I own nothing, I would appreciate reviews, I warn of future slash and
unsavory revelations.
Chapter 2: The Aftermath and the New Groundwork
"When the path's unclear. . . call the man, he's needed here."
- Celine Dion, Call the Man
Harry's mind was a muddle as he returned to the Gryffindor dorms. Part of him still couldn't come to grips with what he had learned, it was just too. . . unbelievable. And yet another part of him, the part that had long tried to maintain its denial of the presence of actual death eaters at Hogwarts, was rejoicing at the refutation of something it could never quite accept. In other words, Harry felt split in two and he didn't know how to feel or to react. What he did know is that he felt a rather nauseating wave of guilt when he thought of what he had done, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He'd been blinded somewhat by his anger and he hadn't thought of his actions the way Malfoy had. The problem was that Malfoy was right. Tricking someone into taking Veritaserum, stripping them of their free will, forcing them to reveal their innermost secrets. . . how different was his behavior from that of, say, Voldemort casting the Imperius on an unwitting victim? But more than the logic that argued the wrongness of his actions, it was Malfoy's tortured words, his human pain, his awkward attempt to deny defeat, that cut to Harry's soul and made him want to weep, "What have I done? What have I done?"
He tried to push the encounter out of his mind (though it was impossible) by telling himself that Malfoy was a complete prick, bringing his fate upon himself - his innocence made his typically maliciously behavior forgivable, but was not (or shouldn't be) enough to bring guilt down upon Harry's conscience. Harry had behaved perfectly understandably. . . hadn't he?
Malfoy's stricken voice echoed through his mind. "You're no better than Voldemort. No better than my. . . my father. You. . . you violated me." He mumbled the password to the fat lady, then stumbled into the Gryffindor common rooms, confused, wracked with guilt, and on the verge of throwing up. A wave of relief washed over him upon seeing Hermione, though there was no sigh of Ron. But Hermione would make it all right. . . right?
A number of people noticed something wrong with Harry - the expression on his open face was more than enough to give it away - but Hermione was the one who rushed to him and herded him to her single Prefect's room. He collapsed on her bed, his elbows resting on his knees and his head cradled in his hands.
"I've really fucked up this time," he moaned. He was beginning to see a definite correlation between ignorance and seriously fucking up.
Hermione was both concerned and dumbfounded. What the hell had happened in the forty minutes since leaving Potions? "What happened?"
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Malfoy's defeated voice ricocheted through his mind once again. "You. . . you violated me." And this time it was accompanied by an image of the abused, condemned expression on his face after being forced to confess his deepest secret. He hadn't really cared that Harry had forced him to admit to being a death eater, but it had shattered him to have to tell him that he was a spy. He hadn't even asked Harry to keep his secret, though it was one that he clearly thought could make or break him. Why? Harry couldn't fathom the other boy's reasoning, if indeed he even had any, but he suddenly realized that he once again held Malfoy's - Draco's - fate in his hands. It was. . . a second chance, wasn't it? Harry wanted desperately to confess, to be absolved, but was seized by the need to keep Malfoy's secret, if only because it was the right thing to do, if only to appease his guilt. He could not betray Malfoy, not again, whether his confidence had been requested or not. He couldn't betray Malfoy because Malfoy had trusted him to act upstandingly. Maybe he still did, maybe that was why he didn't ask for him to keep his secret.
"I've hurt someone, as deeply as is possible, I think. . . I thought this person deserved it, but I was wrong." Harry rubbed his eyes, then began rubbing his temples.
"What did you do?," Hermione asked with trepidation.
"I. . . I can't tell you. Please don't ask me to. Please. It would only. . . compound my mistake. I would only. . . hurt him more. I would. . . betray him again." His words were coming with difficulty, and he hoped desperately that Hermione would understand. She looked at him anxiously, uneasily, but she seemed willing to accept his answer - for now. She knew, had Ron been there, that he wouldn't have let Harry off so easy. But she had a view of the world not so black and white as Harry's and Ron's; and she knew that just because she was one of his best friends, she was not owed the entire truth. Especially not from Harry, who had responsibilities far beyond herself, and Ron. Some things were simply not one's to tell.
