[Note: This is a revised and generally cleaned-up version of the original fic. My apologies for the complete lack of new material, but there were a few inconsistencies in the fic I felt needed to be addressed.]
+Sed fugit interea, fugit inreparabile tempus+
(Vergil)
CHAPTER TWO
Draco had been secretly relieved that Ron (who he had decided to address by his first name, although reluctantly) had brought him his dinner last night, although he covered it by making a sharp comment about it possibly being poisoned. Ron's response was an unreadable look and a, "Well, that's why *I* brought it."
Life with the Death Eaters always had a tinge of danger; death had always been a possibility, either from the hand of Voldemort or a jealous subordinate thinking to inch his way up the hierarchy. However deadly that place and time might have been, Draco thought of it almost nostalgically -- he had been able to thrive there and shape power for himself out of the flaws and idiocies of others too blind to recognize manipulation for what it was. Here, though, hostility circulated through the air, an enmity against which he could do nothing except try to ignore it.
He surprised himself, therefore, by falling asleep almost directly after finishing his dinner, and the last thing he thought before tipping over into dreams was that Weasley must have snuck a sleeping potion into the grape juice -- no, that wasn't the last thought, he realized as he woke to a sharp tapping. The very last thought was that maybe death wouldn't be so bad, after all.
The tapping distracted him from his morbidity, and Draco rolled over to search for the source of it. A dark, indistinct blur was moving agitatedly behind the smoky glass window of his room. It paused briefly and the tapping sound came again.
/An owl? Who in Merlin's name is owling me? At this time of day?/ He hadn't told anyone where he was going, and the few people who would owl him would *definitely* not send messages to Hogwarts. And if they did... Draco ground his teeth, already cursing their stupidity, and swung out of bed. He shuffled awkwardly to the window, trying to keep his blanket around him -- it was damn cold in here, and he'd have to speak to Weasley about it -- so as to prevent himself from freezing, tripped the latch, and stared as a large dusk-colored hawk hopped in.
For a moment, he felt himself be drawn into a staring contest with the bird, which seemed content to just look at him. It was a beautiful creature, its plumage dark but with a lustre that caught the early morning sun so the feathers shone like obsidian. Over the cruel, curved beak, dark eyes regarded Draco with keen intelligence, and Draco had the sudden feeling that the hawk was attempting to read his mind.
They stood like that for a time, the man and the hawk, until finally the hawk let out a cry of irritation and launched itself into the air. Draco stumbled to the side, closing his eyes to avoid the sharp downward sweep of the flight feathers, and spun around, preparing to chase the stupid bird out of his room. /This is the last thing I need/ he thought as he opened his eyes to see where the hawk had gotten to.
/Yes, this is definitely the last thing I need./
The hawk had gone, and in its place stood Harry Potter.
/*Definitely* the last thing/ Draco thought faintly, staring at him, unable to mask his shock.
Harry, for his part, stood and watched him without saying a word until Draco was able to recover. There was tiny glint in his green eyes that might have been humor, but it might have been light reflected from his glasses, too. In either event, Draco didn't care, and he scowled.
"So, Potter," he said lightly, "come to torture me some more?"
"No I haven't," Harry answered, fidgeting with his robes -- his *professor's robes*, Draco realized with a start -- a bit. "I came by to see how you were doing earlier, but there's huge bloody lot of Aurors outside the door and they didn't look disposed to let me in. So, I came in the other way."
"The Animagus thing is new."
"Yes, it is." Surprisingly, a bitter little smile twitched its way across Potter's thin-lipped mouth. He was still pale, Draco saw, and his sloppy black hair had small smatterings of gray in it. Considering what must have been his life, though, Draco decided that was to be expected. "I was finally registered last year -- something about a potential fine, if I didn't." He looked around the room and said, sounding a bit awkward, "Do you mind if I sit?"
"I wasn't aware you were staying," Draco said with the frostiest tone he could manage. /What is he *doing* here? For God's sake, kick him out now -- let the damned Aurors deal with him./
"We have things to talk about," Harry said, spying the chair at Draco's desk, "and I really need to sit down." With that he turned on his heel and limped -- limped! -- to the chair and sat down heavily, wincing.
"Should I ask when that happened?"
The look Harry gave him was surprisingly shrewd, considering he'd always had his emotions right out in the open, like Weasley did. Gryffindors were historically horrible at subtlety -- they had the panache and tact of a herd of Blast-Ended Skrewts in a room full of puffskeins. But then again... /Change is good for the soul/ Draco reminded himself. Things had changed in ten years. Ten years had made Ron Weasley watchful and confident, and it made Harry Potter unexpectedly subdued, and had given him a limp, something Draco found vaguely horrifying to think about.
