Warning: Bad language. (Slash eventually, but not this chapter.)
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Readers: Thanks for reviewing! More always welcome!
Chapter 3: Confrontation and the Deal
"You'll never live long enough to undo everything they've done to you."
- Ani DiFranco, 'Tis of Thee
Harry stayed up until one am the next night - a Tuesday. He did so again the following night, and the night after that. During the days, Malfoy mostly ignored him. The only skirmish that took place was, in fact, provoked by Ron, who got a bloody nose (from Goyle) and a severe ego lashing (from Malfoy) for his troubles. Harry had only intervened to pull Ron away before he either got punched again or else punished by Snape, who had just blown into the potion's room where the fight had broken out. Somehow, he had become painfully aware that just about every fight in the last year between the Malfoy trio and his trio had been incited by Ron. When he asked Hermione to deny his observation, she couldn't. Whatever unresolved emotions there were between her and Ron, she could not deny the more fixed aspects of his character. Of the three of them, Ron had changed the least in their years at Hogwarts, which was both a good and a bad thing.
Around midnight on the fourth night (Friday), his ability to survive on limited sleep finally beginning to wear thin, he finally saw what he was looking for: a moving label sporting the name D. Malfoy. He watched with grim satisfaction as the label made its way from the Slytherin dorms to the secret passage to Hogsmeade. When he saw it suddenly disappear, he made his own way to the secret passage wrapped in his invisibility cloak. Once there, he turned his wand light and sat down for a long wait.
Inevitably, he dozed off, only to be awaken hours later by a loud crack (sounding very much like someone apparating) and an "ooph!". Harry scrambled to his feet, but he couldn't see a single thing in the pitch black; however, the problem was soon solved by a few words from Malfoy, muttered in a strained voice. A pale blue ball of light appeared from his wavering wand, illuminating him where he lay on the ground, and then levitated up a few feet to hover above him. This feat accomplished, his arm gave into gravity and collapsed, returning to the crumpled, shaking body. His eyes were tightly shut and his jaw clenched. And his skin looked quite dirty.
Harry was suddenly very concerned. This was definitely not what he had been expecting, and the fact that Malfoy's state had him worried was a sure sign of just how disturbing the other boy's state appeared to be. Harry pushed down his hood and pushed back the rest of the cloak past his shoulders so that it hung down his back, exposing almost all of his body.
"Malfoy?" His whispering voice was void of its usual hostility, tainted instead with unease. But when Malfoy failed to react, he bent down and reached a hesitant hand towards a trembling shoulder. Upon contact, Malfoy's entire body lurched away, his eyes flying open frantically, and he clambered on hands and knees towards the wall, chest heaving.
"Shit, Malfoy!" Harry cried in surprise. What the hell?
After several long seconds, awareness replaced Malfoy's crazed look. Some attempt was made to erect his emotionless mask, but he gave up in favor of cradling his head between his knees (a position that buffered his shaking) and a faint, "Fuck you, Potter." But his voice was exhausted, and held no enmity. Harry frowned, then noticed something - his hand was sticky. He held it close to his face, then up to the pale blue light.
"Is this. . . blood?" Malfoy made no sign of having heard, though Harry was pretty sure he had. And he was pretty sure that it was blood on his hand, despite the poor lighting. "Malfoy. . . that's blood on your face, isn't it?"
His annoyance at Malfoy's obstinate silence began to outstrip his concern. He stood up and started down the tunnel, with a "Fine, you stubborn mule. I'm going to go get Madam Pompfrey."
There was a long moment of him retreating in which he thought Malfoy would just let him go; but then his ears picked it up. A croak. "Wait."
Harry turned and walked back towards the Slytherin, who finally raised his expressionless, blood and bruise darkened face. Harry crouched next to him, more than a little unnerved by the vacant eyes that made contact with him. "Don't tell Pompfrey," he added hoarsely, neither a demand nor an entreaty.
"Then let me have a look," Harry replied, reaching a hand towards the bleeding gash embedded in Malfoy's hairline. But Malfoy pulled his head away, and the grip around his knees tightened perceptively. "I can take care of my self," he snapped, though it lacked anything beyond mild irritation.
"Oh yeah? How?," Harry retorted.
Draco glared at him for making him do this in front of him, but he simply hadn't the strength at the moment to do what it would require to get away from (or do away with) the Gryffindor hero. He was exhausted and in a fair amount of pain, and he was still loosing blood. His mind felt fuzzy after hours of what was essentially torture, and he was having difficulty thinking past the need to heal himself. As much as he hated to show weakness, he was finding it difficult to care in his present situation. Harry already knew enough to damn him twice over.
