Author's Notes: Oooh! I like this part, it's EVIL… does that make me sick and twisted? I mean seriously! The next chapter gets some cute little admonisions but this one… this is my version of a play ground, and yes, it does hurt this much. Anyway, thank you very much Berry-Berry, and Sapphrine, I hope you like this part, it's good fun, I like it. Tuulikki, why do you insist on pegging my fics in one? No, but really, that's a good thing, because I was hoping the meaning wasn't lost in translation (from my head to paper that is). ANYONE THAT DOESN'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I'M TALKING ABOUT, GO READ TUULIKKI'S SECOND REVIEW! Ah, I feel better. ^_~ Anyway, apparently since people don't R&R on Thanksgiving, I'll just beg – please(s) and thank you(s) for reviewing for me (PLEEEEEEZE!).
Disclaimers: The person that owns Harry Potter sure as hell wouldn't do this to it. The person that owns Harry Potter sure as hell wouldn't do this to it. *snickers* (Though I'm beginning to think she should. I mean, come on, we all know that Cho wasn't worth the paper she was printed on! She was fan-service!) Anyway, I don't own it, I never will, don't get pissed at me for having a little fun. Oh, and Sapphrine, I take no responsibility for broken hearts. ^_~
Some Days
Midnight came and went again. Harry was kept awake by the echoes of distant waterfalls, resounding through the dungeons. The lake overflowed and drops of water came seeping through the soil to crash against the stone floor of Hogwarts with great wet thuds. Everything was wet, haunting, the senseless drip gave Harry's dead their own voices. Possessing the water, hissing and popping complaints.
He would not go upstairs where it was warm and dry, no matter how much he wanted to. Warm and dry didn't exist in the rain, it was living a lie that only children know to fear when the thunder breaks. Harry would rather be a frightened but honest child than an adult living in false security. Last night's nightmare had shaken him badly. The moment he was regaining his feet they were wrenched from under him. Harry had never been proficient in his divination courses, but he felt that something would happen, and he learned to trust those feelings.
The rain concealed his footsteps, he moved most freely in the shadows and nasty weather. He was born in this weather, lived in this weather, learning to skirt the shadows and move with the thunderclaps. He had survived his father in the Malfoy dungeons, and survived the Death Eater insurrection on a night like this. The violence of these moments was ingrained in him, the brutality of lightening gave him courage. Storms made him feel at home in all the wrong ways, but they were the only ways he knew.
Harry was jumpy tonight, starting at shadows and wary of dripping water, he was amused by this. The Gryffindor hero had nothing to fear down here, nothing but him. He knew these tunnels like he knew his hands and he suspected that Harry did as well, but the game of cat and mouse had to end. Draco had lost sight of who was the cat. Every time he made a move against Harry he wound up running away. The boy kept relaxing against him like a pet, Draco had always been fond of his pets but today his losing streak would end. The perpetual thorn in his side, the young man that had caused his father's death, the man that destroyed his family name and his financial well being. Affectionate or not, Harry would die.
His dead were moaning. It might have been the wind, leaking through the stones, the noise reverberating across the vast and empty chambers, it whipped through the tunnels and sang out a haunting dirge. His dead were moaning and crying, their tears splattering, echoing as the cold seeped into his skin. This was real winter, this was the onset of the dire months, this was the reality that fate had subjected him to, and Harry didn't want to leave it. Cocoa be damned, the last time he had ventured from this honest imprisonment, he'd been terrified, caught up in a web of dreams and deceit.
Harry shuddered at the memory and trudged on, unable to sleep, unable to relax, even in the catacombs where he belonged. His heavy foot falls drowned out any sound, he didn't want to listen to the dead surrounding him, the voices and memories in his head were enough.
Harry closed his eyes and pulled his not-so-fresh robes around him, eventually he would get out of this rut. He would start something, become something akin to human once more. Harry knew without a doubt that he would never be the same, he valued honesty and integrity above all things and they had betrayed him, but it was so cold, and so lonely. It wouldn't be a denial of his morals to accept the warmth of others; it wouldn't be turning his back on his knowledge of the world to be happy, it would merely be acting out of necessity, turning a blind eye to a few white lies – it would be human. He stumbled over a loose slab of marble from an exhumed grave. Unable to catch his balance, Harry floundered in his large robes. The Gryffindor held his arms before him to break his fall but something abruptly reversed his momentum. A small "oomph" forced its way out of Harry as he hit a familiar solidity behind him and his head was wrenched backwards viciously. He had to balance on his toes to keep his neck from breaking as his welcomed assailant twisted it to the side – no knives in this encounter.
