As Draco stared moodily at his Charms essay that was due in tomorrow, he
was distracted by tapping on the window. He scraped his chair back and
wrenched it open, taking some pleasure in the glass smashing against the
window.
"Reparo" he muttered, and the shards fell back into place. A school owl came flapping in and deposited a letter on the pile of books that Harry had been working with before he had gone to Quidditch practice. It was surprising; Harry had nobody he knew in the wizarding world. In fact, it was surprising enough for Draco to shoo the owl out of the window in the general direction of the Owlery and inspect the scroll.
It had his father's seal on it.
Deciding that the owl must have made a mistake, Draco began to tug the wax off but stopped abruptly as he felt it burn at his fingers. Charmed against intruders. Furious and not a little confused, he grabbed the letter more forcefully than was probably necessary and went outside to search for his friend.
**************************************************
"Harry!"
Harry swooped down on his broom, landing right next to Draco. His hair was even more windswept than usual, his cheeks reddened by the fresh air. Draco couldn't smile at the contented look on his friend's face today.
"Hi Draco!"
"Open it" said the blond-haired boy curtly. Confused, Harry unrolled the parchment, and his eyes lit up.
"Oh, it's from your father."
"Yes, I gathered that."
Harry looked up at the glowering boy, unable to mistake his curt tone for anything but hostility. Draco's already short temper snapped.
"Why the fuck is he sending you letters that I can't read?" and then, at the baffled look on Harry's face, "It's charmed against me opening it."
"I. . .I had to ask him something. But I don't know why it's sealed against you."
"Well read it out then" said Draco, folding his arms arrogantly across his chest. Harry bristled visibly, and shook his head stubbornly.
"There must have been a reason it's sealed. Let me read it first."
Draco made a snatch for the letter and again felt his hands burnt. Furious, he raised his hand without thinking, and Harry cowered back with a startled gasp. They stared at each other, frozen, for a few moments before Draco forced a sneer onto his face and swept off, leaving Harry alone on the pitch. As though to empathise, the dark clouds which had been hovering bunched together, and there was a rumble of thunder before the rain started. Draco was already inside the castle as the first spot hit Harry's glasses, making a big smear on the lens. Angrily he wiped it away, and stomped off towards the changing rooms.
The rooms were deserted; Harry had already been the last player out even before Draco had held him up. Sighing unhappily, Harry stripped off his robes and turned one of the showers on. It was pleasantly warm as he stepped under the flow of water, but he angrily turned it up two notches. Instantly the water began to sting as it hit his slender body, branding little spots of pain on him. But he didn't want to move, didn't want to leave the pain. It was helping him feel alive.
He shifted slightly so that the boiling jet struck his feet which were already reddened by the cold. The burning sensation felt like a breath of fresh air.
He was so fucking useless! He had made Draco and Severus and all the teachers hate him, and he was so useless that he didn't even know how he'd done it! His mind returned to the letter which might contain the answers to his problems. What had he done with it?
Furious with himself for being so stupid as to leave an important document lying around - Vernon had drilled that into him enough times - Harry turned the temperature up further and winced as the scorching spray attacked his skin. Gods, it hurt so much. But as half of his mind instructed him to move, and half of his muscles tried to obey, the other side told him it was what he deserved. Caught between the two, he stood frozen in the jet of scalding water. A paradox, he remembered that being called. Two opposites.
His mind went numb. The steam now encompassed his vision, misting up his glasses, choking his lungs. He began to see spots in front of his eyelids, gasping for air. And then finally his legs worked, and he stumbled out of the stifling heat, his knees going weak as he leaned on the cold tiled wall, seeking support. The coldness burnt his back in an entirely different way; more like the icy tendrils of fear that all too often encompassed him. The shower, the heat, had been like anger. Feeling the fury of something beating down on him. He liked that better than the fear. It meant that the end was near.
Shaking his head, he was about to change before he realised that he hadn't actually washed himself. He was still grimy from the practice. He turned down the temperature a little, enough to hurt but not to suffocate him again, and began lathering up the soap, still hating the feel of even his own hands on his body. Still cringing away from himself. Grimacing, he finished his torso as quickly as possible, and scrubbed at his feet, watching the mud disappear down the drain in a swirl. If only it was that easy to purge the ugliness from himself; the badness. Vernon had always said it would be easier to punish him if Harry knew that he was wrong. Well now he did. So bad. So naughty.
