A/N: This'll be quick.
Summary: Why is everything suddenly a lie?
Review: Yes, please.
Sane: No.
Too much fun with color and font: Yes. Oh, yes. ^_~
Enjoy: Yes. Please do.
Special thanks to: My Beta-Reader Beth Brownell, My Inspiration Sierra (yes, part of the plot here was her idea), and my Sounding Board Virgo, who helped me make everything make sense. Yes, this actually makes some form of sense, somehow. ^_^
# # #
A flower for your vanity
A penny for your thoughts,
About the world's insanity
And how we've gotten lost.
Strike up the band and play a song as we go waltzing by,
And fake a smile as we all say goodbye.
Goodbye... Goodbye...
Say a prayer for recognition,
Kiss the ones you love.
Gather up the ammunition,
Sigh for all the lost.
Strike up the band and play a song as we go waltzing by,
And fake a smile as we all say goodbye...
Goodbye... Goodbye...
# # #
The moon glittered in radiant waves through the ebony sky, which trickled down through Harry's infirmary window onto his bed. The light was thin and weak, however, and he didn't wake.
No, the thing that woke him was a vibration sending shockwaves through his arm and up to his brain.
"Potter!" A voice sliced through the glimmering silence to torture his eardrums. "Potter, wake up!"
"Malfoy, I swear to God," Harry said, heaving himself up on his elbows. "How did you get into the Gryffindor..."
It took little more than a second to realize that he, was not, technically, in the Gryffindor dorms. He was in a place that had nearly become a second home for him - the infirmary. Malfoy was sitting at the foot of his bed, wrapped in a stark blue satin nightrobe, looking at him through a pair of sleep-calmed eyes.
It was then the Potion incident of earlier caught up with Harry. He had to shut his eyes as boiling red anger swept through him, but he quickly let it ebb, as it made his head throb. His elbows gave in from under him and he flopped back onto his white bed. "It's the middle of the night," he said instead. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Malfoy held his pale hand up to the moonlight and rubbed his index finger, like he was inspecting it for flaw. "It's not like I could come and see you during visiting hours," he drawled.
Harry breathed deeply before answering. "Why are you here at all?" Without waiting for an answer, he plunged on to the next inquiry, "What did you do to me?"
"You got too close to the fire in the Potions room," Malfoy said, turning his head so the moonlight illuminated the back of his head like tinsel. "Your robes caught on fire."
"For what it's worth," Harry said, still laying down, "your father is a Death Eater, no matter what you say."
There was a creak and a depression of the bed lifted as Malfoy got up. "I know," he replied, walking beside Harry's headboard and twisting a few knobs. Harry made a frantic effort to leap out of the bed, but he was retracted by the pain on his back. He fell backwards, but was pushed to a sitting position, because Malfoy was raising the back of the bed. "There's just no reason for me to admit it in front of the rest of Hogwarts."
Dazed, partway because of all the blood that was washing away from his head from being in a lying position for so long, Harry looked at the other boy. "That was easy," he remarked. "I somehow expected a long, involved argument."
Malfoy raised his eyebrows. "Look," he said pointedly, "can I just get back to what I want to say here?"
"I'm not stopping you."
Malfoy dragged over a stool and took out a piece of folded parchment, a small vial of ink, and a very folded, squashed quill, all three of which he handed to Harry. "Then you can write my mother a letter."
"What?!"
To Harry's surprise, Malfoy flushed a light shade of pink. "Just do it, Potter."
Harry made the means to dip into the ink and pretended to write on the paper. "Dear Mum," he read in a high, drawling voice, "I have just wrote to tell you I've come upon the idea that I'm the biggest prat in the known universe (and probably the unknown too), that I had to wake up my archival (who was injured and sleeping in the infirmary, no less), to write you a letter."
Spidery hands gripped him by his hair and yanked his head back, exposing the pale, venerable skin there. "Do you know how easy it would be," Malfoy's strained voice informed him, "to take this quill-" there was a sharp pressure just above Harry's Adam's apple "-and just press?"
