Disclaimer: Ils ne sont pas les miens. Not mine, not mine, not mine.
Reviewers: Thank you, thank you, thank you! And thanks to my new beta reader! (Dear Redmeadow, don't worry, no Pansy action.)
Chapter 7: Weapons and Pawns
"Once upon a time I was falling in love, but now I'm only falling apart."
- Bonnie Raitt, Total Eclipse of the Heart
Harry muttered Draco's lighting spell, and a pale blue globe emerged from his wand before floating up to ceiling of the passage, casting soft light on Draco's features and causing Harry to grimace. His eyes were closed peacefully, but his face was a patchwork of blood and bruising, the hues of which were indistinguishable in such dim light, but were unmistakeably dark. Then Harry noticed that blood was pooling on the ground where he lay.
Shit, Shit, Shit! Harry had never seen Draco bleed so much; there had been blood smudges from where his blood soaked robes had touched the ground, but never had it flowed, never had it pooled. Panic gripped Harry, what should he do? Should he take him to Madam Pomfrey? Draco would never forgive him if he did. . . He decided to apply what little healing magic he knew, and if that didn't stop the bleeding or wake Draco up, then he would take him to Madam Pomfrey.
First, he pointed his wand at Draco's face and whispered the only healing spell he had ever been able to master; and it worked as well as it could, but it was a spell for healing minor injuries, not what he was being confronted with here. Still, the bruises faded, and most of the cuts healed themselves, save for a nasty, oozing gash through Draco's left eyebrow, which the spell was only able to close a little. Then Harry turned Draco onto his back and stripped off his death eater robes, flinging them aside and revealing light grey pyjamas soaked in blood. He winced and peeled off the shirt, exposing ugly bruises and shredded skin, seeping blood. His spell wove the skin back together and again healed most of the bruises, except a particularly large and dark bruise that Harry suspected indicated several broken ribs. He carefully wiped away the blood, then concluded that there was nothing more he could do there.
He gently lifted the battered body and healed the wounds on Draco's back; then he repeated the process on his arms.
"Draco, please wake up," Harry whined. He didn't want to take off Draco's bloodied pants - because, oddly enough, he didn't want to betray the blonde, didn't want to deprive the other boy of that small shred of dignity that he had tried to retain.
But Draco didn't wake, and Harry reluctantly slid his pants off, chuckling with pained affection at the lack of underwear. Actually, the damage didn't look that bad, not compared with his torso. He healed the cuts and bruises, wincing with sympathy at the injured organs; then he moved on to the legs, though his right leg sported a gash that couldn't be mended so easily.
Finally, he gently turned the limp body onto its right side.
Harry whimpered at what he saw. Blood was seeping from between pale, bruised cheeks, and dried blood was caked to his thighs and ass. Harry jerked away and gagged. He felt weak for a moment, as though he might pass out, his thoughts racing with crazed vigor and flooding his mind. It didn't take a genius for the pieces to fall into place: the torture, the rape, Draco's knowledge, his strange behavior, the Givers. . . Harry felt a rush of regret and self hate, and dry heaved as he thought about what he had snapped at Draco before he'd apparated. "I liked Pansy. You looked like a slut."
He forced himself not to think about everything and bit his lip until he tasted blood, trying to focus on the task at hand. He reached out with a trembling hand and parted the soft cheeks, then positioned his wand near the torn, bleeding hole and he hoarsely whispered the healing spell.
Harry turned Draco onto his back and retrieved the death eater robes to wrap him in. He reached out and tenderly stroked the side of the pale face, tears prickling at his eyes. "Oh Draco. Why didn't you tell me?"
He waited for a few moments. "Please wake up. Please."
But, of course, Draco did not wake up. So Harry gathered him in his arms and picked him up, surprised and concerned at how light the body was. He staggered down the passage, dreading the confrontation with Madam Pomfrey that was looking increasingly inevitable. However, a miracle occurred, and as he neared the exit, Draco stirred. Harry quickly settled him on the ground and watched with concern as Draco shifted, then sat up with a cry of pain and began to cough up blood while Harry held him and helped him support his weight.
"Draco, please. You have to heal yourself," Harry begged.
Draco nodded weakly and brought his shaking hands to his chest, where a punctured lung was trying to kill him. "Anas rae helio, noches garath talla," he rasped, then inhaled deeply as he found himself suddenly able to breathe without hindrance. After a moment, the stabbing pain above his left eye brought his hand to his temple, where he healed the gash through his eyebrow. He followed this action with a similar one directed at the aching wound on his leg. Only then was his mind endowed with the coherency to grasp his situation.
