Chapter 7: Calm before the Storm

On the lawns by the lake; November 10, 1997; about 2:30 PM

Winter began with a bang of heavy snowfall and a bout of silence. Although the snow was not unexpected, the hush itself was of epic proportions; Harry avoided Draco, and Draco avoided Harry, both to an obsessive level. They both seemed set out to reach a common goal of not having the least bit of contact, and double Potions was pleasantly subdued in the process.

If any of Draco's crowd seemed surprised, they didn't say so. Ron and Hermione, however, had been enormously delighted, though all the more suspicious at Draco's odd behavior. Either way, everyone seemed to agree that the snow was much needed, and had gotten here just in time.

This particular Saturday, the Gryffindors had begun one of their traditional snow-battles out by the lake. Harry had been ambushed earlier on that afternoon on his way to the library, and he was glad to give up History homework for a bit of distraction.

It was an all out massacre, with no teams and a great deal of confusion. There also being no allies or common enemies, it seemed as if no one was off-limits, and so the snow flew all the more rapidly. There was a great deal of good-natured squealing, screaming, running, and ducking among all.

Harry felt wonderfully carefree. As he got a snowball in the back of the head, he turned around, laughing, and began to throw one right back.

The offender was Draco Malfoy. Harry stopped, feeling suddenly angry at a gesture that would have been innocent coming from anyone else. Malfoy made even the snow impure.

It was odd how he looked so natural in the winter wonderland. Compared to the blindingly white snow all around, his cheeks seemed almost flushed, and he appeared not to be the least bit chilled. He was staring mutely, smiling a reminiscent sort of smile with his hands into his pockets. A thoughtful gesture.

Harry watched as he began to walk away, his form blurred in the steady fall of flurries. The snowflakes were delightfully thick, big enough to linger on his eyelashes, but the heavy flakes seemed camouflaged where they passed Draco's path. It began to become difficult to distinguish the sharp outlines of his form.

Remembering something he had been considering for some time now, Harry jogged toward him. Just before they entered the castle, Harry managed to catch his arm in mid-arc.

Draco turned to look at him, the curving movement of his head judged carefully. "What do you want, Potter?"

It was all about control. Harry kept his voice low as he spoke, casting suspicious glances at those who passed. "We need to talk. I'd like to get things sorted out."

Eying him, Draco smiled wanly, hints of an old smirk on his lips. "I bribed you, nearly took off your finger, could have gotten you in trouble with the Headmaster- and you would have been, if he didn't favor you so much. Have I got the slightest reason to trust you?"

 "I haven't got any reason to feel safe with you, either. At least you have the cloak to your advantage- which I don't have." He breathed. "Let's make a deal."

Draco considered. "Fine. Don't expect too much, Potter."

Harry shrugged, shifting some of the snow from his shoulders. "If you say so. What time?"

Draco looked amused, his eyebrow crooked slightly upward in suggestion of a stronger disdain. "I would have thought you had it planned. How does eleven sound, out on the balcony? It does hold so many fond memories."

"Eleven…that's fine. Remember to be there?"

"Possibly."

Draco pulled the door open and disappeared into the castle. Harry turned to continue the snowball fight, only to see the Gryffindors mostly silent, their eyes turned to regard him in question. The snow swirling about them served only to make them more regal and evaluating, standing tall while it turned about them. The judges of his life.

Harry knelt down slowly, crouched on his toes, and gathered a snowball. He threw it, hitting Seamus squarely in the head.

The raucous, gleeful noises soon resumed, but for Harry could still feel their question in the air, mingling with the winter. These were his friends, all around- they were too sure of him to accuse anything, but he knew the doubt that forced their smiles.

They could not accuse sin of The Boy Who Lived, but they could think it, and their snowballs felt poisonous falling to pieces against him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Balcony; November 10, 1997; Around 11 PM

The scene of the crime had been sterilized since that distant evening. The tapestry was mended, and as Harry removed the helmet and set it carefully on the ground, he was worried that it would no longer open for him. It did, however, and he passed through the hole expecting to be greeted by skeletons and Draco Malfoy.

Neither party was there. The skeletons had obviously been removed, perhaps to be properly buried, and Draco had not yet made his appearance. There was always the possibility that he wasn't coming; Harry decided to ignore that prospect.