So he unfolded himself so that he sat cross legged, a grimace of pain flicking across his face and his limbs freed to resume their trembling. With closed eyes he remained like this, sporting a surprisingly calm expression. Harry frowned at him, distinctly reminded of Muggle meditation. He was about to question Malfoy when the blond placed his hands on either side of his face and mumbled, "Anas rae helio, noches garath talla."
The caking blood did not disappear, but the bruises on his face did, and Harry was willing to bet that the gash had healed too. He watched Malfoy slip his hands into his robe and, after a moment of what appeared to be fumbling, spoke the words again. When he pulled his hands out of his robes, now coated in blood, Harry's queasiness increasing as the extent of Malfoy's injuries became apparent. Malfoy pulled up his trouser legs to reveal more torn, bleeding flesh; but he placed a hand on each calf and healed them too. He followed up by healing each arm with the other arm's hand. The shaking, however, was getting worse.
"Turn around."
Harry started. He had been so captivated by watching Malfoy heal himself that the other boy's voice took him completely by surprise. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?"
The expression on Malfoy's face was almost identical to the one it had held when he had uttered those haunting words five days ago. Still, it was only there for a split second, hardly long enough to register, before again being replaced with indifference. But even the wizarding world's best actor couldn't keep the note of resigned exhaustion from his words. "So that I may keep my dignity in this at least."
Harry felt sympathy pull at his heart - something he had once, only days ago, never thought possible of a Malfoy. So he turned to face away as Malfoy awkwardly hauled himself to his feet, then reached both hands into his pants to heal the wounds there. For while there was much of Draco that was not what it seemed, he was proud, if in his own shameless way. Indeed, it almost seemed as if his sense of self worth came from his pride, and not the other way around; for no matter how base his action, no matter how low he stooped, he was always proud of himself, and he was proud because it was bloody hard to do what he did, and to be who he was. So he would fight for himself if no one would fight for him, and he would fight alone if no one would fight beside him. He would use others shamelessly (and often deservedly), as they thought they used him. And it was his pride that let him do this - that gave him the right to also be a user (when he could), and not merely the used.
After a quiet moment, Harry turned back and looked at the thin, shaking figure that held itself up against the wall, breathing heavily. He moved towards him to help him, but the pale boy held out a hand to stop him. "Know any cleaning spells, Potter?"
Slowly, Harry nodded, though in all honesty, he wasn't altogether that sure he did. "Well, make yourself useful and lay one on me."
Harry almost smiled. The hostility had not resurfaced, but the voice had definitely sounded more like the Malfoy he knew and. . . hated. Though he was having some difficulty getting in touch with that hatred at the moment. He raised his wand, considered the spell for a moment, then uttered the words that came to mind. To his surprise (though Malfoy seemed unruffled), the spell worked and the dried blood disappeared from Malfoy's face, hands, and, presumably, the rest of his body. Such cleaning spells did not have the deep cleaning effect of a shower, and were often unable to completely do away with smell, but they made all the difference between being filthy and being able to pass oneself off as clean.
Malfoy inspected his hands for a moment, then raised them to feel for blood on his face. When satisfied that the spell had worked well enough, he began to limp heavily past Harry and towards Hogwarts proper, while using the wall as a support.
"Here, let me help."
Malfoy tried to ward him off, but he had neither the strength nor will to do it effectively; and so became as tense as steel when Harry wrapped an arm around his waste, and pulled his arm around his broad shoulders. It was a position that worked because the Malfoy had about two inches on Harry (two inches of leg, really), while Harry had a fair amount of bulk on the hard, scrawny body he supported. With an annoyed sigh, Malfoy let Harry help him, and even found some relief from his aching pains.
"Why are you shaking?"
"Why do you think, Potter?," he replied sharply. Harry thought of Neville, of how he had continued to jerk and twitch even after the Cruciatus curse had been lifted. Then he thought of his own encounter with that horrible pain. And then he recalled noting Malfoy's trembling the first time he had seen him in this passage.
"Cruciatus?" Malfoy didn't respond, eyes fixed straight ahead, but Harry knew he was right.
At the end of the passage, Harry allowed Malfoy to untangle himself, then watched as he removed his death eater garb, and replaced it with the Slytherin robes that were again found balled up on the floor. Then he muttered his own cleaning spell (a strong one meant for clothes and floors, not living beings), followed by the camouflaging spell that hid the death eater robes where the Slytherin ones had just been.