He wretched himself away from Harry's supportive embrace with an alarmed whimper and then struggled to his feet, only to collapse again with a sickening crack as his knees hit the ground, his legs too shaky to support him. Harry rushed to him. "Don't! Draco!"
Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, resisting his weak attempts to pull away until the body stilled. It was Draco's turn to bite his lip, trying desperately, futilely not to cry; but it was hopeless, and a pathetic whine slipped from his lips and tears escaped his eyes.
It was the power of validation. It was easy to ignore, to deny pain when no one else saw it, but recognition demanded acceptance; and so Draco broke down in agony and hurt, sobbing brokenly into Harry's shirt. Harry held him, stroking his back and hair, trying himself to come to grasp with the situation.
Finally, Draco drew away, pulling his robes tightly around his nudity and determinedly avoiding Harry's searching eyes. A long, heavy silence set in.
"Why didn't you tell me?," Harry asked carefully, kindly, gently.
There was a pause before a wavering, broken voice answered, "I told you. . . I'm going to survive this war. I know. . . I know. The best thing to do would be to kill myself, so Voldemort won't have access to me, to deprive him of the power I give him. . . But I've been hurt too much by both sides. I won't kill myself for your side and I won't let myself be used unconditionally by his side. I told you. I'm on my side. I do what I can so I can survive. I can't trust anyone else."
Draco looked up for a second, but his face instantly contorted in anger and pain upon seeing Harry's expression. "Don't you pity me! Don't you dare pity me!" He again tried to scramble to his feet, this time succeeding, though he still clung to the wall, hysteria fast encroaching. "I'm stronger than you! You may be more powerful, but I can ENDURE! Let's see you live through what I have." His voice was crazed and desperate, and he was groping his way along the wall instead of facing Harry.
Harry stood and maneuvered himself to grasp Draco's wandering hands with his own, pulling him close so that he couldn't look anywhere except into his eyes. "And I told YOU, I told you that I was on your side. I know you didn't believe me at the time, I didn't even believe it myself. But it's true now. Draco. Draco, listen to me." He cupped Draco's face in his hands, gently forcing him to look him in the eyes.
"I'm going to make this okay, I swear. I'm going to save you." And in that moment, Harry had never said anything so true, so dedicated. He had never wanted to save anyone like he wanted to save Draco right then. But Draco looked down, though nodding weakly, unbelievingly, anything to get Harry to back off. No one had ever been on his side, not even Pansy, and he didn't expect things to change now. Eventually, Harry helped him to the kitchens, where Dobby meekly got Draco a cup of whatever it was that he usually gave him to calm the shakes, but he didn't have the heart to question his broken companion anymore.
Their prolonged silence was not an uncomfortable one - indeed, it would have been far more difficult to try to say anything, and, consequently, the silence was welcome by both parties. Harry finally deposited him at the portrait that guarded the Slytherin dorms, then Draco's thoughts were at long last allowed to coagulate. He was filled with a desire to kill himself, simply as a consequence of the fact that someone else knew; but he hadn't the energy. He hadn't the energy to do anything beyond continuing on as he always had. It was inertia in its worst possible manifestation: an object in motion will stay in motion.
*
Draco didn't kill himself. He fell asleep, as did Harry, though the former's fatigue allowed sleep to come far more readily. Harry spent hours in bed, lying awake, terrorized by what he now knew. Gradually, he began to feel that he had already lost all that was worth fight for, that he had already failed to protect what he was supposed to protecting, saving, whatever.
He tried to catch Draco's eye the next day, during lunch and dinner, but the Slytherin proved quite skillful at inconspicuously avoiding his looks. He didn't know whether or not be relieved at Draco's ability to roll with the punches, no matter how debilitating, and just continue on.
Desperate, he finally managed to corner Draco on Monday, in the dungeons before their afternoon classes (with help from the Marauders' Map). "Draco. Please. Talk to me."
Reluctantly, Draco looked him in the eyes for the first time since Friday. He motioned with his head towards an empty classroom and then he followed Harry in. "What is it, Potter?," he asked emotionlessly.
