Chapter 4: First Breath

The Great Hall; December 1997; about 11 PM

Harry soothed him silently, healing his wounds so that new scar tissue gleamed white against paler white. Draco could feel the gentle sensation of hands glancing off his mended flesh, that fluttering titillation, and wondered what had changed.

Together, they sat on the Gryffindor table, the galleon and the cloak offered between them like penances for all past sin and enmity. This was in itself unreal, weird and wonderful like a mixture of snow and starlight.. A gift for when the ice world got too beautiful for abandonment.

What had changed? Some remarkable coincidence of fate or folly? He found himself led to the fight that begun and ended so many things. Draco tipped back his head to watch the snow falling, the snow that had melted peaceably from his life.

Collision.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Care of Magical Creatures; September 20, 1997; about 10:30 AM

Draco shot out his arm, hand clutching at where empty air had been moments earlier. His fingers clawed a grip, trembling with rage and horror, and seized Harry by the front of his robes.

"What the hell did you see?" he snarled, his voice low and shaking with hatred. His eyes flashed dangerously, cheeks glowed pink and Harry seemed stunned, wordless. "You're going to tell me, now, Potter. Answer me...answer me, you shit- answer me now."

Hermione forcibly restrained Ron from jumping Draco. Firenze was gone, as were the other centaurs; they had returned to the forest some time ago. Class had ended, though the three had waited in hopes that Harry would return- they had made up some sort of excuse for his absence, fed Hagrid, Crabbe, and Goyle some half-muttered story.

"Tell me."

Harry was pale, trembling though Draco had stopped shaking him. He closed his eyes a moment, regaining composure, and swallowed. He did not wish to open them again; those silver eyes had never came so close, or gleamed so brightly, and he noticed now that they only gleamed because they were glassy, like a doll's.

"Give me-…give me my cloak back."

"I don't have your bloody cloak, you arse. Tell me what you saw there. Tell me what you saw, and give me my coin back, or I-,"

"Or what, Malfoy?" Ron interjected. "Are you waiting for a tip or something?" Draco glanced automatically to the galleon, peeking glimpses of the sun through Harry's fingers.

"I never meant to give him that coin," said Draco, eying it with something stronger than greed. "I made…a mistake."  

"You very well did," said Harry suddenly. He pocketed the coin. "You're not getting this back until I get my cloak." With this, he made for the castle, leaving a smug Ron, an anxious Hermione, and an infuriated Draco Malfoy.

"Fuck you," he hissed, seething. "Fuck you, Potter."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Potions; September 20, 1997; about 11:15 AM

Draco spent the rest of the day hunting down that Potter. He had the coin, he had it, it was no longer tucked away, secure and within reach…the consequences began to filter in through his ears. If the whole school knew; if the whole damn school found out what had happened, found out that his family was in ruins and his father was dead…

I'm going to kill you Potter. He strode down the corridors, jostling those who dared cross his path to that dead man and probing into any opening that he could find. If all of Hogwarts knew- the shame would be simply unbearable. An unsettled feeling burned in his stomach with furious intensity; emotion, unused for so long, was concentrated and severe when finally released. Find you and curse you until you can't feel yourself for all the pain.

Harry was nowhere to be seen until Potions. Draco watched him find his seat, settling down slowly while avoiding all eyes. Harry made careful conversation with those around them, finding smiles and laughter in his voice when he obviously felt none. He looked ashen.

The professor entered soon after. Whatever they were learning, whatever Snape was going on about- Draco, for once, didn't give a damn and heard none of it. Throughout class he stared at Potter fiercely, as if hate itself could bore a gaping hole through the back of Harry's skull.

Meanwhile, he listened. The rumors would start soon, fueled by the words of revenge. They would twist their way through the ears of every insignificant student, curl within every mind and pull up the corners of every mouth into that mocking smile he knew so well. He would be turned upon, disgraced, and feel the cold light of that smile multiplied tenfold and turned on him.

He would crumble.

The snow would shudder down.

It was inevitable, yet he wanted to know when the rumors began, and so he listened ever more intently with eyes aimed to kill. There was nothing but the usual banter, whispered in soft undertones with a feeling of urgent secrecy. School-talk. Girl-talk.

Silence on talk of Draco Malfoy.

Harry was silent as well, feeling faintly assuaged but not enough to lay the matter to rest. The whole matter was working in his favor; there was only so long that even Draco could hold out, and Harry had struck the ultimate compromise in blackmail. He had definitely hit a nerve with that coin; he could feel its weight in his pocket, tapping against his thigh every time he shifted. With the portkey as proof, he could bring Draco to ruin, sever all those high connections that the Slytherin depended upon and leave him, broken, on the ground.

There was a distant discomfort in the idea. The loss of the invisibility cloak seemed to drive options into his head that he would have dubbed immoral before, but there were still those same principles, beating in that same heart. The heart of a true Gryffindor.

Bull shit.

Noble heart or no noble heart, he could only ignore the guilty angel whispering in one ear, and hear out the human boy calling into the other, demanding what little was left of his heart's desire to be returned. There was no other way.

Hah. Bull shit.

He screwed his brow together and remembered the wasteland that could only have been Draco's home. The galleon was its doorway; with it in his pocket, there was a sense of power, of control that he could manipulate to achieve his needs.

The cold charred remains of a childhood.

The things he could wheedle out of Malfoy, the revenge he could take for years of annoyance.

Malfoy's pride would be broken, the only thing left in his life.

Malfoy's pride could finally be broken; he would no longer be a rival in life.

The cloak. The galleon.

He sighed, wanting to bury his head in his arms or beat it against the table, but contented himself at staring into space.

"3 points from Gryffindor for Potter's daydreaming. You are here to learn as students, not to solve the great and pointless mysteries of your private life."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Corridors; September 20, 1997; about 12 PM

"Harry!" Hermione hissed urgently. "Walk faster, will you?"

The trio left Potions class, picking their way through the crowds on their way to lunch. Hermione, usually full of book-related chatter and cheery frankness, seemed particularly anxious and high-strung today. She kept an eye over her shoulder, and both she and Ron crowded Harry as they walked.

"Seeing basilisks again, Hermione?" Harry asked, attempting a light tone. Ron scowled.

"Malfoy's stalking you over that stupid galleon- can't imagine where it would lead to that could be so bloody important," he said slowly, with a bitter edge. He and Hermione had not asked what had happened on the other side of the portkey, though it was obvious they expected him to reveal it all eventually.

Harry remained silent on the matter. Until his final choice, there would be no telling; this one decision was certain in either case of exploitation or empathy.

He shot a searching glance behind him as they turned a corner. A blond head was clearly on their trail. "I wouldn't worry about it. He's all talk and plotting; never managed to do anything before, has he? We can't let him faze us now."

"Oh Harry, I don't know. He seemed really angry, and I can't recall seeing him losing his temper like that before. He might murder you at night, in that condition."

"Everyone loses control sometimes, Hermione."

"Not Draco," replied Ron darkly. They entered the Great Hall and found themselves swallowed into conversation at the Gryffindor table. Beneath the table and openly spoken word, Harry traced the shape of the coin through his robes. He could feel the glare that had been focused on him throughout the day, sighed, and resigned to the mass indecision he had been struggling through for hours now.

What is to be will be, he knew that from experience. It was the substance heroes depended on for a living, and Harry was well used to it by now. What is to be will be.

"Come with me, Potter."