Once they had made their way to the Great Hall, Malfoy finally spoke again. "I'll take my leave of you here, Potter."
Harry shook his head. "No way. I'm going to see you to your dorms."
With a long suffering sigh, "I'm not going to the dorms."
"Where are you going, then?," Harry asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed.
"Stop looking at me like that," Malfoy snapped back, despite the fact that he wasn't even facing the green eyed boy. "I'm just going to the kitchens to get something to calm the shakes."
"Fine. I'm going with."
Malfoy just nodded, letting Harry again take up his place supporting his weight, and they made their way to the kitchens. At the door he disengaged himself from Harry and pushed his way past the heavy door.
"Master Draco! Dobby so happy to see! So relieved! Was so frightened! Dobby didn't want to have to go to Headmaster and tell him you hadn't come back!" Harry followed Malfoy in time to see Dobby rush at the blond and wrap himself around his legs. But on seeing Harry, his face contorted to an almost comical combination of terror and pleasure. "Master Harry! Dobby. . . uh, so great you are here!" He looked anxiously at Draco, then back at Harry, then again at Draco.
Harry looked at Malfoy with some confusion, a confusion that mutated into surprise upon seeing a faint smile tug at the thin lips. "It's okay, Dobby. Potter knows. . . a little anyway."
Joy flooded Dobby's face. "So good! Dobby so happy! Dobby told you Master Harry could help!"
Malfoy's face returned to its cold, empty state; he took a seat with a wince. "That's still to be seen."
Dobby nodded enthusiastically, unaffected by Malfoy's hard tone. He rushed off, and Harry took a seat opposite Malfoy. He smirked, though not anywhere near Malfoy's standard. "So I can help, can I? What, pray tell, can I help you with?"
Malfoy glared at him. He wanted to shout at the Gryffindor that Harry's involvement in his affairs could prove nothing but disastrous. He had, however, finally accepted that Harry wasn't going to drop it. So, given Potter's involvement, shouldn't he try to work the situation to his advantage? If that was even possible. . .
After a long pause, he made his move. "Tell you what, Potter. I'll make you a deal. For each question I answer, you must answer one of mine. If you should choose to accept, I will have to add the stipulation that, given the nature of the questions you are sure to ask, nothing is out of bounds."
Harry took a long, evaluating look at the still trembling Slytherin in front of him. Dobby arrived and placed a steaming cup of something in front of Malfoy. "Why should I trust you?"
"Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy hissed with such menace that Dobby scurried away. "If you don't trust me to speak the truth, then fuck off and leave me alone."
Harry glared back, just for appearances, but he was mentally kicking himself. He was the one who had cornered Malfoy to see if he could get some willing answers out of him. So he backed down, though not too obviously. "Fine. But you answer first. How can I help you?"
"I haven't a fucking clue. Dobby said you could help, not me. I think you're an interfering prat whose involvement in my affairs will most likely prove fatal. For me. But maybe for you too."
"That's no answer!"
"Yes, it is. Unsurprisingly, you just asked the wrong question. My turn. Why hasn't Dumbledore acted on Weasley's information and busted my father?"
Harry's eyebrows shot up. Malfoy's question told him more than his answer had, but now he was completely dumbfounded. "Ron?," he choked out.
"The father, you idiot."
Harry would've thought that he'd be happy to learn from Malfoy's question without having to give him anything; but he found himself instead embarrassed by his ignorance.
"I don't know."
Malfoy sneered. Dobby's concoction was doing its job and his shakes had disappeared. "I doubt you know very much, Potter."
"Why'd you make this stupid deal then?," Harry snapped, immediately regretting his words as Malfoy took it to be his question.
"Because I had hoped our unfortunate encounter on Friday could have some benefits outside increasing the likelihood of both our deaths. Now my turn. What does the full prophesy say?"
Harry felt a shiver run through him and his gut reaction was to not answer. But he had agreed, and he knew that he'd have to give something to get something. And he had already taken something from Malfoy. So he told him, reciting it, as it had been burned into his mind. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies, and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not, and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives, he one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."
Draco stared at him for several long moments. Though he took the recitation in stride, he was astonished that Potter had actually told him anything - surprised enough to reevaluate the dark haired boy. There was a disturbing rush of warmth at the fact that he had shown trust in him, him the backstabbing, cold hearted bastard. So he softened his features faintly, and nodded to Potter to ask his question.
Harry let a hesitant smile brush his face as he felt the hostility and tension ease. "When did you start spying for Dumbledore?"