"Back to 'Potter', are we? Do you want me to go back to calling you 'Malfoy' then?" But Draco didn't react at all - he didn't even feel anything. It was as though by uncovering his deepest secrets, Harry had annihilated the emotions that those secrets had protected, the only emotions he had. He was numb, and grateful for it.
When Draco didn't respond, Harry tried a different tactic. "Why did Voldemort hurt you so much more last time?"
He actually found comfort in the wry smile that responded to his question. "Voldemort? Ha! It was my father who beat me into an inch of my life. For embarrassing the Malfoy name, he said. For acting a whore, he said. Like he should care. He never wanted children. He bred with Narcissa because Voldemort commanded him to, because Narcissa was the daughter of a Giver and it was hoped that her child would also be one." Draco's voice was now loosing its sarcastic cool and was growing both dangerous and manic, anger finally making its presence known. "And I was. Only you killed him, didn't you? Before he could take advantage of the opportunity I presented. But that didn't mean my father couldn't take advantage of me, rape me, use me to increase his power. But then Voldemort returned. Again, courtesy of you, and now I have a new master, a new master that I can still not escape. Why did Voldemort hurt me, you ask. Why did Voldemort hurt me? Because he can. Because it is the only way for him to get what he wants from me! I told you once, Potter, the only way to help me is to destroy HIM." Draco sounded positively deadly by this point; his eyes were flashing an incredible shade of blue and he had never felt so raw, as if he was just waiting, hoping, for someone to come and wipe his existence from this world.
There was a deafening silence as the two stared at each other, but there was too much pain between them for any connection to be established. There was simply nothing more to be said. Finally, Draco gave a half hearted smile and departed, leaving Harry to wallow in his turbulent thoughts.
*
Suddenly, there was a noticeable change in the public interaction between Potter and Malfoy: the two avoided each other like the plague, to the point that both were willing to walk away when their social circles clashed. It would have perhaps caused more raised eyebrows than it did, had it not been for the fact that most of the students were preoccupied with the escalating violence taking place outside of Hogwarts.
Draco was used to operating on autopilot, and the numbness was almost welcome, but the same could not be said of Harry. Harry was gradually falling into a deep depression and a sense of hopelessness that his fading anger could no longer lift and inspire him beyond, leaving him to spend an increasing amount of time in morose thought and restless sleep. Hermione and Ron were both growing concerned and had made numerous attempts to rouse him from his stupor, but to no avail.
Draco stopped informing Harry of what nights he left Hogwarts to go to Voldemort, and Harry hadn't the heart to ask, though he watched the Marauders' Map every night, just to make sure Draco returned on the nights he did disappear. He received only one owl from him, with one line printed on a small slip of parchment: V attacks during X-mas hols. But all Harry could feel was relief that there wouldn't be many other students at Hogwarts over Christmas to die with him.
In the end, it took something drastic to jolt him into action. Two weeks before winter break, Ron and Ginny were called out of class and instructed to convene in Dumbledore's office. The Headmaster, looking old and worn, told them that their parents had been killed in a death eater raid on the Burrow. Ron relayed the information to Harry in shell shocked monosyllables while he was packing to go to the twins' apartment, where the rest of the Weasley family was assembling to mourn.
The very day that Ron and Ginny left, only a day after learning of the death of their parents, the Headmaster called Harry into his office.
"Harry," Dumbledore greeted him soberly, all youth finally drained from his eyes. Yes, he was the game master and had spent decades using people like pawns, but it was a job that had taken its toll. Like Draco had once said to Harry, when Harry had asked how he found the strength to continue, "It's a thankless job, but someone's got to do it." Someone had to be the game master, and the only person suitable for the job was someone who would hate having to do it. And Dumbledore did hate what he had to do - he hated allowing horrible things to happen to good people and he hated turning gentle people into killers, but someone had to do it. It was, after all, for the greater good.
"Headmaster," Harry responded icily.
With a sigh, "You know what happened. And I suspect you are aware that the final confrontation is looming near on the horizon now."
Harry nodded; he could feel it coming. Even without Draco's warning, he could feel it in his bones, in his scar, indeed his whole body was aching to fulfill prophesy. To kill or be killed. As Draco had said, it was only a matter of time now. Dumbledore continued, looking defeated and resigned, "Harry, we've done all we can. We've stalled as long as possible. I know it's not fair, I know you think that I have failed you. But I also know that you CAN defeat Voldemort, if you really try, and fulfill your destiny. You have the means at your disposal, you just have to recognize it, and be willing to use it. It is not my place to tell you what to do, not after I have betrayed your trust so grossly, but I do know that you can do this. I hate to say this, and I know you hate me for it too, but the rest is up to you. If your hatred is the price of winning this war, then it is a price I am willing to pay."