"And do you know how easy it would be to go to Azkaban for the rest of your life for doing that?" Harry asked, sounding braver than he felt.
The hands released, and Harry massaged his neck, while Malfoy threw the quill at him. It bounced harmlessly off his chest and landed in his lap. "No dementor could drive me as insane as you," he sneered, resting his hands on his thighs, hooking his ankles around the rungs of the stool. "I need you to write it because I have no idea what to say."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, placing the writing materials on the nightstand.
"What do I write? 'Dear Mother, I just need to know, am I related to the Boy Who Lived?"
Harry winced at the bite Malfoy said his epithet with. "I hadn't thought about that."
"Obviously," Malfoy muttered, rubbing his mussed hair back with a hand.
"What if we said it was for a project?" asked Harry, picking at his chin thoughtfully. "What are your electives?"
"Advanced Potions, Theory of Magic, Arithmancy."
"Theory of Magic?" Harry asked, appalled. "With Professor Binns?"
"The very same."
"Now I see why you're so messed up. I can't believe you willingly signed up to be tortured like that. That's one of the two classes even Hermione refuses to take!"
"Thanks Potter," Malfoy drawled sarcastically. "And if you must know, Father insisted on it. And what the mudblood takes has no effect on me, thank you."
In one fluid motion, Harry had taken the vial of ink, tore off the top, and flung the contents at Malfoy, who was now covered in blue ink. "Never," he said tersely, "ever call Hermione that in my presence. She is worth about fifty of you, for your information."
Malfoy didn't respond, instead launched himself at Harry, knocking him hard in the gut, driving him back into the soft mattress. Harry gasped for breath, then threw Malfoy back against the metal bedframe, which hit his skull with a loud clang, making the bed retract into the lying position.
The doorknob to the infirmary twisted; the mechanisms for the door creaked.
"Damn!" Harry cried, dropping his grip on Malfoy's left ankle and instead shoved him under the blankets.
"What the hell?!" Malfoy's voice demanded, muffled by the mattress as Harry pushed him further down. "Don't you even think about trying anything, Potter!"
"Shut your trap!" Harry said in a snippy voice. "Somebody's coming, just shut the hell up!"
"Harry?" asked Madam Pomfrey, poking her head in the door. Harry instantly pretended to be asleep, and he felt Malfoy tense under the blankets, curling into a ball.
"Uhh?" Harry asked, from his lying position. He knew that he didn't look convincing at all - he was covered in blue from his sparring with Malfoy - but he hoped she attuned it to nighttime shadows. He blearily hauled himself to a sitting position. "What's going on?"
"I heard some noise... is anybody in here with you?"
Harry felt hands lock around his ankle. Harry could easily say yes. Disturbing a person in the infirmary at nighttime - even more so, fighting with a person in the infirmary - was grounds for questionless expulsion. The hands tightened when Harry didn't give an immediate 'no'.
"I was dreaming," Harry said, shrugging. "I might have been moving around... why?"
"Huh," Madam Pomfrey said in a skeptical voice. Harry saw the glimmer of a candle behind the billow of nightrobes, and Harry prayed that she wouldn't come in. "Well, I don't know... do you need anything?"
"No, I'd like to sleep, though, if it's not too bothersome."
"Of course not. Good night, Harry."
"Night, Madam Pomfrey."
The door closed, and Malfoy's hands left Harry's ankles. Malfoy stayed where he was for a moment, making sure that the nurse wasn't coming back, before popping his head out from underneath the covers. He was drenched in sweat, and gasping in gulps of air.
"God, it's hot as hell under there," he said.
"Yes, and that would explain why you're shaking still," Harry said sourly, looking down at his white hospital gown, which was covered in blue ink.
"Shut up," Malfoy replied, taking deep, calming breaths.