Draco considered his words for a moment. It would be a small matter to answer the question in an entirely uninformative manner, but he did actually feel obligated to respond as straightforwardly as Potter had. More shockingly, however, he almost wanted to tell him. It wasn't easy when one's whole life was a lie - it was particularly hard one's mental health, something that had never been Draco's strong point. His neglected, sociopathic upbringing was in a continuous state of war with the dregs of his natural humanity, and so it was hard to get any peace of mind. He had never wanted to talk to anyone about it, as he had never actually been confronted with a safe opportunity; but now that he was, he did. He wanted to expose his inner world, to receive the social validation so necessary for most people's sense of identity.
"I don't spy for Dumbledore, I spy for myself. I pass information on to him sometimes, and to the Ministry, and to others working against Voldemort. Whoever I think will best use the information. If you're wondering why I didn't follow in Snape's footsteps, there are two reasons. On his side, Dumbledore prefers it this way, so he doesn't have to endorse my behavior or what I have to submit myself to. It would seem hypocritical to protect you so fiercely while sending me to the wolves every week, no? Though this does assume that he knows, which I suspect he does. Anyway, on my side, it's because Dumbledore's goals and my own don't quite overlap. The old coot wants to win this war at any cost, but I want to live to see this war won. So I'm on my own side because I'm the only one who wants to see me alive at the end of this. . . from this point of view, I guess I've been spying for most of my life, though until Voldemort's return, it was only against my charming family."
Now it was Harry's turn to be surprised, dumbfounded even. He had expected more question dodging, not an earnest and poignant monologue that more than answered his question. A smile made its way onto his face, and he had to hold back so that it didn't turn into a big ridiculous toothy grin. He wanted to hug the thin boy, he was so grateful for his decision (however momentary) to finally let up on the acting like an insufferable asshole bastard. This was his opening. It was time to put his cards on the table, because he simply hadn't the cards to play this particular swapping game.
"Draco." Malfoy frowned slightly at the use of his first name - not something either of them heard very often. "I'll be honest with you. I don't know altogether that much. That's why I'm here asking you. Dumbledore doesn't tell me hardly anything, and last year that got my godfather, the closest thing I had to a father, it got him killed. Dumbledore uses me as his pawn, and I'm okay with that, but I'm like you - I want to get out of this alive too, with as many of my friends as possible. And I don't think that can be done when I barely know what's going on. But you do know. So, how about a new deal? You tell me what you know, and keep me updated, and I'll be on your side. . ."
Malfoy appeared about to interrupt, so Harry grabbed his delicate, uncalloused hand and leaned forward to look intensely into his intense eyes. "You said my involvement has put your life at risk. Well, let my involvement protect you. As much as I hate to say it, I am Harry Potter, and it's more than a name, and even if it wasn't, it's a name that can go a long way. But it is more than a name and I guarantee that if you don't take me up on this offer, there will come a time when you'll wish you had, when you'll wish you were on my side. Because I'm Harry fucking Potter, and I'm a contender. We can help each other, or we can get in each other's way."
Finished, Potter released the soft hand and leaned back in his chair. Draco leaned back too, both boys engaging in a symbolic retreat to consider the other. Potter couldn't have known, and Draco's face revealed nothing, but he had just uttered the words that, in the deepest, most vulnerable recesses of his heart, Draco had always wanted to hear (albeit, he'd never even thought of the possibility that they could come from Potter): "I'll be on your side." He was so tired of being an island, but more than that, he was plagued by a loneliness so powerful and so old that it had long ago ceased to be a driving force and was instead an ingrained part of who he was. And yet it was stirred now, terrifying him with the raw vulnerability it exposed.
He suddenly wanted to jump up and scream and rage and knock over the table and hex Potter and damn him for offering him nothing and everything at the same time - for offering him the one thing he could never turn down, despite the certainty that Potter could never actually be on his side. After all, Potter was perfect champion of the Light, while he was. . . contaminated scum, an unworthy backstabbing slut, a disgusting, amoral, self serving, worthless piece of shit. The tirade of self abuse continued, in a voice obviously his father's, and the fury was replaced by defeated, nauseating self loathing. He was weak and pathetic, he decided, for grasping at what was offered, at what was really an unattainable pipedream. He knew he would accept the offer, and he hated himself all the more for it.
Most of his emotional turmoil had remained safe beneath his mask, but he had always been most susceptible in defeat (especially self defeat), and he failed to keep the resignation from his face or voice. "You drive a hard bargain, Potter. But I accept."