So she nodded. "Don't tell me if it's not right," she soothed. "Not if won't help. Not if it'll only make it worse." Harry pulled her towards him and held her tightly; she wrapped her arms around him and let her shirt muffle his sobs, the insanity and stress finally proving too much. His anger at discovering that Malfoy was a death eater had granted him the unnatural calm required for the flawless execution of his plan, but its unexpected conclusion had released the frustration of the last ten days as well as adding its own emotional turmoil. All his misery snowballed, as emotions tend to, until he could on longer differentiate between the guilt he felt regarding Malfoy, the anger he (still) felt towards Dumbledore, the fear and hatred he felt towards Voldemort, and the loneliness and desperation he felt in general.
But his tears finally faded to sniffles, and then to silence. "Are you okay, Harry?," Hermoine finally ventured.
With a final snivel, he pulled away and nodded. He even gave her a small smile of reassurance. He was still confused, but he did feel better. The guilt was not so oppressive, his anger not so demanding, and the need to burst virtually gone; unclouding his mind and leaving it with a strong desire to mull over the days events. His emotions had demanded immediate attention, but now that their assault had abated, he was free to consider, rationally, what he had been told.
He stood and forced himself to take his leave of Hermione before his mind full too deeply into thought. "I. . . I need some time to think. . . I'm sorry about my, uh, break down."
Hermione responded to his weak smile and nervous laugh with a genuinely affectionate one. "It's okay, we're all entitled, especially now. Especially you." Obviously seeing his anxiousness to leave, she added playfully, "Go sort yourself out, then."
Struck by how understanding Hermione could be, he quickly swept her into a hug. "Thanks, Herm. You're a good friend." And it was true. Maturity had softened some of her edges, turning her extensive knowledge into wisdom, and her righteousness into compassion. As impressive as she was as a girl, she was even more so as a burgeoning woman and her untapped potential was practically tangible.
Harry disappeared from Hermione's room and went to his dorm room to be alone - dinner was fast approaching and it was unlikely that any of his roommates would be there. He lay on the bed and tried to sort his thoughts: Malfoy was a spy. Since when? The two enemies had had very little interaction so far that year, but, in truth, there had been very little interaction between them during fifth year too. Did that mean he'd been a spy for a year? He was spying for Dumbledore, right? There was a flare of anger to discover yet another secret he had not been let in on. Except. . . Malfoy's dislike for the Headmaster was obvious. Was it an act? Maybe Dumbledore didn't know - surely after going to such lengths to protect Harry, he wouldn't simply let another student place himself in such extreme peril. Would he? Did Snape know? Is that why he liked Malfoy so much? Was there really a need for two spies? What did Malfoy know?
Damn. A little guiltily, he wished he'd asked Malfoy more questions; but the guilt was replaced at anger and frustration towards the Headmaster. He wanted to know what was going on, and, curiosity aside, he needed to know. It's not like keeping him in the dark increased the odds of either him or others surviving the war. In fact, it almost certainly decreased the odds of survival. Dammit, he needed to know what was going on. And Malfoy held the answers that Dumbledore and the rest of the Order were still unwilling to tell him. Despite the last years fiasco, they still hadn't gotten it through their thick skulls that what he didn't know could kill him - and them.
A knot of dread curled in his stomach. He knew what he had to do - he had to have a long talk with Malfoy. Had to convince him to help him, to tell him what he knew, and he had to do this without the Veritaserum. After what he had done to the other boy. . . This was not going to be pretty. Indeed, it promised to be downright ugly.