Without moving a muscle, Harry resisted the urge to kill him. The Headmaster had told him so little, and now here he was, leaving it all in Harry's lap - despite all of the Order's efforts, despite Sirius' and Molly's and Author's efforts, it still came down him. But he knew, he really KNEW, that he wasn't strong enough to confront Voldemort. If he did so now, he would surely be destroyed, and with him the hope of the wizarding world - and maybe the whole world. So he answered Dumbledore truthfully, stonily, glaring him in the eyes "I'm not strong enough. A confrontation now would kill me."
Dumbledore nodded slowly and, as always, Harry had the impression that he knew more than he was saying. "There is a way, Harry. If you search your soul, you'll realize it too."
His hate became too much to contain and he rose to his feet. Quietly, viciously, sarcastically, he hissed, "With all due respect, sir, FUCK YOU." With that, he spun on his heal and left the room. Dumbledore leaned back in his seat, steepling pointer fingers and running his eyes across the room as if for the last time. His pawns were all in position, now it was only a matter of waiting to see how the final game would play out.
*
Word of the Weasleys' death spread quickly through the school. The day after Harry's confrontation with Dumbledore, Draco stopped him in the hallway, despite the presence of passing students.
"Harry."
Harry ceased his single minded walking and turned to Draco, who tried to give a supportive smile, but failed miserably. "I'm sorry. I know how you felt - feel - about. . . them."
Harry looked at him for a moment, expressionlessly, emotionlessly taking in the blonde's tired beauty; then he nodded and walked away. A little hurt, Draco frowned and continued in the opposite direction, completely missing the fact that Harry abruptly came to halt and slowly turned to thoughtfully watch Draco's departure. Dumbledore's words were called forth and allowed to echo through Harry's mind. "You have the means at your disposal, you just have to recognize it, and be willing to use it."
When Draco disappeared from view, Harry ran to Hermione's room, suddenly knowing what he had to do.
XXXXX
Dum dum, dum dum. To be continued. . .
Reviewers: Thank you, thank you, thank you! And thanks to my new beta reader! (Dear Redmeadow, don't worry, no Pansy action.)
Chapter 7: Weapons and Pawns
"Once upon a time I was falling in love, but now I'm only falling apart."
- Bonnie Raitt, Total Eclipse of the Heart
Harry muttered Draco's lighting spell, and a pale blue globe emerged from his wand before floating up to ceiling of the passage, casting soft light on Draco's features and causing Harry to grimace. His eyes were closed peacefully, but his face was a patchwork of blood and bruising, the hues of which were indistinguishable in such dim light, but were unmistakeably dark. Then Harry noticed that blood was pooling on the ground where he lay.
Shit, Shit, Shit! Harry had never seen Draco bleed so much; there had been blood smudges from where his blood soaked robes had touched the ground, but never had it flowed, never had it pooled. Panic gripped Harry, what should he do? Should he take him to Madam Pomfrey? Draco would never forgive him if he did. . . He decided to apply what little healing magic he knew, and if that didn't stop the bleeding or wake Draco up, then he would take him to Madam Pomfrey.
First, he pointed his wand at Draco's face and whispered the only healing spell he had ever been able to master; and it worked as well as it could, but it was a spell for healing minor injuries, not what he was being confronted with here. Still, the bruises faded, and most of the cuts healed themselves, save for a nasty, oozing gash through Draco's left eyebrow, which the spell was only able to close a little. Then Harry turned Draco onto his back and stripped off his death eater robes, flinging them aside and revealing light grey pyjamas soaked in blood. He winced and peeled off the shirt, exposing ugly bruises and shredded skin, seeping blood. His spell wove the skin back together and again healed most of the bruises, except a particularly large and dark bruise that Harry suspected indicated several broken ribs. He carefully wiped away the blood, then concluded that there was nothing more he could do there.
He gently lifted the battered body and healed the wounds on Draco's back; then he repeated the process on his arms.
"Draco, please wake up," Harry whined. He didn't want to take off Draco's bloodied pants - because, oddly enough, he didn't want to betray the blonde, didn't want to deprive the other boy of that small shred of dignity that he had tried to retain.