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Readers: Thanks for reviewing! More always welcome!
Chapter 3: Confrontation and the Deal
"You'll never live long enough to undo everything they've done to you."
- Ani DiFranco, 'Tis of Thee
Harry stayed up until one am the next night - a Tuesday. He did so again the following night, and the night after that. During the days, Malfoy mostly ignored him. The only skirmish that took place was, in fact, provoked by Ron, who got a bloody nose (from Goyle) and a severe ego lashing (from Malfoy) for his troubles. Harry had only intervened to pull Ron away before he either got punched again or else punished by Snape, who had just blown into the potion's room where the fight had broken out. Somehow, he had become painfully aware that just about every fight in the last year between the Malfoy trio and his trio had been incited by Ron. When he asked Hermione to deny his observation, she couldn't. Whatever unresolved emotions there were between her and Ron, she could not deny the more fixed aspects of his character. Of the three of them, Ron had changed the least in their years at Hogwarts, which was both a good and a bad thing.
Around midnight on the fourth night (Friday), his ability to survive on limited sleep finally beginning to wear thin, he finally saw what he was looking for: a moving label sporting the name D. Malfoy. He watched with grim satisfaction as the label made its way from the Slytherin dorms to the secret passage to Hogsmeade. When he saw it suddenly disappear, he made his own way to the secret passage wrapped in his invisibility cloak. Once there, he turned his wand light and sat down for a long wait.
Inevitably, he dozed off, only to be awaken hours later by a loud crack (sounding very much like someone apparating) and an "ooph!". Harry scrambled to his feet, but he couldn't see a single thing in the pitch black; however, the problem was soon solved by a few words from Malfoy, muttered in a strained voice. A pale blue ball of light appeared from his wavering wand, illuminating him where he lay on the ground, and then levitated up a few feet to hover above him. This feat accomplished, his arm gave into gravity and collapsed, returning to the crumpled, shaking body. His eyes were tightly shut and his jaw clenched. And his skin looked quite dirty.
Harry was suddenly very concerned. This was definitely not what he had been expecting, and the fact that Malfoy's state had him worried was a sure sign of just how disturbing the other boy's state appeared to be. Harry pushed down his hood and pushed back the rest of the cloak past his shoulders so that it hung down his back, exposing almost all of his body.
"Malfoy?" His whispering voice was void of its usual hostility, tainted instead with unease. But when Malfoy failed to react, he bent down and reached a hesitant hand towards a trembling shoulder. Upon contact, Malfoy's entire body lurched away, his eyes flying open frantically, and he clambered on hands and knees towards the wall, chest heaving.
"Shit, Malfoy!" Harry cried in surprise. What the hell?
After several long seconds, awareness replaced Malfoy's crazed look. Some attempt was made to erect his emotionless mask, but he gave up in favor of cradling his head between his knees (a position that buffered his shaking) and a faint, "Fuck you, Potter." But his voice was exhausted, and held no enmity. Harry frowned, then noticed something - his hand was sticky. He held it close to his face, then up to the pale blue light.
"Is this. . . blood?" Malfoy made no sign of having heard, though Harry was pretty sure he had. And he was pretty sure that it was blood on his hand, despite the poor lighting. "Malfoy. . . that's blood on your face, isn't it?"
His annoyance at Malfoy's obstinate silence began to outstrip his concern. He stood up and started down the tunnel, with a "Fine, you stubborn mule. I'm going to go get Madam Pompfrey."
There was a long moment of him retreating in which he thought Malfoy would just let him go; but then his ears picked it up. A croak. "Wait."
Harry turned and walked back towards the Slytherin, who finally raised his expressionless, blood and bruise darkened face. Harry crouched next to him, more than a little unnerved by the vacant eyes that made contact with him. "Don't tell Pompfrey," he added hoarsely, neither a demand nor an entreaty.
"Then let me have a look," Harry replied, reaching a hand towards the bleeding gash embedded in Malfoy's hairline. But Malfoy pulled his head away, and the grip around his knees tightened perceptively. "I can take care of my self," he snapped, though it lacked anything beyond mild irritation.
"Oh yeah? How?," Harry retorted.
Draco glared at him for making him do this in front of him, but he simply hadn't the strength at the moment to do what it would require to get away from (or do away with) the Gryffindor hero. He was exhausted and in a fair amount of pain, and he was still loosing blood. His mind felt fuzzy after hours of what was essentially torture, and he was having difficulty thinking past the need to heal himself. As much as he hated to show weakness, he was finding it difficult to care in his present situation. Harry already knew enough to damn him twice over.