Harry rolled out of the bed, landing on shaky knees, and feeling bolts of pain shoot through his back. "Thank you, Potter," he said in the high, drawling voice again, "for not expelling me."
"I don't sound like that." Malfoy rolled out of bed too, his blue satin nightrobe stained with darker blue spots. "Shit. You had to throw the ink, didn't you? You couldn't have just attempted to punch me or something." He looked up and pulled off the robe, revealing a pair of nightpants, which were also stained. Making a face, Malfoy looked at the skin on his chest, which also had traces of blue. "God damn it to hell."
"You have a very nasty mouth," Harry yawned, stripping the bed of its white-stained-blue sheets. "I think Pomfrey has cleaning solutions."
Malfoy balled up his nightrobe. "What were you saying about my electives?"
Harry dumped the bedding into a clean bedpan and opened a cupboard, wincing as it hurt to reach so far up. "You could say you were doing a project on your family tree, and you needed information from your mother's side of the family. Can you reach that green jar? Yeah, that one."
"It looks like honey," Malfoy commented, prying the top off of the jar. He handed the jar to Harry, who read it. It was labeled 'Cloth Cleaning Carryon'. Harry dumped half of it onto the clothing, as Malfoy tossed his nightrobe in. "But what if she doesn't want to give it, or doesn't give real information? If she doesn't want me to know, she's not going to let me."
Harry scrubbed at a spot on the pillowcase. "I assume you haven't told your family about this idea of yours. I'm not doing all the scrubbing you know, I think you can afford to get your pristine hands dirty."
"Rot in hell," Malfoy said conversationally, picking up his robe and rubbing at a spot. "No, I haven't."
"Well, she's probably not going to think that you're working with me on this," Harry said.
"I know your mother's name is Lily. Maybe she won't want me to make the connection."
Harry sighed and picked up the now-clean sheets, as the cleaning solution had sunk into it. "There's going to be spots on the mattress, but there's not much we can do about that - I don't want Pomfrey noticing too much of her cleaning stuff gone." He looked at Malfoy. "I have an aunt named Petunia. I don't think she'd count on you knowing that. Besides, there are probably other people in this world named Lily." He sighed. "Look, it's late, and that's the best I can come up with."
Malfoy put on his cleaned robe and sighed. "All right, I'll try... though I'm not promising anything."
And with that he left. Harry wearily watch the door slide shut behind him, and then lock itself, like all of the other doors in the school. Slowly he re-made his bed, before drawing the curtains shut, so the moon's shiny eye wouldn't keep him awake by gazing on him. The last thought Harry had before he slept was if he had remembered to do his Divination homework.
# # #
It didn't take Harry long to get out of the infirmary. Of course, all of the Gryffindors pounced on him immediately, asking if Malfoy had really pushed him in the fire. Naturally, outside of his house, Malfoy was not a very popular person, and therefore this was prime chance to throw him in detention for a month or two, and perhaps even get entertained by a Howler from Lucius Malfoy.
To their great disappointment, however, Harry denied all of the charges against Malfoy. I tripped over my own feet, my bookbag was in the way, I ran into the table and fell over it, and so on. This constant denial was driving Ron up the walls.
"What are you trying to do, covering for Malfoy?!" Ron finally yelled in exasperation. "Are you his best friend, or something now?"
"I think you're overreacting a bit," Hermione observed calmly, looking up from her parchment. A three-scroll parchment was due on the many uses of belladonna root aside from poison next hour, and Hermione already had filled two and a half scrolls with tiny, pristine script. She peered over the table at Harry's. "I suggest you finish your essay, unless you want to get detention from Snape."
Ron was filling his second sheet of parchment with sloppy, angry, scrawling handwriting, slanting all over the page and varying in size. "What does it matter?" asked Ron angrily, "He's spending all of his time with the Slytherin peanut gallery anyhow!"
"Ron, I fell over!" Harry cried, shaking his quill emotionally, splattering black ink all over Hermione's essay. "Malfoy had nothing to do with it!"
