Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling is God, and therefore owns all, including my story, my fans, and my soul.
To my Reviewers: Particular thanks to MISS LESLEY. I appreciate some good constructive criticism. Though it is hard to read, it makes me rethink my story to accommodate the valid opinions of my readers. Also, thanks go out to CURIOUSDREAMWEAVER for consistently reviewing. Kudos to you for having the consideration to show your appreciation and interest.
Ch.11: The Goings On of Wednesday Evening
Wednesday evening brought 'Remedial Potions' with the ever-lovely Professor Snape. Unfortunately, Harry had recently become unable to enter the Potions classroom without his thoughts flickering to the ever-volatile and unpredictable Draco Malfoy. Unbeknownst to him, the greasy potions professor's mind had been lingering on similar topics.
"Ah, Potter," Snape condescended without even looking up from the papers he was marking. "Late as always."
Harry really wanted to retort, Maybe according to Snape-time. The time on his own watch was testament to at least relative punctuality. He settled for a bland, "Sorry, sir. It took a full minute longer than expected to reach the dungeons."
Snape straightened his students' papers and vigorously stacked them on the desk before finally looking up at Harry with a calculating glare. He shot up from his desk and glided around it so that he could leane while continuing, "Well, Potter, we don't have all day. Prepare yourself."
There was about five seconds in which Harry tried to steel his mind and will before Snape launched himself, "Legimens!"
Harry was vaguely aware of his body stumbling back, but the forced speeding of his mind by far dominated his attention. He flashed through images of Malfoy's tempest, of quidditch practice with Ron, of studying with Hermione; of visiting St. Mungo's when Ron was hospitalized for Dragon Pox; of the Dursley's callous treatment; of being alone in Dudley's old room, crying for Sirius; of Sirius, stumbling through the curtain in the room of mysteries, of Harry's rage and terror, striking out at that Bellatrix bitch with Cruciatus . . .
For Harry, they were just achingly real flashes of the past, but he knew that Snape was getting the full tour of his memories, of his confusion, his suffering, his grief, his agony. . . Everything was sped up for the mind invader, requiring the invaded to be able to react far more quickly. Harry struggled to get his baring, to tap into those powerful feelings, then suddenly, Harry found himself able to use that fury and horror to push Snape out of his mind, to fuel his own unintended invasion. . .
There was a flash of Malfoy saying, "No, I don't want any help," then fleeing the room; then of Snape angrily teaching a group of third years; then long stretches of mourning and regretting; then of pain and agony and guilt as his accepted the Dark Lord's punishment; then an incomprehensibly intentional fade into a memory that had been haunting him since the start of the school year: the last time he saw the real Narcissa Black . . .
She was young and beautiful and frightened and still full of life. They were meeting in an abandoned classroom, and Harry instinctively knew that both were in their seventh year at Hogwarts.
"Severus," her voice was strained with pain, and her breathing was heavy. Severus placed an arm around her shoulders, his heart heavy with concern and. . . love. It mattered not that she was arranged to be married to someone else.
"What happened?," Severus asked apprehensively, almost soothingly.
Naricissa looked panicked for a moment before a determined resignation took over. "Mr. Malfoy – Marlin Malfoy, I mean – he's. . . my father," she managed.
"What!?," Severus demanded, mind suddenly reeling, incredulous and viscous at the same time. Was she lying, playing at something? Or was it true? Either way, what were the implications? Things were so complicated in Slytherin, trust so fragile. . .
"He had an affair with my mother. Father doesn't know, oh Merlin. . ." Narcissa looked on the brink of tears and the expression she directed at Severus was thick with desperation and pleading.
"Who told you these lies?," Severus asked angrily. But he wasn't sure that they were lies – none of Narcissa's sibling were blond and blue-eyed: Bellatrix had mousy brown hair and wild green eyes like many other Blacks.
Tears finally sprung forth and Narcissa sobbed, "Lucius! I didn't believe him, so I asked my mother, and she said it is true!"
It had been on the edge of his mind, but only then did the implications hit him. "No! They knew, they knew!"