The sound of ripping fabric sounded Draco's entrance. A short dagger seemed to slice easily through the solid stone behind him; Harry had been too delirious the last time to notice anything odd about it. As the wall parted and allowed him entrance, the stonework rippled like a curtain.

"You couldn't just come in the normal way?" Harry asked dryly.

Draco shrugged, tucking the knife into a rough leather sheath tied beside his money pouch. "You never told me how."

"Lumos." The area lit up dimly. Harry settled his wand so that the tip protruded from his pocket. "Dumbledore will get suspicious- I doubt anyone else knows about this place. I don't care what you say; if I go out of my way to break rules, he can't ignore it."

"Whatever, Potter. Worry about it if you want; it's your problem, after all."

Harry felt a familiar clench in his throat. "Fine. Let's just get this done, shall we?"

Shrug. "Be my guest."

Awkwardly, Harry began. "All right. I've been…thinking, ever since that-,"

"What?"

"That incident."

"You couldn't come up with a better word?" Draco crossed his arms comfortably, shifting his weight to his left leg. It gave him an unruffled appearance, and made Harry feel as if he was less in control of this scenario that he had hoped to be.

He sighed. "I did try. Couldn't come up with anything better. Can we move on?" Draco nodded enigmatically.

"Ever since that incident, I've been thinking we should call a truce. You give me back my cloak, and I'll give you your precious Portkey."

Draco looked mockingly intrigued, head tilted slightly forward in a purposeful manner. "Hmm."

"We both get what we want. It's called a compromise, if you've forgotten."

"Hmm." Merlin, he's being difficult.

"So what do you think?" said Harry impatiently.

"Hmm."

"Really, Malfoy, is it that difficult?" Calm down, Harry told himself. You're letting him get to you. That's exactly what he wants.

"No, not particularly. I've decided to refuse your, ahem, generous offer, but I'm trying to find the right insult to go along with it."

"What?!" Didn't he want the damn thing back? Harry thought of the galleon, hidden away in the drawer of his bedside table beneath several books. "But-,"

"No, Potter. No, for lack of a better word."

"But- why? Why the hell not- I mean, this is your Portkey, you nearly murdered me for it- remember? For bloody hell, Malfoy, why not?!"

Draco smiled, his lips curved pityingly upwards. "This deal of yours favors you too much. I'm resourceful. It'll only be a matter of time before I can wheedle the bloody thing out of you."

"But it'd be much simpler just trading! You return my cloak-,"

"Exactly. Can't be willingly returning something to you, now, can I?"

"But- Malfoy-,"

"You can screw your offer. I don't need your help to get anything back, Potter.  Especially anything of mine." The smile was gone, and however teasing it had been before, Harry would have preferred it now to this darker expression. Mocking in every sense of the word, Draco began to walk away.

Harry was fuming. Somehow he held back for a second, he wasn't sure how he managed it, and somehow he noticed the dagger hilt gleaming temptingly. He dove for it, seized it and sliced through the flimsy scabbard and a flash of Malfoy's bared flesh in the process.

Taken unaware, Draco hissed at the sudden pain and halted in his tracks, stumbling forward. By the time his cheek hit the ground, Harry had fallen upon him, the tip of the dagger catching a dragon-hide glove.

The knifepoint pinned only a fingertip, but it was enough to pull away the glove. Draco seemed not to notice, flailing about with Harry crouched over him. Expecting to see mutilation, it came as a shock to see the same flawless pattern of that pale flesh beneath it all.

"You've sunken down to Weasley's level, Potter! Get off- get off of me, Potter, get that bloody knife away, it's mine-,"

"Not until you've returned what belongs to me." Harry dislodged the glove, drawing the knife towards that pale, trembling throat. "Not until you give me what rightfully belongs to me."

"You think I'd give you a peaceful surrender?"

"You seem to think I'd accept it. But no, Malfoy- I want to see you screaming to your death."

"Liar. What about that image you have to protect, hero?" The steel at his neck was colder than any emptiness he'd ever felt. The touch of death. It seemed odd that they had held each other to it so often in the past weeks.

"I would do it," said Harry softly after the silence faded away.

"You're in denial, Potter." The blade slid like a paper cut, stinging in brief, bitter pain as if to convince him otherwise.  "You wouldn't. You're Dumbledore's boy, savior of the wizarding world. You wouldn't kill me, defenseless." He paused, added darkly, "You can't kill at all."