This was, of course, a lie, and Ron knew it.
"Like he would cover for you! What is the matter with you?"
Harry was spared from answering when the late bell rang. Cursing and spluttering, the threesome gathered their things in armfuls and sprinted down the many staircases and ramps to the dungeons. Oh, they were in for it now... Snape was going to have a field day with this...
Malfoy was waiting for them at the entry of the Potion room. He was leaning up against the large doorframe, chewing on a sprig of flaxweed, the long green stalk rotating as his teeth crunched down on it.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" spat Ron, clutching a leaking quill pen to his chest. Malfoy pulled the blade farther into his mouth, chewing it reflectively for a moment.
"Come on," he said, stepping in the doorframe. Harry looked at the other two, shrugged, and followed. Hermione followed Harry, and Ron, still dripping ink and anger, followed last.
Malfoy lead the three right past Snape, by the Gryffindor side of the room, his hands in his pockets and still chewing the flaxweed. Ron and Hermione discreetly slid into their seats, and Malfoy pushed Harry down into a stool next to him, folding his hands on the desk angelically.
Snape said nothing to them, only looked slightly infuriated when he didn't mark them all tardy.
Both the Gryffindor and Slytherin sides of the room were utterly surprised and appalled by this strange turn of rivalry. First, Malfoy keeps the Slytherin posse from ganging up on Harry, then Harry covers for Malfoy when Malfoy obviously pushes him into the fire, and now Malfoy saves his three archrivals from months of possibly humiliating detention.
What the hell? was the general consensus.
But there wasn't much time for talk, as Snape soon put them to work on their Polyjuice potions. Harry sat down and started pulling antennae off of the luna moths.
"Thanks," Harry said awkwardly, as Malfoy tugged the lid off of their simmering cauldron, the contents of which were an off shade of brown.
"Do we have any more lacewings?" asked Malfoy, dismissing the gratitude. "We don't have enough in here."
"Did you write the letter?" asked Harry, handing over the paper bag, which had held the bugs. It was empty.
Malfoy nodded his head towards the student supply cabinet, and they both walked off, heads close together in conference.
"I think they've gotten knocked with Bludgers too many times," commented Ron, fuming as he sloshed the potion around violently with his stirrer.
"I don't know what's going on," said Blaise Zambini, who was working with Neville on account of they were the last two people without partners. Blaise could actually be a reasonable person at times, though she held deep resentment for Lavender Brown. "Those two are normally at each other's throats."
The Gryffindors murmured agreement, before bending over their potions when Snape swooped around the room.
"So, when should I send it?" asked Malfoy, who held the sealed letter in his hand. Harry rummaged idly through the back of the counter, making himself look busy.
"I wish you hadn't sealed it," Harry muttered.
"Just because you saved me from being expelled doesn't mean that you can read my post," Malfoy pointed out, pushing the letter back in his pocket. "But I told you the gist." He looked at Harry squarely. "Just to prove you're very, very wrong."
Harry shook his head and sighed, pulling out a handful of dried lacewings. "Believe me, I would hate being right."
# # #
Musical notes ran rampant over the page like tiny little ants. Narcissa was reminded fondly when she and some of her friends would get together and play out a few tunes, just for the sheer fun of eating chocolate ice cream by the pound, joking and talking. Then, with sudden intensity, they would dig into the strings, rosin dust flying in the air, and ream out some of the most beautiful music in the world - or so they were concerned. They even composed some songs. They were going to be famous.
Then Louise moved to America, Tamara got married and couldn't play anymore, and Susan was killed in the uprising of Voldemort. Narcissa hadn't heard from the former two in years. She was pretty sure she was the only one still actually playing, though she didn't know why.
"E flat minor," she muttered to herself, running her splendid long fingers over the notes, and tugging on the strings of her cello. They were in perfect tune, the wood polished and shiny, from her own care. She would never let any of the house elves take care of her instrument - it didn't matter. Her cello - named Chip for the slight imperfection in the side - was the only thing that was truly hers.