The hand around his neck tightened and Harry squeaked in pain, he wasn't choking or suffocating, but the strain on his neck was causing him grave discomfort, it wasn't meant to bend that way, any moment it would break. He could feel it… "Draco…!"
The thumb under his jaw pushed harder into the soft flesh – Harry was amazed to note that he could feel his tonsils shifting with it. "M-Malfoy stop! Please!"
Draco didn't listen, he couldn't hear Harry through his desperation. The blood pounded in his ears, blurred his vision and heated his skin unbearably – Harry was a searing presence in his mind, if Draco didn't kill him now, he never would. The hand that had been pinning Harry's arms moved to cover his moth, succeeding in further displacing Harry's head. Harry whimpered, eyes wide and rolling above the cover of Draco's bruising hand.
Draco could feel, he could feel Harry blindly grasping at his robes, seeking a vulnerability. He could feel the hot breath on his hand as his victim gasped for air, struggling to sustain himself by breathing through his nostrils. He could feel Harry's warm skin under his hands and his frantic pulse beating a tattoo against his palm. He wasn't prepared. He couldn't have imagined how intimate the act of snapping someone's neck could be. Harry was quivering in fear and pain, it couldn't hurt that much could it? The would-be murderer gave Harry's head, something so small and fragile in his grasp, an experimental little shove.
Harry bit back a scream that came out as a muffled whimper. His eyes shut tightly against the pain in a form of acceptance, but a single tear managed to escape the confines of his thick eyelashes, down his cheek, to land with a wet thwap on Draco's hand. The Slytherin wrenched his hands away as though Harry's tears had burnt him to the core, without thinking about his actions he completely released his murder victim save a gentle hold on Harry's elbow. Things weren't supposed to be like this. Harry was supposed to fight him, they were supposed to have their wands drawn, trading insults and curses as they fought on fair ground and Draco finally, after all the years, emerged victorious.
But no matter what, no matter how broken apart Harry became, Draco had never, in real life or his frequent day dreams, seen him cry. It occurred to him then that he never wanted to see that, in his entire career as antagonist extraordinaire he never wanted to see Harry cry like this. On his knees perhaps, bowed down to Draco's superiority, screaming and wailing, pitifully broken, but never crying for the pain. Never tears.
Harry was currently slumped against him, breathing heavily and trying his damnedest not to move his sore neck. His bones ached, his flesh stung where Draco's abrasive touch had marred it, his muscles were twitching in recovery from the strain, he couldn't hold himself up anymore. "Potter." Draco murmured against him, almost tenderly brushing the line of bruises on Harry's neck.
Harry unexpectedly turned towards Draco, burying his face in Draco's robes to hide the tears, Voldemort had held him like that, crushing his wind-pipe, trying to snap his neck. It was the nightmare, it was the danger in the forest all over again – the centaurs had known he was cursed, they had known he would die. "Why did you do that?" He sobbed into Draco's robes, not for comfort but concealment. His head hurt, more than it ever had in the past, a dull ache that threatened to overwhelm him. If headaches had a taste, this one would be bitter, like a hangover, like dehydration.
Instinctively Draco wrapped his arms around the smaller boy, gently cradling him. Unlike the embraces of the past, there was no malicious intent. "I'm going to kill you."
Harry glared straight up at him, green eyes full to the brim with tears, "So kill me all ready! Why did you have to do that?"
There was an oddly shaped scar on Harry's neck, it was faint, it would be impossible to recognize unless someone was touching the spot, which Draco was. He knew what it was immediately after he felt it; one of Voldemort's many extravagant rings had left its mark on Harry during the last battle. With his hands resting gracefully on Harry's shoulders, Draco suddenly felt guilty for trying to terrify the boy. He had succeeded in doing that now; it would be merciful to kill him now when he was at peace, or some semblance of it. The Gryffindor was pathetic, he really was. Leaning against his only enemy, clutching Draco as if he were a life-line. What did Harry want out of this, how could he possibly benefit? Did he really want to die as his words had implied or was he simply calling Malfoy's bluff?