Narcissa buried her face in his shoulder. "They did!," she cried hysterically, though her voice was muffled by his clothes. "Mr. Malfoy has some insane idea about keeping the Malfoy blood line pure, but its crazy! It's wrong! I have never liked Lucius, but this is too much!"
"And your mother allowed this to happen?," Severus growled.
Several more sobs racked Narcissa's body. "She tried to fight against it, but father is determined, and she can't tell him the real reason!"
"You can't let this marriage happen!," Severus demanded, not even caring that he was able to find hope for himself in her predicament.
The delicate blonde quieted and stilled, then looked up through mascara smears. Her features gradually hardened as she retreated into her Slytherin shell. Then she suddenly stood and wiped her angry eyes. "Something will be done about this!"
Then she stalked out the door. She would never have an intimate conversation with Severus Snape again. . .
Harry felt himself reeling nauseatingly. He stumbled backwards and to the ground, and grabbed his head in a vain effort to stop the spinning. Large inhalations eventually allowed him to focus on the dark and imposing figure of Professor Snape looking down at him with almost murderous expression contorting his face. A bony hand shot out and delivered a sharp slap, and Harry's head snapped back with a gasp.
"Control yourself better next time, Potter!," Snape growled dangerously. "If that had been the mind of someone untrained, you could have gotten lost in their mind; as you certainly don't seem capable of pulling out yourself!"
The entire excursion into each other's minds had only lasted forty minutes, and most sessions with Snape usually lasted an hour to an hour and a half. Then again, most sessions didn't involve an unintended trip into the potions professor's twisted mind and tortured memories.
"However," Snape continued with a ragged breath. "This incident is not entirely your fault. So let this be a lesson to you that even an experienced Occlumens can easily find himself out of control when distracted. Now leave." Snape marched back to his desk and began to intensely study the papers there. Harry took a moment or two to gather himself, then fled without a word, welcoming the opportunity to digest this new knowledge in peace.
While Harry was otherwise engaged with Snape, Hermione had gone to her favorite locality – the library. She greeted Madam Pince quietly then headed for her habitual seat. On impulse, however, she stopped about a meter from her destination and turned around. She backtracked several steps and plopped herself across the table from Malfoy – who appeared to be absently doodling on a library book. He stopped for a moment to blink at her owlishly, then returned to his . . . was that a sketch of Voldemort in Bowie getup?
"Nice hair, Malfoy," Hermione voiced after a short silence.
It did look stunning. In an attempt to reconcile with the members of his house, he had allowed Parkinson to do something about his fried hair – she had twisted the blond strands into seven Celtic-style corn rows, tying each row off at the nape of the neck. [A/N: reference Mordred's 'do in Mists of Avalon; not braids, twists.] All he needed was some face paint and he would have looked like one of his ancient, Roman Empire fighting ancestors (from the druidic side, not the French side).
Malfoy looked up to make sure she wasn't insulting him, then lazily commanded, "Go away, Granger."
Hermione paid him no mind and retrieved some books from her satchel – specifically, her Arithmancy textbook, which, if she was not mistaken, was the subject of most of the books Malfoy had uselessly splayed before him. She got to work while Malfoy studiously ignored her; after several minutes, however, she began mumbling. "47 plus 10 plus 51 is 108, divided by the moon cycle, which is 3, bringing the total to 36. So 36 is the relevant inflection, 36, 36. . ."
She was now running her finger down the table providing interpretations for such numbers. Malfoy's ability to ignore distractions had been severely limited in recent months, and Granger's mumblings were no exception. He found himself listening to her ramblings and vaguely understanding her calculations, and his eyes flickered to the abandoned Arithmancy textbook next to him. It was suddenly easier to follow her voice and logic than it was to ignore her, and he further found himself wanting to take advantage of this. He knew that Granger was too smart to be doing it unintentionally, but it didn't matter; he appreciated her pretense and he jumped at the opportunity to finally be able to compete some homework. He really did want to do well in his classes, and though he knew that Granger was well aware of what he was doing, he inconspicuously grabbed his quill and pulled his textbook closer.
And so the evening waned and work was completed by both parties. Malfoy was noticeably pleased by having actually been able to complete his assignment, and Granger felt a sense of accomplishment for having been able to aid arguably one of the greatest minds in the student body (though second, surely, to herself).