She was about to start the first chord, when an owl swerved in the open window, and landed on the music stand, shattering her concentration.
Pursing her lips, she took the letter, and scanned it. It was from Draco, important enough for her to place Chip on its side and devote her attention away from the music for a moment.
Mother -
Hogwarts is so dreadfully boring, I'm sorry to say. Nothing really new to report on anything - you may as well inform Father of that as well, nothing of interest to him or his Death Eaters. No sign of Voldemort, and Harry Potter is proving as impossible as ever.
Anyway, I wrote to inform you of the incredibly boring Professor Binns's assignment I have to do for Theory of Magic class. (Remind me to give Father an earful next time I see him for insisting I take that boring class. Actually, keep that remark to yourself. I'd rather him not read that.)
I have to have information on my mother's side of the family for a family tree project, or some other rot. I've never really asked you much about your past, and it's rather embarrassing that I had to ask for an extension on the project because I didn't know anything about your past. Here's a copy of the rubric:
Is he/she a muggle born?
Is anybody on her side of the family a squib?
Did she go to Hogwarts? Did she finish her education?
What house was she in, if yes? If no, where did she go for education?
Did her siblings (if any) go to Hogwarts? If yes, how many attended, and what houses?
What was her maiden name?
Thank you, Mother.
Sincerely yours,
Draco
"Is it from Draco?" Lucius Malfoy asked, walking into the room, cocking his head in interest.
"No," Narcissa said, crumpling the letter up and sighing. "It's from Rene, asking if I'd like to go over for dinner tonight." She rubbed her forehead dramatically, careful of her eyeliner. "I don't think that I'd like to go. I've got a headache."
"Could be because you play with this thing all day," Lucius commented, sitting down and picking up the cello with the wrong hand.
Narcissa smiled and walked behind her husband, leaning over and gently switching the hand he held the cello with. "I do it to annoy you."
"Anyway," Lucius said, setting the instrument down and sighing, "I'm going out on business for the Ministry."
"For how long?"
"Three days. I'm leaving after dinner."
"All right. Anything you'd like me to take care of while you're gone?"
"Not a thing." Lucius heaved out of the chair and kissed his wife on the cheek. "You just stay here and be your lovely self."
"Flatterer," accused Narcissa as he walked out of the room. When he had left, Narcissa quickly turned around and tossed the letter from her son into the flames.
Contrary to what most people thought, Lucius was not the hard person he appeared to be at home. True, his manners with other people left something to be desired, and he was as stubborn as a pig, but he always was loving to her.
As long as she didn't make him angry, that was.
He had only hit her once, and that was in a drunken rage, and he kept on calling her 'Pansy', and then afterwards dissolved into a puddle of hot tears, asking 'Pansy' why she let him do this, and what was his father going to say?
It was strange, really. She felt so sorry for him that she sat up with him all night until the house elves finally found the recipe for a sobering potion, that took Narcissa and three house elves to get him to drink. Then he fell asleep, and didn't wake up for three days.
Strange, strange, strange.
What skeletons do we have hiding in our closets? wondered Narcissa, taking out a sheet of parchment and wetting the tip of a quill. She had to tell him someday. Well, she could tell him half of it. The other half would break his heart, and she and Lucius had vowed never to tell him, anyhow.
# # #
One day passed. Then two, then three, then four, and then Harry decided he needed to find other ways to occupy his time rather than scanning the skies constantly for Malfoy's mother's reply. He would go insane otherwise.
The third Quidditch match was to take place on the fifth day of waiting, and Harry wasn't too sure if he could cope with anything competitive. Battling off a headache and a sick, albeit giddy feeling.
If it was true that he was related to Malfoy, then that meant that he had other relatives. After the last few years with the Dursleys, he found that he was willing to do anything to get out of there for the long summer months. Perhaps Narcissa would be nice, he thought with sick hope. Then he shook his head.