Well Draco had news for him! It was no bluff, he would kill Harry, to recover his sanity, to restore the family name to its proper place of respect, to avenge his father. He wouldn't do it tonight, this type of breakdown was not what he was looking for, he wanted Harry defeated, not helpless. Ever so gently, though Harry's muscles screamed in protest and he whimpered, Draco forced Harry back and raised his chin so they were both standing on their own steam, looking each other in the eye. "I'm sorry." He said, remarkably genuine, "and I will kill you."
The Slytherin threw Harry to the ground, ignoring his pained grunt and swept down a corridor without a second glance.
~
The air was fresh and clean, it was crisp, clear and refreshing. Harry had come out to the pitch for a flight, to clear his mind and hopefully his stomach shortly after midnight. Harry had once again been caught by Snape in a corridor, and once again the potions master force fed him a complete meal. The professor had been hunting him down once a week to make sure he ate, Harry always came away feeling too full. It wasn't his fault he didn't eat much, he just hadn't been motivated to consume food, then his stomach shrank drastically and he couldn't stomach anything! His anorexia wasn't deliberate, nor was it spurned by self hatred (Harry admitted it, he was too damned skinny) but Snape saw it as a problem, a problem that he wasn't allowing to develop into bulimia. Snape had even forced chocolate on Harry, despite the boy's adamant dislike of sweets. So Harry had come to the pitch to work off some of the heaviness that had settled like lead in his stomach. He had vowed not to come outside again after the nightmare about Bane, but the call of fresh air and freedom was overpowering. Draco's assault had hurt terribly, his neck was still sore, even Snape had stared at the bruises – but by comparison to Voldemort, Aragog who would have stuffed him like a turkey then eaten him alive, to Bane who would have eagerly torn him apart, Draco was a fluffy bunny. The nightmare had been terrible, but the future events it represented had been anticlimactic, albeit painful.
It was possible that he was finally recovering, his need to be alone in a desolate place lessened by time, or more likely, he just loved to fly. He had loved the very idea since he was a small child, dreaming of flying motorcycles and longing for his own wings before he even knew who Voldemort was. Flight had never lied to him, the games attached to it perhaps, the people involved most definitely, but when he was alone, in the air… he could do anything, be anything. The air was soothing, without the human interaction involved in Quidditch, it was extremely relaxing. Maybe one day he would invent a spell that allowed wizards to sleep on their brooms without falling off of them.
Earlier in his school career, Harry had snitched a snitch from the Quidditch lock-box, it had amused him at the time, and now he had something to practice with. The additional human interaction wasn't appreciated at the moment, but Harry still loved Quidditch, and he hadn't played in too long. He released the snitch in the bright moonlight and allowed it five minutes to disappear while he did a few familiar flips and barrel rolls, then he began scanning the sky. The darkness made it more difficult to spot the golf-ball-sized object but he eventually set eyes on it, near the ground, hovering around the third goal post on the Slytherin– urk, opposing – side. Harry dove for it, but the snitch, as though sensing his intent, shot up and right out of Harry's grasp. The game of cat and mouse continued for some time, Harry right behind the speeding little orb, intensely focused on it.
He was moving out of the pitch, the snitch racing across the grounds towards the forest, Harry dutifully followed it. The seeker would be very upset if one of his most prized possessions was lost because he was afraid of the forest. He continued his hot pursuit, he almost had it… almost, just a little further…
Harry had to bank sharply left as he swerved to avoid the person hovering in mid air. This person caught the snitch with the ease of a seeker and even in the weak moonlight Harry could put two and two together. "Dad!" he gasped.
James Potter released the snitch and Harry saw much to his fascination, that the letters L.E. were engraved upon it. "Mom?"
"I… I thought you were dead!" Harry exclaimed, they were alive, or was this a dream of some sort?
"I'm sorry Harry," his father tried consolingly, "It couldn't be helped."