"I fell," Harry said, massaging his calf muscle, an expression of deep concentration on his face. "Six stories, I think it was -- I honestly don't remember. It was just me and... and Neville. He healed what he could and made a potion to keep the bones from breaking anymore -- can you believe it? Neville, of all people -- but by the time we got to Madame Pomfrey, it was too late."
Draco sat down on his bed, feeling exposed and vulnerable at hearing the simple words. What could he say to that? He fumbled for a reply but found nothing.
"I see you're teaching now," was what he said at last. "I presume it's Defense Against Dark Arts? You'd be a shoo-in for it."
Unexpectedly, Harry smiled and shook his head. "Transfiguration," he said, "what with Minerva being Headmistress and all, she doesn't have time to teach it anymore. I was the only qualified Animagus available, and I really didn't have anything else to do, so I took her up on the offer."
"Teaching whiny little brats to turn matchsticks into needles, Potter?"
"Something like that."
"I would have thought being the Gryffindor Quidditch hero would have sent you begging to the Chudley Cannons or something," Draco said, secretly rejoicing at the snide tone. /That was appropriately nasty/ he thought with some satisfaction. /You haven't lost it yet, Draco old boy./
"Can't play anymore," Harry answered tersely. He gestured to his leg.
"Oh." Deflated, Draco carefully looked at everything else in the room besides Harry, casting about for something to say. What could be said between old enemies? Everything that needed to be said had been said in school, and the night when Draco had spared Harry's life. Further words seemed like they'd be beating a dead horse, but keeping silent was absolutely untenable. "Should you even be here?" he asked. "I'm sure your precious Weasel would go positively mental if he caught you in here with me."
Again, Harry flushed, blood suffusing his pale skin with a muted glow. "He's not my precious Weasel," he muttered, glaring at an offending corner of the room for a moment before transferring his ire to Draco, "and I would imagine that he *wants* me to be here -- after all, you were brought here as part of a classified Auror project, so of course everyone knows about it. The faculty, anyway, knows you're here, and I think the Ravenclaws are working it out for themselves."
/Why on earth would Weasel want Harry to meet with me?/ Draco asked himself, careful to keep any hint of self-questioning off his face. /What is that bloodydamn Auror up to? I'd figure he'd be shagging Harry blind this time of day./
/*You* would be, that's for sure,/ some buried part of his id answered.
"The truth is, I *have* wanted to talk to you," Harry continued, his expression softening a bit from anger to mere iron-headed determination. "The Ministry may have swallowed that line about your wand malfunctioning when you tried to kill me, but I didn't."
/Oh, it's this./ So there was something unresolved they needed -- or Potter thought they needed -- to hash out, after all. "Look," Draco said, striving for calm, "I didn't come here to discuss my past with anyone, *Potter* -- I only came because I wasn't offered a bloody choice in the matter. If you want a heart-to-heart chat with someone, go and whine to Weasley awhile."
"Can't." Was that a glint of pleasure in Harry's eyes? Draco hadn't realized Harry had become so... so sadistic. In any other circumstance, it would be highly gratifying. "Ron's busy with other stuff."
"Granger, then."
"She's busy, too."
"Have all little Potty's friends abandoned him, then?"
Harry shook his head, smiling a bit, refusing utterly to be baited. "They're busy *together*," he said demurely, just before that mild, heart-stopping smile became positively wicked. "Didn't you notice the wedding ring?"
"I was a bit preoccupied at the time." /So Granger finally went and did it,/ he mused. /Never would have figured either of them for the marrying type -- never would have figured that they could stand each other for five minutes./
"Three years ago in July," Harry added helpfully, still grinning. "I never thought they'd do it, myself, but they *did*, and I'm happy for them. Ron's settled down a lot since they've been together."
Draco sniffed, thinking of the almost casual display of muscle and good looks Weasley had offered him last night. "If you could call how he behaved last night 'settled down.' I don't think I've seen a man try to crawl up my shirt like that. At least not since school, and he didn't even know what he was *doing*."
"Ron's a tease. He can't help it."
"It's probably inherited." Draco hoped that Harry would let the veiled reference to Weasley's family slide, and to his relief, Harry did. The relief was short-lived, though, as Harry returned to the attack.
"Look, I want answers, *Draco*," Harry said in the tone of voice that commanded instant attention. It didn't have the arresting resonance of Severus' voice, but Draco found himself listening nonetheless. "You could have killed me that night -- I saw you. You were going to do it, and I knew I couldn't do anything to stop you. I still know that I couldn't have done anything to save myself, and I'm willing to bet you know that too. But you didn't, and I want to know why." He paused, then seeing something on Draco's face, added: "And don't even try the line about the wand. I don't want to hear it. Why did you spare me?"