What is the matter with me? I'm not related to Malfoy! he thought as he gently rubbed the fourteenth coat of polish into his broom. Finally, Fred Weasley grabbed it away.
"You're going to slip off of it if you polish it any more," he chided. "We're considering an assault on Snape tomorrow - want to join, yes?"
Harry screwed the top back onto the jar of broom polish. "Not especially," he said, getting up. Fred grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back in the chair rather forcefully.
"What's wrong?" asked Fred, holding the broomstick in his lap. "You haven't been yourself lately. Everybody's worried about you. Are you sick, or something?"
Harry muttered incoherently. Fred shook his shoulder.
"Seriously, Harry."
"That's a new attitude for you," Harry snapped, pulling out of his grip. "How does it fit? Do you prefer it or the red version?"
Fred watched with a bemused look as Harry strode angrily out of the common room. Ron popped out of the boy's dormitory, hands on hips.
"I told you so," Ron said, motioning towards the door that Harry had just stormed out of. "Something's funny."
Fred, who still had Harry's broomstick, shrugged. "Maybe he knows about you and Cho," he said blandly.
Ron's brown eyes widened to the size of dinner platters, and he had to stomp his foot to get any words to come out of his mouth. "How does everybody know about that?" he demanded angrily. "My life is my life, and nobody else's business!"
Fred watched him, amused, before jerking his thumb in the direction of the portrait hole, which Harry left through. "Well, did you ever consider that his life is his life, and nobody else's business?"
"This is different. He's becoming weird!"
"He'll become even weirder when he finds out that you're going with Cho," Fred commented, standing up and stretching, still holding the broomstick. 'Have you seen George around? We need to go to Hogsmeade for dungbombs and fireworks. Care to come?"
"There's a match in a half hour," Ron reminded him. "I'm going to that. And no, I haven't seen George since breakfast."
"That's right," Fred said, about the match. "He's probably out at the field - better have saved me my broom... or I'll just have to use this beauty." He twirled Harry's broom like a baton. "Gryffindor-Slytherin, right?"
"Unless Harry and Malfoy decide to go have tea together and discuss things, then yes," Ron snapped.
# # #
It wasn't until the dark green cloud of uniforms flooded the Quidditch field did Harry realize whom he was going to be up against. His heart sank to his feet.
"Okay," said George, who had several little flying Quidditch players hovering over a tiny Quidditch field. "We're going to play tri-star this game." The flying figures swerved around each other in a three-star shape.
Harry really didn't have to listen, so he didn't. Strategies were for the Beaters and the Chasers on scoring points and defending. They had nothing to do with the Seeker, unless they needed him to bounce a Bludger off of. That actually was part of one of the strategies, a rather painful one dubbed galactic.
"Good luck," Katie Bell said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. Alicia Spinnet knocked him on the back in a friendly manner, and Angelina Johnson punched his glasses off his face accidentally. It was the custom of the three Chasers to give Harry a half-hearted beating before they resumed their position.
Harry saw Malfoy's thin body near the back of the Slytherin lineup, his silver-blonde hair flying around his head like a halo as he looked intently at the sky. Harry's lips turned up into a smile - he wasn't looking for the Snitch - he was looking for his mother's reply.
The whistle blew, and the four balls were let out of their respective cages, the quaffle flying straight into the arms of a Slytherin Chaser, and the two Bludgers flew straight at George Weasley, who batted them away towards the Chaser.
The Snitch zipped quickly out of sight. Harry dipped around sleepily in a haze, gazing upwards in an attempt to look for the Snitch.
"HARRY LOOK OUT!" bellowed Angelina. After this belated remark, a Bludger knocked Harry solidly in the side. Luckily, he knew how to deal with being hit so he wouldn't get broken bones.
Throwing his weight to the side, he barrelrolled over the broom, rolling with the blow. It still hurt, though there was definitely nothing broken. Harry resolved to pay better attention.