"You're dead." Harry muttered frantically to himself, "you're dead, I'm having a nightmare, and pretty soon the pink and green hippopotamuses are going to come parading down the lane."
James winced, "Harry. It's no dream. I'm sorry we had to do this, but please understand that Dumbledore thought it was necessary. What Voldemort killed, well, he didn't kill anything – it was simulacrum. The headmaster didn't want us in danger but you… you were the one in the prophecy; you were the one that was meant to bring him down. We couldn't interfere."
Harry stared blankly at his father, or this mockery of his father, this was impossible, inconceivable. It wasn't even a good lie, it was pathetic. But somehow, Harry wanted to believe it, he wanted to know that his father was well and truly alive. However, alive or not, Harry was furious. "Okay, assuming this melodrama, and a bad one at that, is true, who the hell would sacrifice their son to save their own lives?"
"Harry you don't understand!" He cried, "Please, you were the boy in the prophecy, and you were meant to kill him. I didn't want you to suffer, you killed him and you still had your childhood ahead of you. I had every confidence that you would defeat him and look Harry, you did!"
"At what cost!?" Harry roared, this was ridiculous! Absolutely ludicrous! "You're proposing that you and mum replaced yourselves with simulacrum and left me to die in Godric's Hollow simply because you had an inkling that I would survive an attack on Voldemort? Jesus there were so many flaws with that plan I can't even begin to list them all. What if Voldemort hadn't shown up before the spell wore off and I had been left in an empty house, or he had never shown up at all and I starved to death! I was only one year old, how on earth could you have been so stupid?!"
"Harry – "
"Then you leave me with mum's stupid sister instead of taking me back in?! What in gods name were you thinking? This lie is pitiable!"
"Harry. I know you're upset, I know you don't believe me, but… just play with me. Seekers challenge, you'll see, your mother will keep score." His father pointed at the ground where his mother sat and they proceeded to play one on one as the thunderheads rolled in. If this were just a dream, Harry should have no reason to fear, and if this were some desperate delusion, he might as well enjoy it while it was there, furious as he was.
A lightning bolt shot across the sky and James' features darkened. He flew to protect his son, and Harry saw how magnificent he really was, proud and daring, but he knew what would happen next. There was a clap of thunder, followed shortly by another flash of lightning, but this one was green. James Potter slumped over his broom then plummeted off of it, his robes fluttering futilely. Mocking him. Lily screamed, his mother screamed pleading for his life, her life. Harry had heard this so many times it was an ingrained part of his psyche. Another flash and she too was dead.
Finally the originator of the flashes came into view beyond the snitch and the still-hovering broom of his newly dead father, he was tall, lean, and terrifying as he had ever been. Tom Riddle was not the snake-like Volemort that Harry had killed, he appeared more human, though acted less so.
"And so you see little Potter," Voldemort spoke patronizingly and Harry growled, "you've just killed your parents."
Harry's mouth fell open. "You mean my father was telling the truth?" It may have seemed strange to be asking Voldemort to verify the statement, but Harry knew without a doubt that Voldemort had never lied to him.
"Oh quite." He said with no small amount of amusement, "you could verify the fact by inspecting their bodies, but I doubt you'll have time. You see Harry Potter, I'm going to kill you right now. Though I daresay you'll have plenty of time to apologize to your parents in hell."
Harry reached for his wand and realized that he didn't have it with him. Tom Riddle smirked broadly and twirled something between his graceful fingers, something that looked suspiciously like Harry's wand. Harry gulped audibly as Voldemort pointed it at him, the Gryffindor knew he was in a grave amount of trouble – he was about to die.
"Avada"
Harry closed his eyes and felt his fingers going numb, would he stand a better chance of survival if he just leapt off his broom?
"Kedavra."
Harry fell, he could feel himself falling, could hear the wind catching his robes as they flapped, he almost felt the sick impact of the ground. Perhaps he was unconscious, or dead, but somewhere in the distance of his mind, he felt Voldemort's laughter. Was this death, was he passing into the next world as Dumbledore had always called it? Everything was becoming blurry, though how the black of his eyelids could be blurry was beyond him.
"Potter." Voldemort?