"I didn't come here to be interrogated," Draco muttered, getting to his feet.
"What? Do you honestly think you're going anywhere?" Harry demanded. He stood up as well, although the action was very obviously labored. "I don't think the Aurors are just going to let you waltz out of here."
"They'll certainly pack *you* out of here quickly enough. Precious Potter consorting with the enemy and all."
"Oh, for..." Harry bit off the obscenity just before Draco caught all of it, but it was enough to make him happy that he had managed to snap some of Potter's newfound control. "Look, I'm not after some deep cosmic truth, Malfoy" -- so, the surnames were back, Draco thought -- "I just want to know what made you not kill me that night. I thought you *hated* me, and I'm sure killing me would have put you way up there on Voldemort's list."
"You're right," Draco said tightly, gripping the bedpost for dear life. He had to hold onto it or he would explode, or jump on Potter and kill him -- or possibly do something else to shut him up. "I did hate you -- I *do* hate you. And the Dark Lord would have bloody well kissed *my* ass for doing him a favor, instead of the other way around. But I didn't and, for the love of God, don't ask me that question again."
"Why not?" Harry asked.
"What part of 'don't ask me that question again' didn't get there?" /Does he not get the point? I don't want to talk about it! Will the man not shut up?/ He was worse than Granger with her endless questions and nitpicking lectures. For the first time in a long time, Draco felt invigorated, with fury coursing hotly through his blood. "Now, *Potter*," he said, enunciating each word, "you have exactly ten seconds to change back and get out that window, or go through the door, I don't care, before I get the Aurors in here and tell them that you're trying to kill me and violate my amnesty terms."
"Are you sure you should tell them that? They might want to help."
"Look... leave, okay? Just *leave*."
Finally, some of Draco's desperation penetrated Harry's humorous reserve. The green eyes darkened a little in something that may or may not have been contrition -- Draco preferred to think of it as disappointment -- and Harry nodded and offered a mumbled apology that Draco didn't accept. Draco watched in silence as his one-time nemesis changed back into his hawk form and flew out the window, and when he was gone, Draco very nearly fell over with relief even as he cursed Potter's tenacity, and his own cowardice.
* * *
Weasley -- no, *Ron* -- came to collect him for breakfast a little later, explaining that due to an unforeseen house-elf strike (fictional, naturally, but Draco suspected Weasley didn't want to be carting Draco his meals three times every day), Draco would be eating in the Great Hall.
"Are you sure that's wise? I might incite a riot."
Ron favored him with a smile that was only marginally patronizing. "Oh, the whole school already knows you're here -- although they don't know why. Auror business and all that." His voice deepened in a failed attempt to sound imposing and mysterious. "And McGonagall's already said that the first person to complain will spend the rest of his or her life in detention. 'Mr. Malfoy was cleared of all charges relating to his role in the war' was what she said, 'and whoever sees fit to defame his character or cause trouble over his presence here will pay for it.'"
Despite himself, Draco was impressed. It reminded him, although rather distantly, of Snape's description of what Dumbledore had gone through to get a reformed Death Eater on the Hogwarts' staff, and the bitter gratitude he had for the man. Snape hated being beholden to anybody. So did Draco. It had been an early bonding point between teacher and student, one of many they had found in their time together. Severus had been a friend... a real, honest-to-hell friend by seventh year. He had understood why Draco had joined his father, although he didn't wholly approve, but still... "Necessity," the older man had said. "If you do what you feel you have to do, then you can't blame yourself for doing it."
It was how he had survived, Severus had explained later. It's how you live with yourself.
And now Severus was dead, and Draco was alone in his old school, feeling very much a stranger as Ron Weasley stalked alongside him, glowering at the curious and occasionally vindictive faces of the students they passed in the hallway. Whispers followed them, low and insidious, and something else, too, although it definitely wasn't a whisper: it was loud, obnoxious, and thoroughly unwelcome.
"LOOKIE LOOKIE!" Peeves swooped down out of nowhere, pelting Ron and Draco with some poor student's stolen Gobstones. "It's ickle Draco-waco and Ronniekins! How *ista* doing, Dracy?" He flipped over and peered at Draco upside-down, grinning maniacally. "Is you here for vacation, then?" he asked sweetly.
"Beat it, Peeves," Ron growled, reaching for his wand.
"Yes, sir, your Aurorness, sir," Peeves said obediently. He zoomed away, shrieking "DRACO MALFOY HAS RETURNED! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! DRACO MALFOY'S BACK! FLEE! FLEE! FLEEEEEEE!!!!" as he went. Despite Ron's death glares at the few stunned people in the hallways, the damage was done, and they stared at Draco as if he were Voldemort in the flesh before scurrying away.