He massaged shampoo into his scalp and rinsed it quickly, suddenly feeling repulsed every time he saw his body. It was so. . .perfect. The bruises were gone. He was all unblemished, pale skin, and it sickened him, that he was so ugly and disgusting inside and yet so flawless outside. Shuddering, he wrapped a towel around himself, hiding his offending body, and gently rubbed himself dry. His feet burned and stung, red and raw from the abuse of the water. They were swollen and painful as he pulled his socks on gently. He must have burnt them quite badly.
When Harry had finished dressing, he pulled the letter out of the pocket of his Quidditch robes which he then put in the basket for washing that was left to be collected by the house-elves in the morning, and opened it.
'Dear Harry,
It is a pleasure to hear from you. I do believe I can explain this phenomenon, but there is one condition, and I trust that you are a boy of your word. Draco is not to know.
You will, of course, know of Lord Voldemort. The Dark Wizard who killed your parents. You may not know that he went to Hogwarts, and indeed seemed like a very nice young man. His name was Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle. I'm sure you can guess where his later name came from.
The reason people are so upset by this is the similarity between you. Both orphaned at a young age; both bitter with your guardians. Both in Slytherin. Of course, this has already been enough to get people worried. But your display of power is not dissimilar to something that Tom did before leaving, except on a smaller scale. He had an argument with Dumbledore himself, and hexed the old man. This was no laughing matter, although not seriously dangerous. You see, Albus Dumbledore is and was a most powerful wizard. Perhaps moreso than Voldemort, now. Who knows?
Tom's spell was designed to show off; to challenge. A threatening gesture. It is understandable that Flitwick and indeed the rest of the teachers were alarmed. To your generation, it is a different matter. You could not imagine the bitterness of the battle; the losses on both sides, before Lord Voldemort fell. The magical world is sworn to never let this happen again.
Do not blame yourself, Harry. You were not to know. But in the future, perhaps keep your power to yourself, if only to keep your enemies ignorant.
Best Wishes,
Lucius Malfoy.'
***************************************************
He rubbed his forehead. So this was what it was. Well, at least it made sense. Of course, it didn't help him much, because he couldn't explain to Draco what the letter said, and he couldn't persuade his teachers that he wasn't the next Dark Lord. But all the same, it was reassuring to know that it wasn't entirely his fault.
whispered an insidious part of his conscience.
Harry nodded to himself. It was true. It was all his fault. And he'd be in even more trouble if he didn't get into the Tower before curfew. The last thing he wanted for the Slytherins to think was that he fancied himself as some sort of outlaw. Although he was still a newcomer to the world of magic, he had some common sense, and could see that the thing that made the Slytherin house so close to one another was their idea of sharing power, so that in general no one person was a 'leader'. Of course, small groups existed where characters like Crabbe and Goyle were quite clearly underlings of Draco, but even that was more of a 'scratch-my-back-and-I'll- scratch-yours' deal than a hierarchy. Without his two bodyguards, Draco would be in trouble with other houses, and without the brains of Draco, Crabbe and Goyle would never pass their exams.
It worked well.
Slipping his feet into his school shoes, he winced slightly as the tender skin rubbed against the leather, and hobbled out of the doors. It was still raining heavily, but when he thought about it, a rain-repelling charm was really quite a clever idea, and thus he got inside dry as a bone. He checked his watch; 3 minutes until curfew. Taking the steps two at a time, and nearly breaking his neck in his haste, he reached the Common Room on the second of curfew, and slumped down with a sigh.
Then the doors to the dormitories opened and Snape stalked out, a glare on his face.
"Where have you been? It is an hour past curfew!"
Harry gaped at his watch. Surely not. . .nobody would have. . .
"But sir, my watch says it's. . ."
Snape frowned.
"I will let it slide, Potter. Make sure it doesn't happen again. Bed now."
And, maintaining his sour expression, he pointed towards the door. Miserably, Harry trotted up the stairs.