*
Malfoy wasn't at dinner either. He felt numb, more so than usual. It wasn't his normal detachment from his emotions, a detachment that let him react as he needed to, as opposed to how he wanted to. No, this numbness was more like some fantastic weight had been laid across his mind, repressing his emotions until they could not be recognized amidst the current emptiness of that mind. His usually racing thoughts had slowed to almost nothing. The sense of doom was all consuming.
He didn't know if Harry would tell or not, but he hardly thought it mattered. Harry was trouble - trouble followed him like a puppy and clung to him like a parasite. It was inevitable that Draco would be dragged into Harry's maelstrom of danger. As if he didn't constantly exist in a state of immense danger anyway. Merlin, he was going to die.
Actually, the idea didn't terrify him altogether that much. He'd been living with the threat of being killed for a long time now, and living in fear for even longer. And he thought his odds of surviving the War to be particularly poor. Death might even be a comfort. . . though he certainly wasn't going to make it easy for those bastards (whichever bastards it turned out to be). There was nothing he could do except go on, really. What was a little more fear, eh? A little more pressure. . . It wasn't like he was going to break. Right?
Curled up on his bed, arms wrapped around his bony body, he sighed deeply. He wouldn't just lie down and die, he would go out fighting. He wasn't weak, he wasn't a coward, he would fucking give them hell. They would pay for making him suffer, for trying to kill him, for turning his whole world into a nightmare. For turning the whole world into a nightmare.
Draco stood weakly. The show must go on. Always, on and on. . . He looked in the mirror, touching the scab on his soft lip. Damn Potter and his meddlesome ways. Oh well, time for a shower.
*
Harry's first opportunity to talk to Malfoy came the next morning at breakfast. He had come down early, having endured a long, restless night. There was a sparse collection of younger years sitting around and, surprisingly, Dean.
"Yo, Dean, whattup?" Upon closer examination, he added, "You look like shit, mate. Maybe you should go back to bed."
"Well, ah feel like shit too. . . Ah have a hangover something awful. Ah have a terrible time sleeping after drinking so much. That firewhiskey messes with my system bad time." His head was propped up by his hands, and he was looking despondently and slightly nauseatingly at a bowl of porridge between his elbows.
"Jeez. . . Last night a good time then?," Harry asked, despite the distinct impression that this was not the case. Dean confirmed his suspicions by shaking his head. "Lavender dumped me."
"I'm sorry." Harry tried to sound sincere, feeling guilty that he couldn't bring himself to care more. He gave Dean's shoulder a squeeze. "Why?"
"She said all ah ever wanted to do was fool around." It required a valiant effort on Harry's part to keep a straight face, but somehow he managed. He had just thought of a few, somewhat comforting words to impart, when Malfoy briskly strutted into the Great Hall. He looked impeccable, as though entirely unperturbed by the previous day's events; and he was oblivious to Harry's gaze. In fact, for the first time ever perhaps, Harry was actually looking at the blond, pale boy - not glaring, not channeling hatred through his eyes, but observing, studying, admiring. He was faintly disgusted with himself for being able to find anything admirable in Malfoy, but he noticed his finer points nonetheless. His general unflappability was certainly one of them. Or maybe, Harry suggested to himself unconvincingly, he was just an unfeeling bastard.
"God, I hate that prick," Dean said, saving Harry from any more unwanted observation of Malfoy's positive traits. Dean's eyes had followed Harry's line of sight, allowing him to willingly supply Harry with reminders of Malfoy's unsavory side. Dean then proceeded to recount some tale of the Sytherin's nefarious behavior the day before in Arithmancy (which Dean did not take, calling forth the question of how many people this story had come through before reaching him). Apparently Malfoy, who, along with Granger, was the top of the class, had humiliated some Hufflepuff by scathingly demolishing the presentation he had had to give. Interestingly, however, the tale ended with the fact that his actions had really pissed off one Pansy Parkinson.
Harry was confused. Still watching Malfoy's confident form, he asked, "Why would Pansy care?"