So he unfolded himself so that he sat cross legged, a grimace of pain flicking across his face and his limbs freed to resume their trembling. With closed eyes he remained like this, sporting a surprisingly calm expression. Harry frowned at him, distinctly reminded of Muggle meditation. He was about to question Malfoy when the blond placed his hands on either side of his face and mumbled, "Anas rae helio, noches garath talla."
The caking blood did not disappear, but the bruises on his face did, and Harry was willing to bet that the gash had healed too. He watched Malfoy slip his hands into his robe and, after a moment of what appeared to be fumbling, spoke the words again. When he pulled his hands out of his robes, now coated in blood, Harry's queasiness increasing as the extent of Malfoy's injuries became apparent. Malfoy pulled up his trouser legs to reveal more torn, bleeding flesh; but he placed a hand on each calf and healed them too. He followed up by healing each arm with the other arm's hand. The shaking, however, was getting worse.
"Turn around."
Harry started. He had been so captivated by watching Malfoy heal himself that the other boy's voice took him completely by surprise. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?"
The expression on Malfoy's face was almost identical to the one it had held when he had uttered those haunting words five days ago. Still, it was only there for a split second, hardly long enough to register, before again being replaced with indifference. But even the wizarding world's best actor couldn't keep the note of resigned exhaustion from his words. "So that I may keep my dignity in this at least."
Harry felt sympathy pull at his heart - something he had once, only days ago, never thought possible of a Malfoy. So he turned to face away as Malfoy awkwardly hauled himself to his feet, then reached both hands into his pants to heal the wounds there. For while there was much of Draco that was not what it seemed, he was proud, if in his own shameless way. Indeed, it almost seemed as if his sense of self worth came from his pride, and not the other way around; for no matter how base his action, no matter how low he stooped, he was always proud of himself, and he was proud because it was bloody hard to do what he did, and to be who he was. So he would fight for himself if no one would fight for him, and he would fight alone if no one would fight beside him. He would use others shamelessly (and often deservedly), as they thought they used him. And it was his pride that let him do this - that gave him the right to also be a user (when he could), and not merely the used.
After a quiet moment, Harry turned back and looked at the thin, shaking figure that held itself up against the wall, breathing heavily. He moved towards him to help him, but the pale boy held out a hand to stop him. "Know any cleaning spells, Potter?"
Slowly, Harry nodded, though in all honesty, he wasn't altogether that sure he did. "Well, make yourself useful and lay one on me."
Harry almost smiled. The hostility had not resurfaced, but the voice had definitely sounded more like the Malfoy he knew and. . . hated. Though he was having some difficulty getting in touch with that hatred at the moment. He raised his wand, considered the spell for a moment, then uttered the words that came to mind. To his surprise (though Malfoy seemed unruffled), the spell worked and the dried blood disappeared from Malfoy's face, hands, and, presumably, the rest of his body. Such cleaning spells did not have the deep cleaning effect of a shower, and were often unable to completely do away with smell, but they made all the difference between being filthy and being able to pass oneself off as clean.
Malfoy inspected his hands for a moment, then raised them to feel for blood on his face. When satisfied that the spell had worked well enough, he began to limp heavily past Harry and towards Hogwarts proper, while using the wall as a support.
"Here, let me help."
Malfoy tried to ward him off, but he had neither the strength nor will to do it effectively; and so became as tense as steel when Harry wrapped an arm around his waste, and pulled his arm around his broad shoulders. It was a position that worked because the Malfoy had about two inches on Harry (two inches of leg, really), while Harry had a fair amount of bulk on the hard, scrawny body he supported. With an annoyed sigh, Malfoy let Harry help him, and even found some relief from his aching pains.
"Why are you shaking?"
"Why do you think, Potter?," he replied sharply. Harry thought of Neville, of how he had continued to jerk and twitch even after the Cruciatus curse had been lifted. Then he thought of his own encounter with that horrible pain. And then he recalled noting Malfoy's trembling the first time he had seen him in this passage.
"Cruciatus?" Malfoy didn't respond, eyes fixed straight ahead, but Harry knew he was right.
At the end of the passage, Harry allowed Malfoy to untangle himself, then watched as he removed his death eater garb, and replaced it with the Slytherin robes that were again found balled up on the floor. Then he muttered his own cleaning spell (a strong one meant for clothes and floors, not living beings), followed by the camouflaging spell that hid the death eater robes where the Slytherin ones had just been.