But Draco didn't wake, and Harry reluctantly slid his pants off, chuckling with pained affection at the lack of underwear. Actually, the damage didn't look that bad, not compared with his torso. He healed the cuts and bruises, wincing with sympathy at the injured organs; then he moved on to the legs, though his right leg sported a gash that couldn't be mended so easily.
Finally, he gently turned the limp body onto its right side.
Harry whimpered at what he saw. Blood was seeping from between pale, bruised cheeks, and dried blood was caked to his thighs and ass. Harry jerked away and gagged. He felt weak for a moment, as though he might pass out, his thoughts racing with crazed vigor and flooding his mind. It didn't take a genius for the pieces to fall into place: the torture, the rape, Draco's knowledge, his strange behavior, the Givers. . . Harry felt a rush of regret and self hate, and dry heaved as he thought about what he had snapped at Draco before he'd apparated. "I liked Pansy. You looked like a slut."
He forced himself not to think about everything and bit his lip until he tasted blood, trying to focus on the task at hand. He reached out with a trembling hand and parted the soft cheeks, then positioned his wand near the torn, bleeding hole and he hoarsely whispered the healing spell.
Harry turned Draco onto his back and retrieved the death eater robes to wrap him in. He reached out and tenderly stroked the side of the pale face, tears prickling at his eyes. "Oh Draco. Why didn't you tell me?"
He waited for a few moments. "Please wake up. Please."
But, of course, Draco did not wake up. So Harry gathered him in his arms and picked him up, surprised and concerned at how light the body was. He staggered down the passage, dreading the confrontation with Madam Pomfrey that was looking increasingly inevitable. However, a miracle occurred, and as he neared the exit, Draco stirred. Harry quickly settled him on the ground and watched with concern as Draco shifted, then sat up with a cry of pain and began to cough up blood while Harry held him and helped him support his weight.
"Draco, please. You have to heal yourself," Harry begged.
Draco nodded weakly and brought his shaking hands to his chest, where a punctured lung was trying to kill him. "Anas rae helio, noches garath talla," he rasped, then inhaled deeply as he found himself suddenly able to breathe without hindrance. After a moment, the stabbing pain above his left eye brought his hand to his temple, where he healed the gash through his eyebrow. He followed this action with a similar one directed at the aching wound on his leg. Only then was his mind endowed with the coherency to grasp his situation.
He wretched himself away from Harry's supportive embrace with an alarmed whimper and then struggled to his feet, only to collapse again with a sickening crack as his knees hit the ground, his legs too shaky to support him. Harry rushed to him. "Don't! Draco!"
Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, resisting his weak attempts to pull away until the body stilled. It was Draco's turn to bite his lip, trying desperately, futilely not to cry; but it was hopeless, and a pathetic whine slipped from his lips and tears escaped his eyes.
It was the power of validation. It was easy to ignore, to deny pain when no one else saw it, but recognition demanded acceptance; and so Draco broke down in agony and hurt, sobbing brokenly into Harry's shirt. Harry held him, stroking his back and hair, trying himself to come to grasp with the situation.
Finally, Draco drew away, pulling his robes tightly around his nudity and determinedly avoiding Harry's searching eyes. A long, heavy silence set in.
"Why didn't you tell me?," Harry asked carefully, kindly, gently.
There was a pause before a wavering, broken voice answered, "I told you. . . I'm going to survive this war. I know. . . I know. The best thing to do would be to kill myself, so Voldemort won't have access to me, to deprive him of the power I give him. . . But I've been hurt too much by both sides. I won't kill myself for your side and I won't let myself be used unconditionally by his side. I told you. I'm on my side. I do what I can so I can survive. I can't trust anyone else."
Draco looked up for a second, but his face instantly contorted in anger and pain upon seeing Harry's expression. "Don't you pity me! Don't you dare pity me!" He again tried to scramble to his feet, this time succeeding, though he still clung to the wall, hysteria fast encroaching. "I'm stronger than you! You may be more powerful, but I can ENDURE! Let's see you live through what I have." His voice was crazed and desperate, and he was groping his way along the wall instead of facing Harry.
Harry stood and maneuvered himself to grasp Draco's wandering hands with his own, pulling him close so that he couldn't look anywhere except into his eyes. "And I told YOU, I told you that I was on your side. I know you didn't believe me at the time, I didn't even believe it myself. But it's true now. Draco. Draco, listen to me." He cupped Draco's face in his hands, gently forcing him to look him in the eyes.