"I've lost my appetite," Draco muttered, half-turning to go back. Not surprisingly, Ron's hand shot out and closed in the folds of Draco's robes.
"No, you haven't," Ron said with deceptive lightness. "You're coming to eat breakfast with the rest of us."
"What's it to you if I do or not?" Reluctantly, Draco fell back into step next to Ron. "It's no bloody skin off *your* back if I eat in my room."
"McGonagall's pulling a Dumbledore on us," was Ron's answer, which earned a slight grin from Draco. "Something about accepting reform in our midst, I think she said. And she brought up Snape, so I knew she was serious."
The support of Minerva McGonagall, of all people, was surprising and a little humbling, and Draco dwelt on this as they walked through the teachers' entry into the Great Hall and climbed the dais. It kept him mercifully distracted as he shook hands with his old teachers and managed through nearly tripping Flitwick to avoid Harry, and as he tried not to wilt under the combined pressure of hundreds of curious student eyes. McGonagall refrained from offering any Dumbledore-esque speeches, and the meal passed by in a terrible, strained sort of silence.
As a result, Draco's eggs and ham were generating an unhappy foment deep in his stomach as he slunk back to his room. Harry had left breakfast right off, saying something about having to get ready for lessons but looking at Draco the entire time, in a way that said lessons were the last thing on his mind. Just thinking about that look, those green eyes, made Draco's breakfast want to come right back up -- something that would hardly be good, considering he had the codex of Severus Snape's diaries in his lap.
/What were you hiding, Severus?/ he silently asked the book, which did not answer him. /What *are* you hiding?/
Ron had told him that a simple lock kept the codex secure, and that was easily disabled with the Alohomora charm. /*This* is how they treat classified information?/
Then Draco saw the blank pages, and he realized that there wasn't much need for security when it came to an apparently empty diary. Still... there were diaries, and there were diaries, and one of the most deadly ones ever had been in his father's possession for many years until it had been given to a girl -- the Weasley girl, of all the wonderful, ironical things in the world. The devastation it, or the soul behind it, had wrought had been unbelievable. It still was.
Carefully, Draco dipped a quill into a bottle of ink and wrote in minute print in the top corner of the first page, "Hello?"
There was no answer. He waited for a good few minutes, but nothing came, and the small, squared letters remained where they were. Sighing, he pulled out his wand, tapped the page and said, feeling somewhat foolish, "Revalere secretum!"
Nothing happened. The blank page stared up at him tauntingly.
He cycled through all the various tricks he knew, with the pernicious knowledge that if trained Ministry cryptowizards and arithmancers couldn't figure out how to break the code --
Wait. Ron had specifically said that there was *code*. That meant that there was something written, something that would have to be decoded (obviously.) Had Ron forgotten to mention how to even see what was written? Draco sifted through his memories of their few previous conversations and couldn't remember the subject coming up. It was a glaring and irritating oversight, one easily corrected by hunting for Ron throughout the halls of Hogwarts, which was not an appealing option. /I'll have to figure something out./
Absently, Draco reached to swipe off a bit of extra Revelation Solution off the parchment. Just as his hand brushed across the surface of it, he saw a tiny bit of black, the stem of a letter.
Excitement flared in him and he rubbed the parchment briskly, revealing, yes, there it was, writing -- Severus' obnoxiously tiny, precise writing. Severus had explained to him the reason for it: as a student in Potions, he usually had several people trying to cheat off him, so he learned to write small, but write neatly, as measurements and specific instructions had to be absolutely unambiguous. The words those neat letters formed were totally foreign, nothing Draco had ever seen.
Yet... they were familiar, tugging a bit at Draco's memory. At the very top corner, almost obscured by his own writing until a banishing charm erased it, was a tiny line of print, a series of symbols used by only one man in the world -- used by one but known by two, because Severus had taught them to Draco late in his sixth year.
It was his private shorthand for potions recipes, another result of his student career. Draco remembered the day during a private tutoring session that was mostly just an excuse to talk, when Severus had brought it up. He had given Draco a long list of the letters, numbers, and symbols he employed -- all of which represented measurements, ingredients, and directions -- and insisted that he memorize them. When Draco asked for a reason why he was given extra homework, Severus had flatly refused to give him one.
/Severus./ He found it difficult to think of the man as Professor Snape or just Snape. After the end of sixth year, Severus had instructed Draco to call him by his first name. Again, no reason was given. But had he hoped just a bit, Draco wondered, that his diary would be found by the one person who might get some use out of it?
Reaching for his quill again, Draco began a careful translation of the shorthand, Severus' other-language flowing back into his brain as if he were staring at the page he'd learned from. By the time he finished and checked his work, all thought of Harry had vanished and he only wondered where he would get Highland asphodel at this time of year -- the flowers, Severus had always said, were notoriously difficult to find.