Dean actually looked excited (underneath the ill look) at the question. Unfortunately, it was the excitement of a gossip who'd found someone completely out of the loop. "Don't you know? Pansy's practically going out with him!"
"What? With the Hufflepuff? I thought she was going out with Draco." Now he was really confused; but this time Dean looked at him as if he was completely retarded.
"Harry, don't you notice anything? Those two haven't been going out for. . . like a year and a half or something." Harry wasn't surprised by his lack of awareness, really. He'd had hardly interaction with the Slytherins during the previous year.
"Oh. . . So, who's Draco going out with now then?"
Dean considered the question. "Actually, I don't think he's ever gone out with anyone else."
"Ha. He's not such a ladykiller as he thinks." There was definitely some satisfaction in that thought.
Dean considered this for so long that Harry thought the topic dropped. "I don't know. The girls seem to think he could have anyone he wants. Their theory is that he won't have, uh, liaisons was their word, with anyone in the school. . . Disturbingly, I remember him setting a bunch of us straight about sex before a DADA class back in third year. Even back then he knew what he was talking about."
Harry found this somewhat unsettling. "Okay, well, I think I've heard all I want about Malfoy's sex life. Or lack thereof."
"I agree," Dean said heartily, with an expression on his face even sicker than before, the topic having taken some toll.
Seeing Malfoy take his leave from the few individuals at the Slytherin table (the Slytherins had a reputation for partying particularly hard, and so were rarely present for the Saturday and Sunday breakfasts), Harry bid Dean farewell and followed the blond towards the hallway.
Malfoy was doing a superb job of ignoring his Gryffindor nemesis, forcing Harry to call out, "Malfoy!"
Malfoy froze, then slowly turned around, a guarded expression on his aristocratic face. "Potter."
Shit, shit, shit. Harry could already tell this wasn't going to go well. "I need to talk to you."
"I doubt it. And even if you do, what could possibly make you think I would talk to you?"
"Well, you talking to me now, aren't you?"
Malfoy arched a perfect eyebrow. "Indeed I am. So, I must have given you the talk you needed." He spun on his heal and strode off.
"Wait!" He ran after the blond and made the mistake of grabbing his arm. Malfoy snapped his arm away and whipped around to face him with a deadly glare. His grey eyes flashed dangerously. "I'm serious! I need to talk to you."
"And don't you think I was serious when I told you to stay away from me?," the other boy growled. The menace and hatred was so intense it was practically palpable, so intense that Harry was taken aback, though he could hardly have expected better. There was a long pause as Harry's muddled brain tried to find a way to a way past Malfoy's hostility. Unfortunately, his brain was unable to supply a single thing.
Malfoy released a tired, and surprisingly genuine sigh, then continued, "Potter, I have absolutely nothing to say to you. And I care even less to watch you gape at me like a goldfish trying to find something intelligent to say. Go back to getting yourself in trouble and leave me out of it. I want nothing to do with you. I thought you'd be happy, you hypocrite."
He headed off down the hallway again, but all Harry could muster as a response was a "Fuck you, Malfoy!"
"Eloquent as always, Potter," Malfoy threw back, without breaking stride or turning his head.
*
Harry did feel like a hypocrite, but it didn't stop him from trying to corner Malfoy again. He felt certain that the Slytherin held the key to the vault of valuable knowledge, and he wasn't going to let a few harsh words and his own pride keep him from what he wanted and needed. He tried to talk to Malfoy again after DADA, but all he got for his trouble was a short lived muting hex. When he sent him an owl during dinner, the parchment was incinerated and its request ignored.
Harry's anger was beginning to outweigh his guilt. He HAD to talk to Malfoy, and he wasn't going to let something as small as Malfoy's unwillingness get in his way. He didn't need to resort to Veritaserum or violence to get the pale toothpick to talk to him. He just had to wait until the right moment. . . until he was too vulnerable not to talk. And Harry had a very good idea as to when that would be.