"I'm going to make this okay, I swear. I'm going to save you." And in that moment, Harry had never said anything so true, so dedicated. He had never wanted to save anyone like he wanted to save Draco right then. But Draco looked down, though nodding weakly, unbelievingly, anything to get Harry to back off. No one had ever been on his side, not even Pansy, and he didn't expect things to change now. Eventually, Harry helped him to the kitchens, where Dobby meekly got Draco a cup of whatever it was that he usually gave him to calm the shakes, but he didn't have the heart to question his broken companion anymore.
Their prolonged silence was not an uncomfortable one - indeed, it would have been far more difficult to try to say anything, and, consequently, the silence was welcome by both parties. Harry finally deposited him at the portrait that guarded the Slytherin dorms, then Draco's thoughts were at long last allowed to coagulate. He was filled with a desire to kill himself, simply as a consequence of the fact that someone else knew; but he hadn't the energy. He hadn't the energy to do anything beyond continuing on as he always had. It was inertia in its worst possible manifestation: an object in motion will stay in motion.
*
Draco didn't kill himself. He fell asleep, as did Harry, though the former's fatigue allowed sleep to come far more readily. Harry spent hours in bed, lying awake, terrorized by what he now knew. Gradually, he began to feel that he had already lost all that was worth fight for, that he had already failed to protect what he was supposed to protecting, saving, whatever.
He tried to catch Draco's eye the next day, during lunch and dinner, but the Slytherin proved quite skillful at inconspicuously avoiding his looks. He didn't know whether or not be relieved at Draco's ability to roll with the punches, no matter how debilitating, and just continue on.
Desperate, he finally managed to corner Draco on Monday, in the dungeons before their afternoon classes (with help from the Marauders' Map). "Draco. Please. Talk to me."
Reluctantly, Draco looked him in the eyes for the first time since Friday. He motioned with his head towards an empty classroom and then he followed Harry in. "What is it, Potter?," he asked emotionlessly.
"Back to 'Potter', are we? Do you want me to go back to calling you 'Malfoy' then?" But Draco didn't react at all - he didn't even feel anything. It was as though by uncovering his deepest secrets, Harry had annihilated the emotions that those secrets had protected, the only emotions he had. He was numb, and grateful for it.
When Draco didn't respond, Harry tried a different tactic. "Why did Voldemort hurt you so much more last time?"
He actually found comfort in the wry smile that responded to his question. "Voldemort? Ha! It was my father who beat me into an inch of my life. For embarrassing the Malfoy name, he said. For acting a whore, he said. Like he should care. He never wanted children. He bred with Narcissa because Voldemort commanded him to, because Narcissa was the daughter of a Giver and it was hoped that her child would also be one." Draco's voice was now loosing its sarcastic cool and was growing both dangerous and manic, anger finally making its presence known. "And I was. Only you killed him, didn't you? Before he could take advantage of the opportunity I presented. But that didn't mean my father couldn't take advantage of me, rape me, use me to increase his power. But then Voldemort returned. Again, courtesy of you, and now I have a new master, a new master that I can still not escape. Why did Voldemort hurt me, you ask. Why did Voldemort hurt me? Because he can. Because it is the only way for him to get what he wants from me! I told you once, Potter, the only way to help me is to destroy HIM." Draco sounded positively deadly by this point; his eyes were flashing an incredible shade of blue and he had never felt so raw, as if he was just waiting, hoping, for someone to come and wipe his existence from this world.
There was a deafening silence as the two stared at each other, but there was too much pain between them for any connection to be established. There was simply nothing more to be said. Finally, Draco gave a half hearted smile and departed, leaving Harry to wallow in his turbulent thoughts.
*
Suddenly, there was a noticeable change in the public interaction between Potter and Malfoy: the two avoided each other like the plague, to the point that both were willing to walk away when their social circles clashed. It would have perhaps caused more raised eyebrows than it did, had it not been for the fact that most of the students were preoccupied with the escalating violence taking place outside of Hogwarts.
Draco was used to operating on autopilot, and the numbness was almost welcome, but the same could not be said of Harry. Harry was gradually falling into a deep depression and a sense of hopelessness that his fading anger could no longer lift and inspire him beyond, leaving him to spend an increasing amount of time in morose thought and restless sleep. Hermione and Ron were both growing concerned and had made numerous attempts to rouse him from his stupor, but to no avail.