+Sed fugit interea, fugit inreparabile tempus+
(Vergil)
CHAPTER TWO
Draco had been secretly relieved that Ron (who he had decided to address by his first name, although reluctantly) had brought him his dinner last night, although he covered it by making a sharp comment about it possibly being poisoned. Ron's response was an unreadable look and a, "Well, that's why *I* brought it."
Life with the Death Eaters always had a tinge of danger; death had always been a possibility, either from the hand of Voldemort or a jealous subordinate thinking to inch his way up the hierarchy. However deadly that place and time might have been, Draco thought of it almost nostalgically -- he had been able to thrive there and shape power for himself out of the flaws and idiocies of others too blind to recognize manipulation for what it was. Here, though, hostility circulated through the air, an enmity against which he could do nothing except try to ignore it.
He surprised himself, therefore, by falling asleep almost directly after finishing his dinner, and the last thing he thought before tipping over into dreams was that Weasley must have snuck a sleeping potion into the grape juice -- no, that wasn't the last thought, he realized as he woke to a sharp tapping. The very last thought was that maybe death wouldn't be so bad, after all.
The tapping distracted him from his morbidity, and Draco rolled over to search for the source of it. A dark, indistinct blur was moving agitatedly behind the smoky glass window of his room. It paused briefly and the tapping sound came again.
/An owl? Who in Merlin's name is owling me? At this time of day?/ He hadn't told anyone where he was going, and the few people who would owl him would *definitely* not send messages to Hogwarts. And if they did... Draco ground his teeth, already cursing their stupidity, and swung out of bed. He shuffled awkwardly to the window, trying to keep his blanket around him -- it was damn cold in here, and he'd have to speak to Weasley about it -- so as to prevent himself from freezing, tripped the latch, and stared as a large dusk-colored hawk hopped in.
For a moment, he felt himself be drawn into a staring contest with the bird, which seemed content to just look at him. It was a beautiful creature, its plumage dark but with a lustre that caught the early morning sun so the feathers shone like obsidian. Over the cruel, curved beak, dark eyes regarded Draco with keen intelligence, and Draco had the sudden feeling that the hawk was attempting to read his mind.
They stood like that for a time, the man and the hawk, until finally the hawk let out a cry of irritation and launched itself into the air. Draco stumbled to the side, closing his eyes to avoid the sharp downward sweep of the flight feathers, and spun around, preparing to chase the stupid bird out of his room. /This is the last thing I need/ he thought as he opened his eyes to see where the hawk had gotten to.
/Yes, this is definitely the last thing I need./
The hawk had gone, and in its place stood Harry Potter.
/*Definitely* the last thing/ Draco thought faintly, staring at him, unable to mask his shock.
Harry, for his part, stood and watched him without saying a word until Draco was able to recover. There was tiny glint in his green eyes that might have been humor, but it might have been light reflected from his glasses, too. In either event, Draco didn't care, and he scowled.
"So, Potter," he said lightly, "come to torture me some more?"
"No I haven't," Harry answered, fidgeting with his robes -- his *professor's robes*, Draco realized with a start -- a bit. "I came by to see how you were doing earlier, but there's huge bloody lot of Aurors outside the door and they didn't look disposed to let me in. So, I came in the other way."
"The Animagus thing is new."
"Yes, it is." Surprisingly, a bitter little smile twitched its way across Potter's thin-lipped mouth. He was still pale, Draco saw, and his sloppy black hair had small smatterings of gray in it. Considering what must have been his life, though, Draco decided that was to be expected. "I was finally registered last year -- something about a potential fine, if I didn't." He looked around the room and said, sounding a bit awkward, "Do you mind if I sit?"
"I wasn't aware you were staying," Draco said with the frostiest tone he could manage. /What is he *doing* here? For God's sake, kick him out now -- let the damned Aurors deal with him./
"We have things to talk about," Harry said, spying the chair at Draco's desk, "and I really need to sit down." With that he turned on his heel and limped -- limped! -- to the chair and sat down heavily, wincing.
"Should I ask when that happened?"
The look Harry gave him was surprisingly shrewd, considering he'd always had his emotions right out in the open, like Weasley did. Gryffindors were historically horrible at subtlety -- they had the panache and tact of a herd of Blast-Ended Skrewts in a room full of puffskeins. But then again... /Change is good for the soul/ Draco reminded himself. Things had changed in ten years. Ten years had made Ron Weasley watchful and confident, and it made Harry Potter unexpectedly subdued, and had given him a limp, something Draco found vaguely horrifying to think about.