The Snitch twinkled into sight. Harry peeled away after it, and saw Malfoy with his arms outstretched coming from the opposite direction.
Slytherin was ahead, he knew that. Instead of grabbing the Snitch too early, Harry balled his hands into fists, preparing to ram into Malfoy to keep him from getting the one hundred and fifty points so soon.
The crowd roared with anticipation. Then, just before contact, Malfoy swerved upwards. The snitch hovered three feet in front of Harry's nose. The entire crowd fell silent. What was that?
Gryffindor scored twenty points in a row. The snitch was still hovering in front of Harry's hand. He could easily take it now and count it as a victory. But it somehow didn't seem very sporting, with Malfoy not trying to sabotage him and all.
He had about five seconds before the snitch would zip away. Then he saw Malfoy's figure chasing, Seeker-style, after a large brown owl.
Forgetting the snitch, Harry pelted after Malfoy. To everybody's utter surprise, the snitch followed after Harry, hovering around his ears. Harry actually had to bat it away a few times - it was annoying him.
Malfoy had torn the letter from the owl's talons in suspense, so hard that it tore the parchment. His eyes contracted into slits as he read it, fingers trembling as they stroked down the paper. Then he blanched, leaned over the side of his broom, and vomited.
"What does it say?" asked Harry frantically, scrabbling for the paper Malfoy held in his left hand. "What does it say?"
He had a pretty good idea, however. While Malfoy was otherwise occupied by heaving over the side of his broom, Harry snatched the paper and read the contents fearfully.
Draco -
I'm surprised you hadn't asked before. I have two sisters, Petunia and Lily. My maiden name was White. I was a Ravenclaw, though my sisters' last name was Evans. Lily was a Gryffindor. Petunia is a muggle, and Lily is deceased.
And if you haven't figured it out yet, then Professor Binns has made you duller than you can ever imagine.
And don't think you can outsmart your mother - she's who gave you your brains, dearest. You've been talking to that Potter character, haven't you? Darling, write me back if there is any confusion.
Love in the highest regard,
Mother
No. No. No. No.
The thoughts bounced around his brain like -
No..
- a broken record player. It wasn't true. It couldn't be -
No. No. No. No.
- it just wasn't possible. But there it was, as plain as -
No.
- day. And Narcissa knew about it all along? But -
No. No. No.
- why didn't she tell Draco, at least? Draco who was her -
No. No.
- son?
No.
The thoughts of reason and inquisition were caught in the tangled shards of denial as the world spun. Harry had to hold onto his broom to avoid falling off. Malfoy was still hanging over the side of his broom, though he had been reduced to dry retching by now. Cousins?
NO!
The snitch was still hovering curiously around his earlobes, a tiny golden spark flitting around the edges of his glasses. Harry swatted at it again.
A crazy black finger knifed into his face, pointing at his nose. Malfoy, who looked utterly insane, foaming at the mouth and watery eyes screamed at him.
"You are not related to me!" he cried crazily, flecks of spit flying from his mouth. "I - I don't care what you... it's NOT TRUE!"
He went hurtling towards the forbidden forest, and Harry watched him, frozen, crash into the leafy growth somewhere in the middle of it. Harry's eyes began to hurt, so he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
The snitch, impatient, landed smack in his palm. Harry's fingers closed over it, still rubbing his eyes.
He had forgotten the game in his confusion. Alicia Spinnet flew alongside him, looking concerned and quite confused. "Harry?" she asked.
Harry flashed the winged sphere in her face. "I caught the snitch," he announced.
Then the headache caught up to him, and he fainted, falling off the broom and towards the ground.
# # #
Raise a glass for ignorance,
Drink a toast to fear.
The beginning of the end has come,
That's why we all are here.
Strike up the band and play a song as we go marching by,
And fake a smile as we all say goodbye...
Goodbye... Goodbye...
~Jars of Clay, 'Goodbye, Goodnight'