Draco stopped informing Harry of what nights he left Hogwarts to go to Voldemort, and Harry hadn't the heart to ask, though he watched the Marauders' Map every night, just to make sure Draco returned on the nights he did disappear. He received only one owl from him, with one line printed on a small slip of parchment: V attacks during X-mas hols. But all Harry could feel was relief that there wouldn't be many other students at Hogwarts over Christmas to die with him.
In the end, it took something drastic to jolt him into action. Two weeks before winter break, Ron and Ginny were called out of class and instructed to convene in Dumbledore's office. The Headmaster, looking old and worn, told them that their parents had been killed in a death eater raid on the Burrow. Ron relayed the information to Harry in shell shocked monosyllables while he was packing to go to the twins' apartment, where the rest of the Weasley family was assembling to mourn.
The very day that Ron and Ginny left, only a day after learning of the death of their parents, the Headmaster called Harry into his office.
"Harry," Dumbledore greeted him soberly, all youth finally drained from his eyes. Yes, he was the game master and had spent decades using people like pawns, but it was a job that had taken its toll. Like Draco had once said to Harry, when Harry had asked how he found the strength to continue, "It's a thankless job, but someone's got to do it." Someone had to be the game master, and the only person suitable for the job was someone who would hate having to do it. And Dumbledore did hate what he had to do - he hated allowing horrible things to happen to good people and he hated turning gentle people into killers, but someone had to do it. It was, after all, for the greater good.
"Headmaster," Harry responded icily.
With a sigh, "You know what happened. And I suspect you are aware that the final confrontation is looming near on the horizon now."
Harry nodded; he could feel it coming. Even without Draco's warning, he could feel it in his bones, in his scar, indeed his whole body was aching to fulfill prophesy. To kill or be killed. As Draco had said, it was only a matter of time now. Dumbledore continued, looking defeated and resigned, "Harry, we've done all we can. We've stalled as long as possible. I know it's not fair, I know you think that I have failed you. But I also know that you CAN defeat Voldemort, if you really try, and fulfill your destiny. You have the means at your disposal, you just have to recognize it, and be willing to use it. It is not my place to tell you what to do, not after I have betrayed your trust so grossly, but I do know that you can do this. I hate to say this, and I know you hate me for it too, but the rest is up to you. If your hatred is the price of winning this war, then it is a price I am willing to pay."
Without moving a muscle, Harry resisted the urge to kill him. The Headmaster had told him so little, and now here he was, leaving it all in Harry's lap - despite all of the Order's efforts, despite Sirius' and Molly's and Author's efforts, it still came down him. But he knew, he really KNEW, that he wasn't strong enough to confront Voldemort. If he did so now, he would surely be destroyed, and with him the hope of the wizarding world - and maybe the whole world. So he answered Dumbledore truthfully, stonily, glaring him in the eyes "I'm not strong enough. A confrontation now would kill me."
Dumbledore nodded slowly and, as always, Harry had the impression that he knew more than he was saying. "There is a way, Harry. If you search your soul, you'll realize it too."
His hate became too much to contain and he rose to his feet. Quietly, viciously, sarcastically, he hissed, "With all due respect, sir, FUCK YOU." With that, he spun on his heal and left the room. Dumbledore leaned back in his seat, steepling pointer fingers and running his eyes across the room as if for the last time. His pawns were all in position, now it was only a matter of waiting to see how the final game would play out.
*
Word of the Weasleys' death spread quickly through the school. The day after Harry's confrontation with Dumbledore, Draco stopped him in the hallway, despite the presence of passing students.
"Harry."
Harry ceased his single minded walking and turned to Draco, who tried to give a supportive smile, but failed miserably. "I'm sorry. I know how you felt - feel - about. . . them."
Harry looked at him for a moment, expressionlessly, emotionlessly taking in the blonde's tired beauty; then he nodded and walked away. A little hurt, Draco frowned and continued in the opposite direction, completely missing the fact that Harry abruptly came to halt and slowly turned to thoughtfully watch Draco's departure. Dumbledore's words were called forth and allowed to echo through Harry's mind. "You have the means at your disposal, you just have to recognize it, and be willing to use it."
When Draco disappeared from view, Harry ran to Hermione's room, suddenly knowing what he had to do.
XXXXX
Dum dum, dum dum. To be continued. . .