Once they had made their way to the Great Hall, Malfoy finally spoke again. "I'll take my leave of you here, Potter."
Harry shook his head. "No way. I'm going to see you to your dorms."
With a long suffering sigh, "I'm not going to the dorms."
"Where are you going, then?," Harry asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed.
"Stop looking at me like that," Malfoy snapped back, despite the fact that he wasn't even facing the green eyed boy. "I'm just going to the kitchens to get something to calm the shakes."
"Fine. I'm going with."
Malfoy just nodded, letting Harry again take up his place supporting his weight, and they made their way to the kitchens. At the door he disengaged himself from Harry and pushed his way past the heavy door.
"Master Draco! Dobby so happy to see! So relieved! Was so frightened! Dobby didn't want to have to go to Headmaster and tell him you hadn't come back!" Harry followed Malfoy in time to see Dobby rush at the blond and wrap himself around his legs. But on seeing Harry, his face contorted to an almost comical combination of terror and pleasure. "Master Harry! Dobby. . . uh, so great you are here!" He looked anxiously at Draco, then back at Harry, then again at Draco.
Harry looked at Malfoy with some confusion, a confusion that mutated into surprise upon seeing a faint smile tug at the thin lips. "It's okay, Dobby. Potter knows. . . a little anyway."
Joy flooded Dobby's face. "So good! Dobby so happy! Dobby told you Master Harry could help!"
Malfoy's face returned to its cold, empty state; he took a seat with a wince. "That's still to be seen."
Dobby nodded enthusiastically, unaffected by Malfoy's hard tone. He rushed off, and Harry took a seat opposite Malfoy. He smirked, though not anywhere near Malfoy's standard. "So I can help, can I? What, pray tell, can I help you with?"
Malfoy glared at him. He wanted to shout at the Gryffindor that Harry's involvement in his affairs could prove nothing but disastrous. He had, however, finally accepted that Harry wasn't going to drop it. So, given Potter's involvement, shouldn't he try to work the situation to his advantage? If that was even possible. . .
After a long pause, he made his move. "Tell you what, Potter. I'll make you a deal. For each question I answer, you must answer one of mine. If you should choose to accept, I will have to add the stipulation that, given the nature of the questions you are sure to ask, nothing is out of bounds."
Harry took a long, evaluating look at the still trembling Slytherin in front of him. Dobby arrived and placed a steaming cup of something in front of Malfoy. "Why should I trust you?"
"Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy hissed with such menace that Dobby scurried away. "If you don't trust me to speak the truth, then fuck off and leave me alone."
Harry glared back, just for appearances, but he was mentally kicking himself. He was the one who had cornered Malfoy to see if he could get some willing answers out of him. So he backed down, though not too obviously. "Fine. But you answer first. How can I help you?"
"I haven't a fucking clue. Dobby said you could help, not me. I think you're an interfering prat whose involvement in my affairs will most likely prove fatal. For me. But maybe for you too."
"That's no answer!"
"Yes, it is. Unsurprisingly, you just asked the wrong question. My turn. Why hasn't Dumbledore acted on Weasley's information and busted my father?"
Harry's eyebrows shot up. Malfoy's question told him more than his answer had, but now he was completely dumbfounded. "Ron?," he choked out.
"The father, you idiot."
Harry would've thought that he'd be happy to learn from Malfoy's question without having to give him anything; but he found himself instead embarrassed by his ignorance.
"I don't know."
Malfoy sneered. Dobby's concoction was doing its job and his shakes had disappeared. "I doubt you know very much, Potter."
"Why'd you make this stupid deal then?," Harry snapped, immediately regretting his words as Malfoy took it to be his question.
"Because I had hoped our unfortunate encounter on Friday could have some benefits outside increasing the likelihood of both our deaths. Now my turn. What does the full prophesy say?"
Harry felt a shiver run through him and his gut reaction was to not answer. But he had agreed, and he knew that he'd have to give something to get something. And he had already taken something from Malfoy. So he told him, reciting it, as it had been burned into his mind. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies, and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not, and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives, he one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."
Draco stared at him for several long moments. Though he took the recitation in stride, he was astonished that Potter had actually told him anything - surprised enough to reevaluate the dark haired boy. There was a disturbing rush of warmth at the fact that he had shown trust in him, him the backstabbing, cold hearted bastard. So he softened his features faintly, and nodded to Potter to ask his question.
Harry let a hesitant smile brush his face as he felt the hostility and tension ease. "When did you start spying for Dumbledore?"
