A/N: Mwahahahahaha! Less dialogue in this one than was probably in a single page in the other ones. But there's a lot of thoughts from our protagonist and antagonist. Man, I love Draco. He's so fun. Harry's just… eh. The Peter I refer to when Draco's talking is not Pettigrew, it's Peter from the Bible. I myself have fun inserting random religious references into what is supposedly pagan literature. But here you go, here's the chapter. Hurry up and read… *Awful Trelawney impression* I see… I see… I see snogs in your future! Oh wait, that's just in the fanfic…
Read, damn you!
Trapped
Harry Potter
He stayed to his promise. He didn't say a word to any of us, didn't even attempt to provoke Ron.
I had hurt him, even so, and I felt like an absolute prat.
He wasn't an arrogant rich snot. Well, okay, maybe he was an arrogant rich snot, but there was more to him than that. I had seen it in his eyes.
God, why did things have to get so damn complicated?
I kept seeing the guarded look, furious, that he gave me in Transfiguration when I... hell, there's no way to dress it up, I blackmailed him. Even that bland look he had after that night spoke volumes; now, though, he was blocking me out. And he was surprisingly good at it.
Now, at lunch the next day, I was watching him out of the corner of my eye. Why? I didn't know, really. It wasn't fear. He wouldn't hurt me, because then I would tell, and his family-- I bet they'd be furious at him for "shaming the family name."
Me, though... ha, I never got the chance to shame my family.
It was more of a morbid curiosity. Like picking at a scab--okay, definitely the wrong metaphor there--like Pandora's box. What's going on in his head? Let me peek... I want to see.
Ron hadn't shut up about what he thought I had said to Draco. "Did you say something about his family? Did you tell him you knew about..." he strained his memory. "The room under the drawing room floor, that's right? Am I right?"
I sighed. "Ron, does it matter? You see the effect."
The only effective lie is a good one.
I am an awful liar, mind you, but for some reason that little blackmail lie was one of the rare ones that stuck. Those tears I thought I saw on his face could have been real, I figured, and even if they weren't I'd spread the rumour once I threatened him with it. Either way, I'd win.
It was devious. It was not a Gryffindor thing to do. I was a little proud of that.
I never actually thought he'd believe me and trust me. Though this was the desired effect, I never thought it would work as well as it was working.
And still one tiny brain cell of mine was cruelly laughing among the pitying ones. He cried. He admitted to it. I can't believe he actually admitted to it...
I didn't like to think of myself as a bleeding-heart, but I didn't want to be cruel, either. Two years ago, I saved Wormtail and allowed him to later escape and rejoin Voldemort.
I should have let him die, the pathetic rat. The sniveling, inhuman creature who I saved out of pity.
I glanced at Malfoy suddenly, thinking of Pettigrew, and I saw similarities. The same pleading look in the face of Pettigrew two years ago in the Shrieking Shack was on Malfoy's face yesterday in Transfiguration.
I would eventually end up showing Malfoy mercy, too, and I damn well knew it. Because I'm not cruel and I don't like seeing people suffer.
Bad guys are allowed to be bad, but are allowed to turn good. Good guys, though, must stay firmly on the side of good, or there came the villagers with their pitchforks. Do one bad thing and no one will ever trust you again. Okay, Ron, take the scar, and the burden of being a hero. I don't want it.
Malfoy had it so easy. He could do whatever he wanted just because people expected him to. What did people expect me to do? Oh, not much, just save the world, that's all.
No wonder I was going mad. Hermione snapped under stress about an exam, and I was supposed to be calm? I was supposed to remain calm knowing that Voldemort was out there, murdering and terrorizing while I sat here, under almost perfect safety?
I was supposed to be normal?
I wanted to apologize. My conscience crying out for me to relieve Draco of the anguish I had given him.
That twinge of revenge sat smugly in my conscience among the searing fire of shame and refused to be ignored. I'm only human; that twinge was normal.
I'm only human, but I'm trapped as a hero. And heroes can't make mistakes.
Draco Malfoy
Potter had me in the corner mentally and emotionally, and I didn't like it at all.
Had to block him out, or else I'd go insane knowing that he had power over me. Had to ignore him or I'd humiliate myself even worse than he could.
I hated being weak, so I just ignored it. It wasn't really working, to be honest.
I couldn't even taste the lunch, and that's a lot to say for Hogwarts food. One word to describe the food there is rich. Pansy may have been trying to get my attention, and she was failing at it.
It didn't help that Potter was staring at me. What was this, some sort of game to him? No, Potter wasn't that clever or devious. That was more something I'd do.
Was he trying to drive me mad? If so, he was succeeding.
"Draco," Pansy's voice finally broke through my thoughts. "What's wrong? Why are you so far gone? Talk to me, Draco."
"I'm just thinking," I said. "It's not like I'm catatonic."
"You have been, since Transfiguration yesterday," Pansy insisted. "What did Potter say to you? Was it about the Quidditch match?"
She knew. Dammit. That was right.
"Pansy, it's not important. I just don't feel like being my usual witty self today, that's all." I smirked at her. The look on her face showed that she didn't believe a word of it.
"Whatever he said, ignore it. You're a Malfoy--" heh, she said it like it was a good thing-- "and whatever some stupid Gryffindor says doesn't matter. You have the dignity of countless generations of pure blood. Who cares what Potter says?"
The smirk dropped from my face. "You sound like my father," I said.
"No," she said. "I sound like my father. I sound like all of our fathers."
Slytherins. Sure, we're bad and all that but we're trapped in our facades and our pride. We're trapped in our stereotype and there's no way to step out, because there's nowhere else to go. Except up to the light, you think, right? Wrong.