"Potter get up!" No, not possible, Voldemort would never doubt his own curses. He knew Harry was dead.
Harry groaned and his eyes fluttered, "Potter! I did not feed you so you could fall asleep in my arm chair. Now get up. If you're that tired, get back to your dorm."
Harry sat up, scratched his head, cleaned his glasses and looked sheepishly at Snape. "I'm convinced you put an anesthetic in the mash." Snape raised an eyebrow. Harry sighed and got to his feet, "Thank you professor."
~
Hermione's brand new boots had scuffed toes; she noticed this as she shuffled through the labyrinth of dungeons staring at her feet in search of her friend. Ron was still upset with him, and as much as she loved the red-head, he was naive, always expecting things to be wonderful and happy like they were before Voldemort. Hermione knew that it wouldn't be easy for Harry, but she needed to talk to him.
Everyone in the Great Hall had looked on in horror as Harry and Voldemort were swathed in a vicious looking black cloud. The combatants both those supportive of Harry, and others fighting for Voldemort stopped fighting the instant it arose. Many people tried rushing into the obstruction, but met a solid, crystalline wall. No one would get through that barrier until one of the people inside escaped it. When Harry had been the one to emerge, the fighting resumed, Death Eaters struggling for their Master's memory and the inhabitants of the school fighting to defend themselves and Harry Potter, who was sitting limp as a rag doll in the middle of it all.
Hermione had not been able to see Harry for days, Madame Pomfrey insisted that he be kept in solitary confinement until she could be sure of his health, but every once in a long while, she would let in visitors. When Hermione was finally able to see her friend, his face had been so tragic, so unlike the Harry she knew that she could hardly bear to look. He had seemed so solid merely days before the attack, but now he appeared broken and hollow of anything but despair. He looked utterly betrayed, and Hermione didn't have a spell in her renowned repertoire that could fix him.
Harry's physical recovery had not been an easy one; he emerged from the dark crystalline shield bloody and stunned, and he still bore the scars of the conflict. No one had realized it at the time, but Harry Potter had very nearly lost his arm. As Harry relayed the story of Voldemort's hands quite literally pulled his joints apart he remained completely emotionless, Hermione had shivered thinking about it, his skin ripping apart under Voldemort's fingernails, his muscles tearing with the strain of maintaining his grip on Voldemort's neck… it was a brutal tale. He had been unwilling to talk about it since, distant and cold, shuddering away from their affection.
Hermione didn't understand, she had done her best to research Harry's affliction, but she had never wanted to be completely isolated from the world. Now she was determined to talk to him as she explored the basement of Hogwarts – it was truly amazing and merited more exploration, but she didn't have the time.
The determined Head Girl quickened her step as she passed one of the potions rooms for the third time. She didn't want Snape to think she was loitering, and she certainly didn't want Snape to know what she was actually doing. Pressed close to the wall, walking fast with her head down, she didn't notice when another pair of feet were headed her way. She did, however, notice when she ran into the owner of those feet.
"Watch where you're going Granger." Drawled Malfoy as Hermione sprawled at his feet. Draco watched her coldly as she gathered her books and brushed her wild hair away from her face. "Aren't you going to apologize?"
Finally, climbing to her feet, she nodded to him. "Excuse me." It passed as both an apology and a curt dismissal as Hermione walked away with the same brisk pace.
"Granger." Malfoy's voice stopped her in her tracks, "He doesn't want to see you." With that he walked away like nothing happened.
"Barmy git." Sometimes it felt good to quote Ron.
~
How dare she? How could she come waltzing down here to patronize him. "Oh Harry, we all miss you. Ron is still upset, but I'm sure you could patch things up. Oh Harry, I know it was terrible but you have to move on. Oh Harry…." Harry Potter had never been more sickened in his life. If he heard another "Oh Harry" he might scream. Her self-importance had only served to infuriate him, "but I'm your friend, I'll understand, just tell me…" She could never understand because Harry himself didn't understand. He loathed the sympathetic prods and despised the shocked look she'd thrown him as she stared pointedly at his jutting collar bones and sunken cheeks. Yes, he knew he was too thin thank-you-very-much, there was no point in belaboring it.