Why did all this happen to him?
whispered the nasty voice.
"Reparo" he muttered, and the shards fell back into place. A school owl came flapping in and deposited a letter on the pile of books that Harry had been working with before he had gone to Quidditch practice. It was surprising; Harry had nobody he knew in the wizarding world. In fact, it was surprising enough for Draco to shoo the owl out of the window in the general direction of the Owlery and inspect the scroll.
It had his father's seal on it.
Deciding that the owl must have made a mistake, Draco began to tug the wax off but stopped abruptly as he felt it burn at his fingers. Charmed against intruders. Furious and not a little confused, he grabbed the letter more forcefully than was probably necessary and went outside to search for his friend.
**************************************************
"Harry!"
Harry swooped down on his broom, landing right next to Draco. His hair was even more windswept than usual, his cheeks reddened by the fresh air. Draco couldn't smile at the contented look on his friend's face today.
"Hi Draco!"
"Open it" said the blond-haired boy curtly. Confused, Harry unrolled the parchment, and his eyes lit up.
"Oh, it's from your father."
"Yes, I gathered that."
Harry looked up at the glowering boy, unable to mistake his curt tone for anything but hostility. Draco's already short temper snapped.
"Why the fuck is he sending you letters that I can't read?" and then, at the baffled look on Harry's face, "It's charmed against me opening it."
"I. . .I had to ask him something. But I don't know why it's sealed against you."
"Well read it out then" said Draco, folding his arms arrogantly across his chest. Harry bristled visibly, and shook his head stubbornly.
"There must have been a reason it's sealed. Let me read it first."
Draco made a snatch for the letter and again felt his hands burnt. Furious, he raised his hand without thinking, and Harry cowered back with a startled gasp. They stared at each other, frozen, for a few moments before Draco forced a sneer onto his face and swept off, leaving Harry alone on the pitch. As though to empathise, the dark clouds which had been hovering bunched together, and there was a rumble of thunder before the rain started. Draco was already inside the castle as the first spot hit Harry's glasses, making a big smear on the lens. Angrily he wiped it away, and stomped off towards the changing rooms.
The rooms were deserted; Harry had already been the last player out even before Draco had held him up. Sighing unhappily, Harry stripped off his robes and turned one of the showers on. It was pleasantly warm as he stepped under the flow of water, but he angrily turned it up two notches. Instantly the water began to sting as it hit his slender body, branding little spots of pain on him. But he didn't want to move, didn't want to leave the pain. It was helping him feel alive.
He shifted slightly so that the boiling jet struck his feet which were already reddened by the cold. The burning sensation felt like a breath of fresh air.
He was so fucking useless! He had made Draco and Severus and all the teachers hate him, and he was so useless that he didn't even know how he'd done it! His mind returned to the letter which might contain the answers to his problems. What had he done with it?
Furious with himself for being so stupid as to leave an important document lying around - Vernon had drilled that into him enough times - Harry turned the temperature up further and winced as the scorching spray attacked his skin. Gods, it hurt so much. But as half of his mind instructed him to move, and half of his muscles tried to obey, the other side told him it was what he deserved. Caught between the two, he stood frozen in the jet of scalding water. A paradox, he remembered that being called. Two opposites.
His mind went numb. The steam now encompassed his vision, misting up his glasses, choking his lungs. He began to see spots in front of his eyelids, gasping for air. And then finally his legs worked, and he stumbled out of the stifling heat, his knees going weak as he leaned on the cold tiled wall, seeking support. The coldness burnt his back in an entirely different way; more like the icy tendrils of fear that all too often encompassed him. The shower, the heat, had been like anger. Feeling the fury of something beating down on him. He liked that better than the fear. It meant that the end was near.
Shaking his head, he was about to change before he realised that he hadn't actually washed himself. He was still grimy from the practice. He turned down the temperature a little, enough to hurt but not to suffocate him again, and began lathering up the soap, still hating the feel of even his own hands on his body. Still cringing away from himself. Grimacing, he finished his torso as quickly as possible, and scrubbed at his feet, watching the mud disappear down the drain in a swirl. If only it was that easy to purge the ugliness from himself; the badness. Vernon had always said it would be easier to punish him if Harry knew that he was wrong. Well now he did. So bad. So naughty.