Chapter 2: The Aftermath and the New Groundwork
"When the path's unclear. . . call the man, he's needed here."
- Celine Dion, Call the Man
Harry's mind was a muddle as he returned to the Gryffindor dorms. Part of him still couldn't come to grips with what he had learned, it was just too. . . unbelievable. And yet another part of him, the part that had long tried to maintain its denial of the presence of actual death eaters at Hogwarts, was rejoicing at the refutation of something it could never quite accept. In other words, Harry felt split in two and he didn't know how to feel or to react. What he did know is that he felt a rather nauseating wave of guilt when he thought of what he had done, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He'd been blinded somewhat by his anger and he hadn't thought of his actions the way Malfoy had. The problem was that Malfoy was right. Tricking someone into taking Veritaserum, stripping them of their free will, forcing them to reveal their innermost secrets. . . how different was his behavior from that of, say, Voldemort casting the Imperius on an unwitting victim? But more than the logic that argued the wrongness of his actions, it was Malfoy's tortured words, his human pain, his awkward attempt to deny defeat, that cut to Harry's soul and made him want to weep, "What have I done? What have I done?"
He tried to push the encounter out of his mind (though it was impossible) by telling himself that Malfoy was a complete prick, bringing his fate upon himself - his innocence made his typically maliciously behavior forgivable, but was not (or shouldn't be) enough to bring guilt down upon Harry's conscience. Harry had behaved perfectly understandably. . . hadn't he?
Malfoy's stricken voice echoed through his mind. "You're no better than Voldemort. No better than my. . . my father. You. . . you violated me." He mumbled the password to the fat lady, then stumbled into the Gryffindor common rooms, confused, wracked with guilt, and on the verge of throwing up. A wave of relief washed over him upon seeing Hermione, though there was no sigh of Ron. But Hermione would make it all right. . . right?
A number of people noticed something wrong with Harry - the expression on his open face was more than enough to give it away - but Hermione was the one who rushed to him and herded him to her single Prefect's room. He collapsed on her bed, his elbows resting on his knees and his head cradled in his hands.
"I've really fucked up this time," he moaned. He was beginning to see a definite correlation between ignorance and seriously fucking up.
Hermione was both concerned and dumbfounded. What the hell had happened in the forty minutes since leaving Potions? "What happened?"
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Malfoy's defeated voice ricocheted through his mind once again. "You. . . you violated me." And this time it was accompanied by an image of the abused, condemned expression on his face after being forced to confess his deepest secret. He hadn't really cared that Harry had forced him to admit to being a death eater, but it had shattered him to have to tell him that he was a spy. He hadn't even asked Harry to keep his secret, though it was one that he clearly thought could make or break him. Why? Harry couldn't fathom the other boy's reasoning, if indeed he even had any, but he suddenly realized that he once again held Malfoy's - Draco's - fate in his hands. It was. . . a second chance, wasn't it? Harry wanted desperately to confess, to be absolved, but was seized by the need to keep Malfoy's secret, if only because it was the right thing to do, if only to appease his guilt. He could not betray Malfoy, not again, whether his confidence had been requested or not. He couldn't betray Malfoy because Malfoy had trusted him to act upstandingly. Maybe he still did, maybe that was why he didn't ask for him to keep his secret.
"I've hurt someone, as deeply as is possible, I think. . . I thought this person deserved it, but I was wrong." Harry rubbed his eyes, then began rubbing his temples.
"What did you do?," Hermione asked with trepidation.
"I. . . I can't tell you. Please don't ask me to. Please. It would only. . . compound my mistake. I would only. . . hurt him more. I would. . . betray him again." His words were coming with difficulty, and he hoped desperately that Hermione would understand. She looked at him anxiously, uneasily, but she seemed willing to accept his answer - for now. She knew, had Ron been there, that he wouldn't have let Harry off so easy. But she had a view of the world not so black and white as Harry's and Ron's; and she knew that just because she was one of his best friends, she was not owed the entire truth. Especially not from Harry, who had responsibilities far beyond herself, and Ron. Some things were simply not one's to tell.