"You've never been more wrong," he growled. "I've killed before, Malfoy, more than you can imagine."

"I'm never wrong." It stung as it left his throat.

"It's worse than any hex you've ever sent." His voice was rising slightly now, getting to a desperate high. "I've killed; I've shouted the killing curse and saw that same green light that murdered my parents, and thought of revenge each time. Murder, Malfoy, I've murdered!"

"Liar."

"Damn you, Malfoy- saying 'mudblood' is nothing next to this! I'm bloodier than you, for once, I've killed them, I've killed them- ask Ron, he knows, he could tell you, anyone could tell you-,"

"Ask him what he did," growled Draco suddenly. "Ask him what he did, the bastard."

"Ron is worth more than you any day."

"Being valued more than me in a Gryffindor's terms is nothing to brag about. Even if it were true, it doesn't make him perfect, whatever you seem to believe." He was no longer trembling. "You trust your friends too much."

"What did he do then?" Harry jeered, "What did he do to offend that frail ego of yours, Malfoy?"

"You left it there," shot Draco, his profile sharp against the stone. "You left it out- you didn't think he could resist curiosity, did you?"

"He took-," The galleon. It was unspoken between them, hovering on the brink of speech, and Harry could not seem to roll it off his tongue. Ron had seen it, Ron who was so bitter, could not contain whatever he felt- he had seen it, and-

-no.

"Yes," said Draco. "The galleon."

"You're wrong," Harry objected, the knife flashing at the sky between his fingertips. "Decent people don't think the way you do." A dread was sinking into his stomach.

"You thought I wouldn't find out?" In the darkness, his eyes were black, not silver. "You thought I could ignore all those whispers, pointed fingers?"

"There was nothing of the sort."

"That laughing? You somehow got it into your head that passing Gryffindors laughing openly in my face could be passed off as coincidence, Potter?" he sneered, almost hysterical, though Harry could not think how anyone other than he could pull it off.

"He wouldn't do it! Ron is-,"

"You don't bloody know who he is, Potter! Because you only see what you tell yourself to see, all these years. He isn't that precious little Weasley that you thought you knew!" He had waited for this moment.

"You're wrong!" Harry was shouting now, the roars paining his ears, but he ignored them, not wanting to hear it, wanting all this treachery to turn out false. "You're bloody wrong, Malfoy, shut up, shut up-,"

"-Too innocent to see the truth about people-,"

"Damn you Malfoy!"

"-It's been there all along-,"

"Shut up!! Damn you, shut up before I tear out your throat-,"

"Nobody's what they pretend to be, not even your Weasley-,"

"No!-,"

"-Everyone has their demons. There is no such thing as purity. There is no such thing as perfection-"   

"Crucio!" Malfoy's whispers turned into screams, more terrible than any screams of inflicted pain than Harry had ever heard. Like calling to death itself, because Draco was adding his own cries to those torn out of his chest. Pain of the soul.

Harry himself could only remember those deadly, deadly whispers, which had pained him more than any agony.

Minutes, hours, seconds later Draco came out of his pain laughing and sobbing all at once. "There-," he said, gasping, moving slowly as if every nerve was severed. "There's that demon of yours, Potter." He glanced up at him appraisingly. "You're more Slytherin than I thought."

Wordlessly, Harry kicked him, moving on impulse and instinct and that Slytherin that Draco said was buried so deep within. He stood there, looking terrible and imperious, and yet Draco shouted after him as if he were already meters away.

"I knew you all along, Potter. That demon was in there, I knew it was. It took time, Potter, but I've lured it out and its finally here. All those years. After all those years, the truth comes out. I finally know what you really are, Potter."

Harry simmered. "You will never know me, Malfoy."

"You will never know the rest of us. Ask your Weasley. He'll tell you."

He left, feeling dirty throughout his body. As he walked, he wondered, cursing himself and trying to steer away those words.

Demon.

You will never know the rest of us.

Odd, how it applied. He walked past empty classrooms as if they shuddered in his wake, feeling like some manic instinct he had been withholding all these years had broken loose, and he was not truly righteous at all. Slaughterer. Cold-blooded player of torment. They sounded discordant next his usual titles, and the immense guilt found refuge in his dirty heart.

He had never been what it had seemed. To anyone, or himself. It burned him.

Could he really play the villain?

Draco laughed in the distance.