He massaged shampoo into his scalp and rinsed it quickly, suddenly feeling repulsed every time he saw his body. It was so. . .perfect. The bruises were gone. He was all unblemished, pale skin, and it sickened him, that he was so ugly and disgusting inside and yet so flawless outside. Shuddering, he wrapped a towel around himself, hiding his offending body, and gently rubbed himself dry. His feet burned and stung, red and raw from the abuse of the water. They were swollen and painful as he pulled his socks on gently. He must have burnt them quite badly.
When Harry had finished dressing, he pulled the letter out of the pocket of his Quidditch robes which he then put in the basket for washing that was left to be collected by the house-elves in the morning, and opened it.
'Dear Harry,
It is a pleasure to hear from you. I do believe I can explain this phenomenon, but there is one condition, and I trust that you are a boy of your word. Draco is not to know.
You will, of course, know of Lord Voldemort. The Dark Wizard who killed your parents. You may not know that he went to Hogwarts, and indeed seemed like a very nice young man. His name was Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle. I'm sure you can guess where his later name came from.
The reason people are so upset by this is the similarity between you. Both orphaned at a young age; both bitter with your guardians. Both in Slytherin. Of course, this has already been enough to get people worried. But your display of power is not dissimilar to something that Tom did before leaving, except on a smaller scale. He had an argument with Dumbledore himself, and hexed the old man. This was no laughing matter, although not seriously dangerous. You see, Albus Dumbledore is and was a most powerful wizard. Perhaps moreso than Voldemort, now. Who knows?
Tom's spell was designed to show off; to challenge. A threatening gesture. It is understandable that Flitwick and indeed the rest of the teachers were alarmed. To your generation, it is a different matter. You could not imagine the bitterness of the battle; the losses on both sides, before Lord Voldemort fell. The magical world is sworn to never let this happen again.
Do not blame yourself, Harry. You were not to know. But in the future, perhaps keep your power to yourself, if only to keep your enemies ignorant.
Best Wishes,
Lucius Malfoy.'
***************************************************
He rubbed his forehead. So this was what it was. Well, at least it made sense. Of course, it didn't help him much, because he couldn't explain to Draco what the letter said, and he couldn't persuade his teachers that he wasn't the next Dark Lord. But all the same, it was reassuring to know that it wasn't entirely his fault.
whispered an insidious part of his conscience.
Harry nodded to himself. It was true. It was all his fault. And he'd be in even more trouble if he didn't get into the Tower before curfew. The last thing he wanted for the Slytherins to think was that he fancied himself as some sort of outlaw. Although he was still a newcomer to the world of magic, he had some common sense, and could see that the thing that made the Slytherin house so close to one another was their idea of sharing power, so that in general no one person was a 'leader'. Of course, small groups existed where characters like Crabbe and Goyle were quite clearly underlings of Draco, but even that was more of a 'scratch-my-back-and-I'll- scratch-yours' deal than a hierarchy. Without his two bodyguards, Draco would be in trouble with other houses, and without the brains of Draco, Crabbe and Goyle would never pass their exams.
It worked well.
Slipping his feet into his school shoes, he winced slightly as the tender skin rubbed against the leather, and hobbled out of the doors. It was still raining heavily, but when he thought about it, a rain-repelling charm was really quite a clever idea, and thus he got inside dry as a bone. He checked his watch; 3 minutes until curfew. Taking the steps two at a time, and nearly breaking his neck in his haste, he reached the Common Room on the second of curfew, and slumped down with a sigh.
Then the doors to the dormitories opened and Snape stalked out, a glare on his face.
"Where have you been? It is an hour past curfew!"
Harry gaped at his watch. Surely not. . .nobody would have. . .
"But sir, my watch says it's. . ."
Snape frowned.
"I will let it slide, Potter. Make sure it doesn't happen again. Bed now."
And, maintaining his sour expression, he pointed towards the door. Miserably, Harry trotted up the stairs.
Why did all this happen to him?
whispered the nasty voice.