So she nodded. "Don't tell me if it's not right," she soothed. "Not if won't help. Not if it'll only make it worse." Harry pulled her towards him and held her tightly; she wrapped her arms around him and let her shirt muffle his sobs, the insanity and stress finally proving too much. His anger at discovering that Malfoy was a death eater had granted him the unnatural calm required for the flawless execution of his plan, but its unexpected conclusion had released the frustration of the last ten days as well as adding its own emotional turmoil. All his misery snowballed, as emotions tend to, until he could on longer differentiate between the guilt he felt regarding Malfoy, the anger he (still) felt towards Dumbledore, the fear and hatred he felt towards Voldemort, and the loneliness and desperation he felt in general.
But his tears finally faded to sniffles, and then to silence. "Are you okay, Harry?," Hermoine finally ventured.
With a final snivel, he pulled away and nodded. He even gave her a small smile of reassurance. He was still confused, but he did feel better. The guilt was not so oppressive, his anger not so demanding, and the need to burst virtually gone; unclouding his mind and leaving it with a strong desire to mull over the days events. His emotions had demanded immediate attention, but now that their assault had abated, he was free to consider, rationally, what he had been told.
He stood and forced himself to take his leave of Hermione before his mind full too deeply into thought. "I. . . I need some time to think. . . I'm sorry about my, uh, break down."
Hermione responded to his weak smile and nervous laugh with a genuinely affectionate one. "It's okay, we're all entitled, especially now. Especially you." Obviously seeing his anxiousness to leave, she added playfully, "Go sort yourself out, then."
Struck by how understanding Hermione could be, he quickly swept her into a hug. "Thanks, Herm. You're a good friend." And it was true. Maturity had softened some of her edges, turning her extensive knowledge into wisdom, and her righteousness into compassion. As impressive as she was as a girl, she was even more so as a burgeoning woman and her untapped potential was practically tangible.
Harry disappeared from Hermione's room and went to his dorm room to be alone - dinner was fast approaching and it was unlikely that any of his roommates would be there. He lay on the bed and tried to sort his thoughts: Malfoy was a spy. Since when? The two enemies had had very little interaction so far that year, but, in truth, there had been very little interaction between them during fifth year too. Did that mean he'd been a spy for a year? He was spying for Dumbledore, right? There was a flare of anger to discover yet another secret he had not been let in on. Except. . . Malfoy's dislike for the Headmaster was obvious. Was it an act? Maybe Dumbledore didn't know - surely after going to such lengths to protect Harry, he wouldn't simply let another student place himself in such extreme peril. Would he? Did Snape know? Is that why he liked Malfoy so much? Was there really a need for two spies? What did Malfoy know?
Damn. A little guiltily, he wished he'd asked Malfoy more questions; but the guilt was replaced at anger and frustration towards the Headmaster. He wanted to know what was going on, and, curiosity aside, he needed to know. It's not like keeping him in the dark increased the odds of either him or others surviving the war. In fact, it almost certainly decreased the odds of survival. Dammit, he needed to know what was going on. And Malfoy held the answers that Dumbledore and the rest of the Order were still unwilling to tell him. Despite the last years fiasco, they still hadn't gotten it through their thick skulls that what he didn't know could kill him - and them.
A knot of dread curled in his stomach. He knew what he had to do - he had to have a long talk with Malfoy. Had to convince him to help him, to tell him what he knew, and he had to do this without the Veritaserum. After what he had done to the other boy. . . This was not going to be pretty. Indeed, it promised to be downright ugly.