By 9 pm, Hermione had finished most of her work, and had already spent more than her usual amount of time studying in the library; so she shut her book with a vigorous THWAP. Malfoy looked up from his scribbling and eye contact was made for a weighty moment. The brilliant muggle-born looked on the verge of saying something, but Malfoy had been thinking too, and he wanted to forestall any conclusions or offers she was jumping to.
"Look, I don't care if you're a mudblood or not-" Predictably, Hermione tried to protest, but Malfoy barreled on. "I know, you don't believe me because me using the term is proof enough that I think that way. But it's not true. A label only has as much power as it is given. Malfoy, mudblood, they are just labels, they don't really say anything about who we are.
"But the point I'm trying to get at here is that I don't have a problem with you, or the glorious Potter for that matter. And I know you expect that I will eventually accept your offer to join your side because it seems like I have so little fall back on, while Potter and his posse are the fucking sun in the sky. But I don't agree with your assessment. From my point of view, there is no reason to trust you lot, or to want to align myself with you. You have to earn my trust and convince me of YOUR worthiness. I'm not going to fight on your side just because I'm not on Voldemort's side."
Again Hermione tried to interrupt, looking a little outraged by his words, but there was still no stopping Malfoy. "I am not who I used to be, Granger, really. I am not that cruel and contemptible Malfoy from previous years. I understand if you cannot see past the same face that he wore, but I refuse to start from the assumption that I am that same person. You don't get my allegiance just because I used to be a shit and have to make up for it. And while I don't deny that I could use your help, I don't need it.
"I am putting myself back together. If that doesn't seem to be the case, it is only because I have had so far to go; but I have plenty to fall back on. I am intelligent and powerful, and the leader of a strong if fractured house. All I have to do now is mobilize these resources; and if all you can offer me is support in these endeavors in exchange for my alliance, well, I have faith in my own ability to adapt and overcome. That is, after all, what us Slytherins are know for. I have a responsibility to them that I must fulfill before I can even consider palling around with you lot."
By the time Malfoy's speech came to an end, he was almost smiling (he was rather proud of his own coherence), and Hermione was uniquely speechless. This was the more than she had ever heard come from Malfoy's mouth in all the previous years combined. She didn't understand everything that had been implied, but she appreciated the gist of the argument (and the fact that it was directed at Harry as much as it was directed at her) and for once didn't know how to reply. Still, it was not a speech Malfoy would have made in previous years, and the improvement in his attitude was obvious enough for her not to relinquish her optimistic determination with regards to the Malfoy Cause. So she nodded and opted for a simple reply, "Sure Malfoy."
She gathered her things and deposited them in her book bag. Malfoy had returned his attention to his scroll by the time she stood up to leave. Though Malfoy didn't see it, she smirked as she left. "See you tomorrow Malfoy."
Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room to an exhausted Harry and a hyper-active Ron. The latter was excitedly playing wizards chess with some unsuspecting second year who was losing tragically. Harry was slumped over in a chair nursing an on-coming migraine. Hermione used Ron's preoccupation to update Harry on Operation Malfoy. He listened with interest, but was obviously preoccupied. He didn't even know why he was so interested in the Malfoy issue. Sure, the lithe Slytherin had always been his rival and had always played a significant role in his life, but this role change was unnerving.
He wanted Malfoy as an ally; but why did he care? Surely it was not just because of the undisciplined and freakish display of power on the quidditch pitch. . . or was it? And how was he supposed to react to this new knowledge? Even if he still had his previous relationship with Malfoy, he didn't think he would be able to use this against him; it was too horrible. Did Malfoy even know that he was a product of gross incest? Were his genes the reason for his mental instability? But that didn't make sense, something must have happened over the summer; crazy genes don't just activate like that. . . do they? What the FUCK was going on? Harry felt even less certain about events than ever, but his thoughts just kept on coming back around to Malfoy. Malfoy's pointy, pale, inbred face; Malfoy's wild and erratic behavior, Malfoy looking confused and desperate, Malfoy bringing the sky down upon him; Malfoy being beaten to a pulp, being fried to a crisp; Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy. . . his eyes, his anger; his hair, his hate; his fingers, his frailty; his skin, his insanity; his body, his pain, his passion. . .