"I fell," Harry said, massaging his calf muscle, an expression of deep concentration on his face. "Six stories, I think it was -- I honestly don't remember. It was just me and... and Neville. He healed what he could and made a potion to keep the bones from breaking anymore -- can you believe it? Neville, of all people -- but by the time we got to Madame Pomfrey, it was too late."
Draco sat down on his bed, feeling exposed and vulnerable at hearing the simple words. What could he say to that? He fumbled for a reply but found nothing.
"I see you're teaching now," was what he said at last. "I presume it's Defense Against Dark Arts? You'd be a shoo-in for it."
Unexpectedly, Harry smiled and shook his head. "Transfiguration," he said, "what with Minerva being Headmistress and all, she doesn't have time to teach it anymore. I was the only qualified Animagus available, and I really didn't have anything else to do, so I took her up on the offer."
"Teaching whiny little brats to turn matchsticks into needles, Potter?"
"Something like that."
"I would have thought being the Gryffindor Quidditch hero would have sent you begging to the Chudley Cannons or something," Draco said, secretly rejoicing at the snide tone. /That was appropriately nasty/ he thought with some satisfaction. /You haven't lost it yet, Draco old boy./
"Can't play anymore," Harry answered tersely. He gestured to his leg.
"Oh." Deflated, Draco carefully looked at everything else in the room besides Harry, casting about for something to say. What could be said between old enemies? Everything that needed to be said had been said in school, and the night when Draco had spared Harry's life. Further words seemed like they'd be beating a dead horse, but keeping silent was absolutely untenable. "Should you even be here?" he asked. "I'm sure your precious Weasel would go positively mental if he caught you in here with me."
Again, Harry flushed, blood suffusing his pale skin with a muted glow. "He's not my precious Weasel," he muttered, glaring at an offending corner of the room for a moment before transferring his ire to Draco, "and I would imagine that he *wants* me to be here -- after all, you were brought here as part of a classified Auror project, so of course everyone knows about it. The faculty, anyway, knows you're here, and I think the Ravenclaws are working it out for themselves."
/Why on earth would Weasel want Harry to meet with me?/ Draco asked himself, careful to keep any hint of self-questioning off his face. /What is that bloodydamn Auror up to? I'd figure he'd be shagging Harry blind this time of day./
/*You* would be, that's for sure,/ some buried part of his id answered.
"The truth is, I *have* wanted to talk to you," Harry continued, his expression softening a bit from anger to mere iron-headed determination. "The Ministry may have swallowed that line about your wand malfunctioning when you tried to kill me, but I didn't."
/Oh, it's this./ So there was something unresolved they needed -- or Potter thought they needed -- to hash out, after all. "Look," Draco said, striving for calm, "I didn't come here to discuss my past with anyone, *Potter* -- I only came because I wasn't offered a bloody choice in the matter. If you want a heart-to-heart chat with someone, go and whine to Weasley awhile."
"Can't." Was that a glint of pleasure in Harry's eyes? Draco hadn't realized Harry had become so... so sadistic. In any other circumstance, it would be highly gratifying. "Ron's busy with other stuff."
"Granger, then."
"She's busy, too."
"Have all little Potty's friends abandoned him, then?"
Harry shook his head, smiling a bit, refusing utterly to be baited. "They're busy *together*," he said demurely, just before that mild, heart-stopping smile became positively wicked. "Didn't you notice the wedding ring?"
"I was a bit preoccupied at the time." /So Granger finally went and did it,/ he mused. /Never would have figured either of them for the marrying type -- never would have figured that they could stand each other for five minutes./
"Three years ago in July," Harry added helpfully, still grinning. "I never thought they'd do it, myself, but they *did*, and I'm happy for them. Ron's settled down a lot since they've been together."
Draco sniffed, thinking of the almost casual display of muscle and good looks Weasley had offered him last night. "If you could call how he behaved last night 'settled down.' I don't think I've seen a man try to crawl up my shirt like that. At least not since school, and he didn't even know what he was *doing*."
"Ron's a tease. He can't help it."
"It's probably inherited." Draco hoped that Harry would let the veiled reference to Weasley's family slide, and to his relief, Harry did. The relief was short-lived, though, as Harry returned to the attack.
"Look, I want answers, *Draco*," Harry said in the tone of voice that commanded instant attention. It didn't have the arresting resonance of Severus' voice, but Draco found himself listening nonetheless. "You could have killed me that night -- I saw you. You were going to do it, and I knew I couldn't do anything to stop you. I still know that I couldn't have done anything to save myself, and I'm willing to bet you know that too. But you didn't, and I want to know why." He paused, then seeing something on Draco's face, added: "And don't even try the line about the wand. I don't want to hear it. Why did you spare me?"
"I didn't come here to be interrogated," Draco muttered, getting to his feet.