*
Malfoy wasn't at dinner either. He felt numb, more so than usual. It wasn't his normal detachment from his emotions, a detachment that let him react as he needed to, as opposed to how he wanted to. No, this numbness was more like some fantastic weight had been laid across his mind, repressing his emotions until they could not be recognized amidst the current emptiness of that mind. His usually racing thoughts had slowed to almost nothing. The sense of doom was all consuming.
He didn't know if Harry would tell or not, but he hardly thought it mattered. Harry was trouble - trouble followed him like a puppy and clung to him like a parasite. It was inevitable that Draco would be dragged into Harry's maelstrom of danger. As if he didn't constantly exist in a state of immense danger anyway. Merlin, he was going to die.
Actually, the idea didn't terrify him altogether that much. He'd been living with the threat of being killed for a long time now, and living in fear for even longer. And he thought his odds of surviving the War to be particularly poor. Death might even be a comfort. . . though he certainly wasn't going to make it easy for those bastards (whichever bastards it turned out to be). There was nothing he could do except go on, really. What was a little more fear, eh? A little more pressure. . . It wasn't like he was going to break. Right?
Curled up on his bed, arms wrapped around his bony body, he sighed deeply. He wouldn't just lie down and die, he would go out fighting. He wasn't weak, he wasn't a coward, he would fucking give them hell. They would pay for making him suffer, for trying to kill him, for turning his whole world into a nightmare. For turning the whole world into a nightmare.
Draco stood weakly. The show must go on. Always, on and on. . . He looked in the mirror, touching the scab on his soft lip. Damn Potter and his meddlesome ways. Oh well, time for a shower.
*
Harry's first opportunity to talk to Malfoy came the next morning at breakfast. He had come down early, having endured a long, restless night. There was a sparse collection of younger years sitting around and, surprisingly, Dean.
"Yo, Dean, whattup?" Upon closer examination, he added, "You look like shit, mate. Maybe you should go back to bed."
"Well, ah feel like shit too. . . Ah have a hangover something awful. Ah have a terrible time sleeping after drinking so much. That firewhiskey messes with my system bad time." His head was propped up by his hands, and he was looking despondently and slightly nauseatingly at a bowl of porridge between his elbows.
"Jeez. . . Last night a good time then?," Harry asked, despite the distinct impression that this was not the case. Dean confirmed his suspicions by shaking his head. "Lavender dumped me."
"I'm sorry." Harry tried to sound sincere, feeling guilty that he couldn't bring himself to care more. He gave Dean's shoulder a squeeze. "Why?"
"She said all ah ever wanted to do was fool around." It required a valiant effort on Harry's part to keep a straight face, but somehow he managed. He had just thought of a few, somewhat comforting words to impart, when Malfoy briskly strutted into the Great Hall. He looked impeccable, as though entirely unperturbed by the previous day's events; and he was oblivious to Harry's gaze. In fact, for the first time ever perhaps, Harry was actually looking at the blond, pale boy - not glaring, not channeling hatred through his eyes, but observing, studying, admiring. He was faintly disgusted with himself for being able to find anything admirable in Malfoy, but he noticed his finer points nonetheless. His general unflappability was certainly one of them. Or maybe, Harry suggested to himself unconvincingly, he was just an unfeeling bastard.
"God, I hate that prick," Dean said, saving Harry from any more unwanted observation of Malfoy's positive traits. Dean's eyes had followed Harry's line of sight, allowing him to willingly supply Harry with reminders of Malfoy's unsavory side. Dean then proceeded to recount some tale of the Sytherin's nefarious behavior the day before in Arithmancy (which Dean did not take, calling forth the question of how many people this story had come through before reaching him). Apparently Malfoy, who, along with Granger, was the top of the class, had humiliated some Hufflepuff by scathingly demolishing the presentation he had had to give. Interestingly, however, the tale ended with the fact that his actions had really pissed off one Pansy Parkinson.
Harry was confused. Still watching Malfoy's confident form, he asked, "Why would Pansy care?"