Draco considered his words for a moment. It would be a small matter to answer the question in an entirely uninformative manner, but he did actually feel obligated to respond as straightforwardly as Potter had. More shockingly, however, he almost wanted to tell him. It wasn't easy when one's whole life was a lie - it was particularly hard one's mental health, something that had never been Draco's strong point. His neglected, sociopathic upbringing was in a continuous state of war with the dregs of his natural humanity, and so it was hard to get any peace of mind. He had never wanted to talk to anyone about it, as he had never actually been confronted with a safe opportunity; but now that he was, he did. He wanted to expose his inner world, to receive the social validation so necessary for most people's sense of identity.
"I don't spy for Dumbledore, I spy for myself. I pass information on to him sometimes, and to the Ministry, and to others working against Voldemort. Whoever I think will best use the information. If you're wondering why I didn't follow in Snape's footsteps, there are two reasons. On his side, Dumbledore prefers it this way, so he doesn't have to endorse my behavior or what I have to submit myself to. It would seem hypocritical to protect you so fiercely while sending me to the wolves every week, no? Though this does assume that he knows, which I suspect he does. Anyway, on my side, it's because Dumbledore's goals and my own don't quite overlap. The old coot wants to win this war at any cost, but I want to live to see this war won. So I'm on my own side because I'm the only one who wants to see me alive at the end of this. . . from this point of view, I guess I've been spying for most of my life, though until Voldemort's return, it was only against my charming family."
Now it was Harry's turn to be surprised, dumbfounded even. He had expected more question dodging, not an earnest and poignant monologue that more than answered his question. A smile made its way onto his face, and he had to hold back so that it didn't turn into a big ridiculous toothy grin. He wanted to hug the thin boy, he was so grateful for his decision (however momentary) to finally let up on the acting like an insufferable asshole bastard. This was his opening. It was time to put his cards on the table, because he simply hadn't the cards to play this particular swapping game.
"Draco." Malfoy frowned slightly at the use of his first name - not something either of them heard very often. "I'll be honest with you. I don't know altogether that much. That's why I'm here asking you. Dumbledore doesn't tell me hardly anything, and last year that got my godfather, the closest thing I had to a father, it got him killed. Dumbledore uses me as his pawn, and I'm okay with that, but I'm like you - I want to get out of this alive too, with as many of my friends as possible. And I don't think that can be done when I barely know what's going on. But you do know. So, how about a new deal? You tell me what you know, and keep me updated, and I'll be on your side. . ."
Malfoy appeared about to interrupt, so Harry grabbed his delicate, uncalloused hand and leaned forward to look intensely into his intense eyes. "You said my involvement has put your life at risk. Well, let my involvement protect you. As much as I hate to say it, I am Harry Potter, and it's more than a name, and even if it wasn't, it's a name that can go a long way. But it is more than a name and I guarantee that if you don't take me up on this offer, there will come a time when you'll wish you had, when you'll wish you were on my side. Because I'm Harry fucking Potter, and I'm a contender. We can help each other, or we can get in each other's way."
Finished, Potter released the soft hand and leaned back in his chair. Draco leaned back too, both boys engaging in a symbolic retreat to consider the other. Potter couldn't have known, and Draco's face revealed nothing, but he had just uttered the words that, in the deepest, most vulnerable recesses of his heart, Draco had always wanted to hear (albeit, he'd never even thought of the possibility that they could come from Potter): "I'll be on your side." He was so tired of being an island, but more than that, he was plagued by a loneliness so powerful and so old that it had long ago ceased to be a driving force and was instead an ingrained part of who he was. And yet it was stirred now, terrifying him with the raw vulnerability it exposed.
He suddenly wanted to jump up and scream and rage and knock over the table and hex Potter and damn him for offering him nothing and everything at the same time - for offering him the one thing he could never turn down, despite the certainty that Potter could never actually be on his side. After all, Potter was perfect champion of the Light, while he was. . . contaminated scum, an unworthy backstabbing slut, a disgusting, amoral, self serving, worthless piece of shit. The tirade of self abuse continued, in a voice obviously his father's, and the fury was replaced by defeated, nauseating self loathing. He was weak and pathetic, he decided, for grasping at what was offered, at what was really an unattainable pipedream. He knew he would accept the offer, and he hated himself all the more for it.
Most of his emotional turmoil had remained safe beneath his mask, but he had always been most susceptible in defeat (especially self defeat), and he failed to keep the resignation from his face or voice. "You drive a hard bargain, Potter. But I accept."