"What? Do you honestly think you're going anywhere?" Harry demanded. He stood up as well, although the action was very obviously labored. "I don't think the Aurors are just going to let you waltz out of here."
"They'll certainly pack *you* out of here quickly enough. Precious Potter consorting with the enemy and all."
"Oh, for..." Harry bit off the obscenity just before Draco caught all of it, but it was enough to make him happy that he had managed to snap some of Potter's newfound control. "Look, I'm not after some deep cosmic truth, Malfoy" -- so, the surnames were back, Draco thought -- "I just want to know what made you not kill me that night. I thought you *hated* me, and I'm sure killing me would have put you way up there on Voldemort's list."
"You're right," Draco said tightly, gripping the bedpost for dear life. He had to hold onto it or he would explode, or jump on Potter and kill him -- or possibly do something else to shut him up. "I did hate you -- I *do* hate you. And the Dark Lord would have bloody well kissed *my* ass for doing him a favor, instead of the other way around. But I didn't and, for the love of God, don't ask me that question again."
"Why not?" Harry asked.
"What part of 'don't ask me that question again' didn't get there?" /Does he not get the point? I don't want to talk about it! Will the man not shut up?/ He was worse than Granger with her endless questions and nitpicking lectures. For the first time in a long time, Draco felt invigorated, with fury coursing hotly through his blood. "Now, *Potter*," he said, enunciating each word, "you have exactly ten seconds to change back and get out that window, or go through the door, I don't care, before I get the Aurors in here and tell them that you're trying to kill me and violate my amnesty terms."
"Are you sure you should tell them that? They might want to help."
"Look... leave, okay? Just *leave*."
Finally, some of Draco's desperation penetrated Harry's humorous reserve. The green eyes darkened a little in something that may or may not have been contrition -- Draco preferred to think of it as disappointment -- and Harry nodded and offered a mumbled apology that Draco didn't accept. Draco watched in silence as his one-time nemesis changed back into his hawk form and flew out the window, and when he was gone, Draco very nearly fell over with relief even as he cursed Potter's tenacity, and his own cowardice.
* * *
Weasley -- no, *Ron* -- came to collect him for breakfast a little later, explaining that due to an unforeseen house-elf strike (fictional, naturally, but Draco suspected Weasley didn't want to be carting Draco his meals three times every day), Draco would be eating in the Great Hall.
"Are you sure that's wise? I might incite a riot."
Ron favored him with a smile that was only marginally patronizing. "Oh, the whole school already knows you're here -- although they don't know why. Auror business and all that." His voice deepened in a failed attempt to sound imposing and mysterious. "And McGonagall's already said that the first person to complain will spend the rest of his or her life in detention. 'Mr. Malfoy was cleared of all charges relating to his role in the war' was what she said, 'and whoever sees fit to defame his character or cause trouble over his presence here will pay for it.'"
Despite himself, Draco was impressed. It reminded him, although rather distantly, of Snape's description of what Dumbledore had gone through to get a reformed Death Eater on the Hogwarts' staff, and the bitter gratitude he had for the man. Snape hated being beholden to anybody. So did Draco. It had been an early bonding point between teacher and student, one of many they had found in their time together. Severus had been a friend... a real, honest-to-hell friend by seventh year. He had understood why Draco had joined his father, although he didn't wholly approve, but still... "Necessity," the older man had said. "If you do what you feel you have to do, then you can't blame yourself for doing it."
It was how he had survived, Severus had explained later. It's how you live with yourself.
And now Severus was dead, and Draco was alone in his old school, feeling very much a stranger as Ron Weasley stalked alongside him, glowering at the curious and occasionally vindictive faces of the students they passed in the hallway. Whispers followed them, low and insidious, and something else, too, although it definitely wasn't a whisper: it was loud, obnoxious, and thoroughly unwelcome.
"LOOKIE LOOKIE!" Peeves swooped down out of nowhere, pelting Ron and Draco with some poor student's stolen Gobstones. "It's ickle Draco-waco and Ronniekins! How *ista* doing, Dracy?" He flipped over and peered at Draco upside-down, grinning maniacally. "Is you here for vacation, then?" he asked sweetly.
"Beat it, Peeves," Ron growled, reaching for his wand.
"Yes, sir, your Aurorness, sir," Peeves said obediently. He zoomed away, shrieking "DRACO MALFOY HAS RETURNED! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! DRACO MALFOY'S BACK! FLEE! FLEE! FLEEEEEEE!!!!" as he went. Despite Ron's death glares at the few stunned people in the hallways, the damage was done, and they stared at Draco as if he were Voldemort in the flesh before scurrying away.
"I've lost my appetite," Draco muttered, half-turning to go back. Not surprisingly, Ron's hand shot out and closed in the folds of Draco's robes.