For example, the Quidditch match. I was honestly trying to make nice when I tried to shake his hand. And just because, just because I had to uphold the Malfoy name, I had to keep the pride of our pure blood, he pushed me away. And that pissed me off, because I had thought for one fleeting moment that perhaps Potter and I could have been more than enemies.
He had dashed my hopes not once, not twice, but three times. Playing the Peter to my Jesus, denying me thrice before the cock crow. And he more than anyone else had me trapped in the Slytherin image, him with his life painted in black and white, good and evil, Potter and the Dark Lord, all that.
I left the Great Hall, ignoring Pansy, fleeing. Anger flushed my face and I couldn't keep myself from shaking.
Fuck him. Fuck him, because he had me trapped in a stereotype and with his narrow mind and good intentions, he didn't know anything. I, more than anyone, knew that there is no good and no evil.
"There is only power, and those too weak to see it." Father always said that. Potter had so much power over me it made me sick.
He had me trapped in such a range of emotions, all but indifference, the one that would allow me to ignore him. And with that power over me, he was destroying me.
I--a pureblood, a Malfoy--was trapped, and could do nothing for it.
Harry Potter
Where the hell was he?
He wasn't in the Great Hall. Pansy Parkinson, usually his shadow, was just sitting rather forlornly at the Slytherin table.
The good guy instinct had taken over. I had to find him, spare him, stand valiantly as he thanked me and I would, of course, accept his gratitude with a block of salt, because he would do it again.
The hero complex doesn't work much in real life. The pity is, when it's in your system, you can't resist it. The guilt was searing my gut and I could barely taste the food I was eating. Being a good guy was not rewarding, it was not exciting, and it was certainly not fun.
"I have to go," I said to Ron and Hermione, who were currently having a tiff about something or another. I wasn't exactly paying attention.
The next was so bizarre; they looked at me in perfect sync and said, "Where?"
"I'll explain... later," I said, feeling rather stupid. "I, um..." Ron and Hermione were still staring at me. "What?"
"All right," Hermione said. "Do it. I must admit, I preferred Malfoy being quiet, but if you want to go get him to be an annoying git again, that's your choice."
Ron stared at her now. "What?"
"It's obvious, isn't it? That's what he's going to do."
"All right," Ron said. "But make sure that you get something out of this, he's got loads of money. Blackmail is supposed to involve some contraband usually, right?"
"He is not going to extort money from Malfoy," Hermione said. She gave Ron a disapproving look. "No matter how much he may deserve it. At least get him to shut up with the pureblood-Muggleborn thing, if you can, all right, Harry?" She smiled at me, Ron grinned and gestured to the meaning of "get loads of Galleons."
"I hate being so obvious." I got up, Ron whispering "Remember, extortion!" at my back, and started to search for him. I headed for the dungeons first.
The money thing wasn't a bad idea, to be honest. I really could if I wanted to, but that wasn't in the script. I would tell him that I wasn't going to do anything, then he would thank me and walk away, and I would feel empty and stupid and then we'd go back to being enemies again.
I was almost relieved. Then again, none of that would happen if I couldn't find him. It was then that I heard the voice.
"Not a bloody thing I can do," it half-said, half-sobbed. "Stupid Potter and his perfect hero complex, honor and all that, damn him... has it so damn easy... fuck him, stupid Harry Potter with his scar and his honor..."
That voice was really too familiar. Really, really familiar. After glancing around, I saw him. The light of the magic torches in the dungeons was too obvious against his fair hair and tear-soaked pale skin. "Draco Malfoy," I said.
Draco looked up at me. "Fuck you, Potter, what are you doing here?" he said. It wouldn't have surprised me if he spat actual venom at me. His eyes were dark, deep water blue; so strange that his eyes changed colors. He narrowed his eyes and glared away. "Get off. I don't care what you have to say. Go away." His voice became even. I didn't move. "Go away."
"No." I sat down beside him. "I won't. I have something to say to you."
"What? What, Potter? Are you going to say that you're sorry and you were just kidding?" I said nothing. "That's what I thought. Fine. You know, Potter.." he said. "You're no better than me when it comes down to it. You're just as devious and cunning as any one of us Slytherins. You make yourself out to be this big hero when all you are is some lucky bastard who somehow manages to scrape by every time the bad guy steps in."
"I don't make myself out to be anything, Malfoy," I said with a little less spite than he had. "I just try to stay alive, just like everyone else."
"Not like everyone else," he said. "Like it or not, you're special. You're a hero. It's not hard to see that you don't like it, either, I hate to admit it. Only an idiot would like something like that. And you're far from stupid, Potter, I know that. You managed to blackmail a Malfoy."
"You have me all figured out," I said. I looked over at him. "Now how about you, Draco, huh? You're trapped in the bad boy myth. You can do anything you want, except anything good, because no one will trust you. I'm living proof of that, and I'm sorry. My emotions have been running a little high since..." Since I looked into your eyes and saw a real person.. "Since Voldemort was reborn," I finished lamely. "I wasn't thinking clearly and I'm sorry."
"That is blatantly clear," Draco said. "All right. Now that your conscience is served, I'm going to go. See you in hell, Potter." He brushed past me.
"What?" I grabbed him by the sleeve and stopped him. "That's no way to say thank you."
He shook my hand off his sleeve. "That's because I'm not. What do I thank you for? 'Oh, Potter, thank you so much for not telling everybody that I'm a crybaby even though you're the one who fucked with my head,'" he mocked in a high voice, then glared at me with still tear-rimmed eyes. "That's what you wanted? Well, fine. Thanks, Potter. I appreciate your... chivalry."
He turned away from me and for one second longing ripped through my senses. In my head a million different scenarios played, but the main one was there and happening right now, and it was the most unlikely one.
Draco Malfoy, son of a high-ranking Death Eater, being kissed by Harry Potter, his archenemy.
And Malfoy was kissing me back.