Dean actually looked excited (underneath the ill look) at the question. Unfortunately, it was the excitement of a gossip who'd found someone completely out of the loop. "Don't you know? Pansy's practically going out with him!"
"What? With the Hufflepuff? I thought she was going out with Draco." Now he was really confused; but this time Dean looked at him as if he was completely retarded.
"Harry, don't you notice anything? Those two haven't been going out for. . . like a year and a half or something." Harry wasn't surprised by his lack of awareness, really. He'd had hardly interaction with the Slytherins during the previous year.
"Oh. . . So, who's Draco going out with now then?"
Dean considered the question. "Actually, I don't think he's ever gone out with anyone else."
"Ha. He's not such a ladykiller as he thinks." There was definitely some satisfaction in that thought.
Dean considered this for so long that Harry thought the topic dropped. "I don't know. The girls seem to think he could have anyone he wants. Their theory is that he won't have, uh, liaisons was their word, with anyone in the school. . . Disturbingly, I remember him setting a bunch of us straight about sex before a DADA class back in third year. Even back then he knew what he was talking about."
Harry found this somewhat unsettling. "Okay, well, I think I've heard all I want about Malfoy's sex life. Or lack thereof."
"I agree," Dean said heartily, with an expression on his face even sicker than before, the topic having taken some toll.
Seeing Malfoy take his leave from the few individuals at the Slytherin table (the Slytherins had a reputation for partying particularly hard, and so were rarely present for the Saturday and Sunday breakfasts), Harry bid Dean farewell and followed the blond towards the hallway.
Malfoy was doing a superb job of ignoring his Gryffindor nemesis, forcing Harry to call out, "Malfoy!"
Malfoy froze, then slowly turned around, a guarded expression on his aristocratic face. "Potter."
Shit, shit, shit. Harry could already tell this wasn't going to go well. "I need to talk to you."
"I doubt it. And even if you do, what could possibly make you think I would talk to you?"
"Well, you talking to me now, aren't you?"
Malfoy arched a perfect eyebrow. "Indeed I am. So, I must have given you the talk you needed." He spun on his heal and strode off.
"Wait!" He ran after the blond and made the mistake of grabbing his arm. Malfoy snapped his arm away and whipped around to face him with a deadly glare. His grey eyes flashed dangerously. "I'm serious! I need to talk to you."
"And don't you think I was serious when I told you to stay away from me?," the other boy growled. The menace and hatred was so intense it was practically palpable, so intense that Harry was taken aback, though he could hardly have expected better. There was a long pause as Harry's muddled brain tried to find a way to a way past Malfoy's hostility. Unfortunately, his brain was unable to supply a single thing.
Malfoy released a tired, and surprisingly genuine sigh, then continued, "Potter, I have absolutely nothing to say to you. And I care even less to watch you gape at me like a goldfish trying to find something intelligent to say. Go back to getting yourself in trouble and leave me out of it. I want nothing to do with you. I thought you'd be happy, you hypocrite."
He headed off down the hallway again, but all Harry could muster as a response was a "Fuck you, Malfoy!"
"Eloquent as always, Potter," Malfoy threw back, without breaking stride or turning his head.
*
Harry did feel like a hypocrite, but it didn't stop him from trying to corner Malfoy again. He felt certain that the Slytherin held the key to the vault of valuable knowledge, and he wasn't going to let a few harsh words and his own pride keep him from what he wanted and needed. He tried to talk to Malfoy again after DADA, but all he got for his trouble was a short lived muting hex. When he sent him an owl during dinner, the parchment was incinerated and its request ignored.
Harry's anger was beginning to outweigh his guilt. He HAD to talk to Malfoy, and he wasn't going to let something as small as Malfoy's unwillingness get in his way. He didn't need to resort to Veritaserum or violence to get the pale toothpick to talk to him. He just had to wait until the right moment. . . until he was too vulnerable not to talk. And Harry had a very good idea as to when that would be.