"No, you haven't," Ron said with deceptive lightness. "You're coming to eat breakfast with the rest of us."
"What's it to you if I do or not?" Reluctantly, Draco fell back into step next to Ron. "It's no bloody skin off *your* back if I eat in my room."
"McGonagall's pulling a Dumbledore on us," was Ron's answer, which earned a slight grin from Draco. "Something about accepting reform in our midst, I think she said. And she brought up Snape, so I knew she was serious."
The support of Minerva McGonagall, of all people, was surprising and a little humbling, and Draco dwelt on this as they walked through the teachers' entry into the Great Hall and climbed the dais. It kept him mercifully distracted as he shook hands with his old teachers and managed through nearly tripping Flitwick to avoid Harry, and as he tried not to wilt under the combined pressure of hundreds of curious student eyes. McGonagall refrained from offering any Dumbledore-esque speeches, and the meal passed by in a terrible, strained sort of silence.
As a result, Draco's eggs and ham were generating an unhappy foment deep in his stomach as he slunk back to his room. Harry had left breakfast right off, saying something about having to get ready for lessons but looking at Draco the entire time, in a way that said lessons were the last thing on his mind. Just thinking about that look, those green eyes, made Draco's breakfast want to come right back up -- something that would hardly be good, considering he had the codex of Severus Snape's diaries in his lap.
/What were you hiding, Severus?/ he silently asked the book, which did not answer him. /What *are* you hiding?/
Ron had told him that a simple lock kept the codex secure, and that was easily disabled with the Alohomora charm. /*This* is how they treat classified information?/
Then Draco saw the blank pages, and he realized that there wasn't much need for security when it came to an apparently empty diary. Still... there were diaries, and there were diaries, and one of the most deadly ones ever had been in his father's possession for many years until it had been given to a girl -- the Weasley girl, of all the wonderful, ironical things in the world. The devastation it, or the soul behind it, had wrought had been unbelievable. It still was.
Carefully, Draco dipped a quill into a bottle of ink and wrote in minute print in the top corner of the first page, "Hello?"
There was no answer. He waited for a good few minutes, but nothing came, and the small, squared letters remained where they were. Sighing, he pulled out his wand, tapped the page and said, feeling somewhat foolish, "Revalere secretum!"
Nothing happened. The blank page stared up at him tauntingly.
He cycled through all the various tricks he knew, with the pernicious knowledge that if trained Ministry cryptowizards and arithmancers couldn't figure out how to break the code --
Wait. Ron had specifically said that there was *code*. That meant that there was something written, something that would have to be decoded (obviously.) Had Ron forgotten to mention how to even see what was written? Draco sifted through his memories of their few previous conversations and couldn't remember the subject coming up. It was a glaring and irritating oversight, one easily corrected by hunting for Ron throughout the halls of Hogwarts, which was not an appealing option. /I'll have to figure something out./
Absently, Draco reached to swipe off a bit of extra Revelation Solution off the parchment. Just as his hand brushed across the surface of it, he saw a tiny bit of black, the stem of a letter.
Excitement flared in him and he rubbed the parchment briskly, revealing, yes, there it was, writing -- Severus' obnoxiously tiny, precise writing. Severus had explained to him the reason for it: as a student in Potions, he usually had several people trying to cheat off him, so he learned to write small, but write neatly, as measurements and specific instructions had to be absolutely unambiguous. The words those neat letters formed were totally foreign, nothing Draco had ever seen.
Yet... they were familiar, tugging a bit at Draco's memory. At the very top corner, almost obscured by his own writing until a banishing charm erased it, was a tiny line of print, a series of symbols used by only one man in the world -- used by one but known by two, because Severus had taught them to Draco late in his sixth year.
It was his private shorthand for potions recipes, another result of his student career. Draco remembered the day during a private tutoring session that was mostly just an excuse to talk, when Severus had brought it up. He had given Draco a long list of the letters, numbers, and symbols he employed -- all of which represented measurements, ingredients, and directions -- and insisted that he memorize them. When Draco asked for a reason why he was given extra homework, Severus had flatly refused to give him one.
/Severus./ He found it difficult to think of the man as Professor Snape or just Snape. After the end of sixth year, Severus had instructed Draco to call him by his first name. Again, no reason was given. But had he hoped just a bit, Draco wondered, that his diary would be found by the one person who might get some use out of it?
Reaching for his quill again, Draco began a careful translation of the shorthand, Severus' other-language flowing back into his brain as if he were staring at the page he'd learned from. By the time he finished and checked his work, all thought of Harry had vanished and he only wondered where he would get Highland asphodel at this time of year -- the flowers, Severus had always said, were notoriously difficult to find.