were quite ugly. Their torso resembled that of a lizard – a three-meter-lizard, for that matter –, while their heads definitely earned them the 'dragon' part of their name, all scales and ridges. The tails finally were most nasty to look at, seeing as the ends were covered in thorns. The greenish camouflage pattern on their backs increased the resemblance with a lizard. All in all, they were nothing Harry wanted to have within arm's or claw's reach.
'Alright class,' Hagrid shouted. 'Till the beginning of the New Year, this is our project. Their scales and claws are very potent potion ingredients, but only if you can take care of 'em and treat 'em right. For this lesson, you'll have to find out what to feed them. I'll divide you into groups, and each group will take care of one dragon. I have lined up different kinds of food over there, just try and look what they like. The assignment will be rated.'
To Harry, the whole project seemed pretty pointless. Sure, for a to-be healer, potion ingredients were important, but playing trial and error with a deadly creature didn't seem that useful. And feeding them definitely didn't sound appealing. Hagrid had set up tables with raw meat, salad, carrots, sauerkraut, fish, and decidedly too many slimy or furry things, and Harry was afraid there was little chance for the beasts to be vegetarians. Reluctantly, he and Ron made their way to one of the dragons.
The other teams didn't seem too enthusiastic either. Not too many of their year had chosen Care of Magical Creatures – most of them, probably, in lack of a specific idea as to what career to pursue –, and the majority of their small group sported expressions ranging from bored to utterly disgusted. Nott from Slytherin seemed to play a staring contest with one of the creatures, Dean – usually a very calm and composed boy – stared at both Theo and the beast with poorly hidden distaste, Hermione mostly ignored her work partner (Lavender Brown of all people!), and Malfoy was loudly arguing with Parkinson.
Twenty minutes into the lesson, Harry saw his suspicions about the creatures confirmed when one of them ran its tail through his leg.
A/N: As you may or may not have noticed, I snuck in a few references to country music – Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues (1955), a song about an American (Muggle) Prison (no duh!), as well as the name Brantley Gilbert ("Dirt Road Anthem").
I also realised that I am deviating from my original draft more and more as the story progresses – it's been no three months ago that I outlined the plot, and already I think some of it sounds too rushed or cliché!
— Hashtag