With a large thunk Harry realized he hit one of the stone walls of the tunnels. Great, now his fist hurt, it was probably bruised. He couldn't be grateful to her, somehow it was beyond him to try, he didn't want to think about how she was trying to help him, and how he had shot her down. It was irritating, it made his head throb, life frustrated him because they couldn't see that he wanted to be left alone. Hermione represented the world, he decided, and Harry hated it. He had stopped attending classes altogether. Surely if McGonagall found him wandering down here she would just throw him out, if she could, if she dared, if she thought he had anywhere else to go. The rest of the world was so ruthlessly pleasant and there was a perpetual ache in the back of his skull, something that absolutely refused to go away. Maybe Draco had pinched a nerve when he'd almost broken his neck, because that hurt too – every time he moved his sore head, his neck screamed right along with it.
Harry abruptly stopped walking, and realized he had been pacing, subconsciously trying to rid himself of the angry energy in his system. The dust settled around his feet and Harry took a slow and deliberate breath. With equally measured strides he walked into the shadows, putting out torches as he passed, and let his feet guide him wherever they wanted to go. It was so much easier to walk without a destination, making the journey was simple; going back was a pain in the ass. So Harry just decided to erase the destination, he would sleep where he slept down here, if his dorm mates could stand to be without him for a week, they could stand to be without him for two.
As Harry passed, a scowl engraved on his face, someone stepped into the hallway and followed his steps. The Gryffindor's boots landed on the stone floor in a perfect rhythm, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, measured and loud as they struck. It was perfect and extremely easy to trace him. Walking slightly faster, in perfect silence, his feet barely stirring the dust motes, it was simple to catch him. No one ever took this route – not even the golden boy – that much was obvious. The hallway was thick with spider webs, and about 200 feet from the main hall, the route turned primitive, its arches no longer supported by stone. The ceiling gradually grew lower until it hovered just above his head. This would be perfect for his plan.
Harry spun on his heels as a force grabbed his wrist and pulled him in close. This was familiar of course, the fourth time it had happened in a fortnight, Harry rolled his eyes. No matter how many times Malfoy tried to surprise him, it just wouldn't work. "Go away Malfoy, I'm not in the mood."
The person behind him said nothing, but Harry felt the cold blade of a knife pressed against his throat. Malfoy was dressed unusually, his robes weren't of their typical quality and there was a hard spot just below Harry's head, he suspected it was dragon's hide.
The knife pressed in tighter to Harry's neck, drawing a thin line of blood. The Gryffindor was uncomfortable and was sorely tempted to squirm away, though he knew without a doubt that if he did that self-same knife would probably slit his throat. "Seriously though Malfoy, I'm not in the mood, and you never kill me anyway… so… can you come back tomorrow?"
The person behind him grunted and shoved his thumb into one of Harry's pressure points. Harry stiffened and took a deep breath, he smelled Firewhiskey and horse leather, a firm smell, and an unfamiliar one. With a start, Harry realized that the person behind him was serious, emboldened by alcohol and the anonymity of this corridor, Malfoy was willing to kill him. Harry tried to get away, his arms were pinned behind his back, but Harry struggled with them anyway. His assailant was surprised by his sudden activity, so Harry used that shock to his advantage and managed to get one arm free just as the knife came down. The cold steel sliced into his free shoulder with a wet 'shwick' and Harry gritted his teeth thanking the powers that be that it wasn't his neck. He continued to squirm, feeling his shoulder crack as he tried to free his other arm, but his efforts were in vain. The knife came down again, ripping into his back, Harry screamed. Finally his other arm was free, but it was of little use because he was falling backward. His assailant ripped the knife from his back with a vicious yank and strode away, leaving Harry to bleed to death on the dirt floor.
Fighting back a scream of pain, Harry used what little energy he had in him to roll onto his stomach and see the thick shoulders of his attacker disappearing into the gloom. As his eyes fluttered closed, Harry realized that his murderer had been darker than Malfoy, taller, more muscular, he didn't even smell the same. Perhaps if he had taken better care of himself this wouldn't have happened, but he hadn't, and it had. So Harry Potter slipped into unconsciousness with a bitter groan, wondering where the hell Malfoy was.
~