Harry rubbed his temples. Hermione was staring at him worriedly. He gave her a weak smile, then decided to head up to his dorm room. He was tired and wanted to go to bed, and still had to meditate to clear his mind for sleep. He gave his good-nights and retired, leaving both Ron and Hermione curious and concerned.
Malfoy struggled with his DADA assignment for a good solitary hour before finally deciding to return to his own common room. As usual, his entrance was met with the attention of most of Slytherin; the interest, as of late however, was becoming decreasingly hostile and increasingly hopeful. As Malfoy stood by the door and cautiously observed them observing him, he made a spur of the moment decision.
Instead of quickly disappearing into his dorm room, he strode into the center of the common room to glare at the seventh year who was occupying the coveted armchair in front of the fire. For a split second the seventh year – Derek Vilborne, was it? – looked as though he wouldn't move, but a moment later Malfoy felt a heavy, familiar presence at his back and he lazily looked from side to side to see his trusty bodyguards smiling shyly (ug, was it even possible?) at him. Malfoy smirked and turned back to the seventh year who was rapidly scrambling from the chair. Malfoy looked wickedly pleased as he then promptly settled in the vacancy. Crabbe and Goyle took their positions on the floor on either side of the chair, and Malfoy noticed that many of the room's occupants looked subtly pleased by this development.
"It's good to have you back, Malfoy," Goyle grumbled, not seeming at all concerned about Malfoy's recent hiatus from sanity and previous behavior. Crabbe grunted his agreement with his friend.
"It's good to be back," Malfoy said casually, though he wasn't sure if things could ever really go back to the way they were – he knew he would never be who he had been, but that wasn't to discount the possibility of molding the old order into something new. He caught sight of Parkinson as she entered the common room, noticed him, then grinned. There was a disgustingly un-Slytherin display of contentment and relief for the rest of the evening.
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Okay, everybody, please review! Tell me how you think things should progress! I have a vague story line in mind, but I am certainly willing to incorporate good ideas (as this chapter is an attempt to do). For those of you who are impatient, sorry it is taking so long to get to the slashy goodness, but I promise that it is coming. If you have read my other HP story, you know I am not promising something I won't deliver. I just need to get things there. No premature. . . well, nothing premature anyway. =-)
To my Reviewers: Particular thanks to MISS LESLEY. I appreciate some good constructive criticism. Though it is hard to read, it makes me rethink my story to accommodate the valid opinions of my readers. Also, thanks go out to CURIOUSDREAMWEAVER for consistently reviewing. Kudos to you for having the consideration to show your appreciation and interest.
Ch.11: The Goings On of Wednesday Evening
Wednesday evening brought 'Remedial Potions' with the ever-lovely Professor Snape. Unfortunately, Harry had recently become unable to enter the Potions classroom without his thoughts flickering to the ever-volatile and unpredictable Draco Malfoy. Unbeknownst to him, the greasy potions professor's mind had been lingering on similar topics.
"Ah, Potter," Snape condescended without even looking up from the papers he was marking. "Late as always."
Harry really wanted to retort, Maybe according to Snape-time. The time on his own watch was testament to at least relative punctuality. He settled for a bland, "Sorry, sir. It took a full minute longer than expected to reach the dungeons."
Snape straightened his students' papers and vigorously stacked them on the desk before finally looking up at Harry with a calculating glare. He shot up from his desk and glided around it so that he could leane while continuing, "Well, Potter, we don't have all day. Prepare yourself."
There was about five seconds in which Harry tried to steel his mind and will before Snape launched himself, "Legimens!"
Harry was vaguely aware of his body stumbling back, but the forced speeding of his mind by far dominated his attention. He flashed through images of Malfoy's tempest, of quidditch practice with Ron, of studying with Hermione; of visiting St. Mungo's when Ron was hospitalized for Dragon Pox; of the Dursley's callous treatment; of being alone in Dudley's old room, crying for Sirius; of Sirius, stumbling through the curtain in the room of mysteries, of Harry's rage and terror, striking out at that Bellatrix bitch with Cruciatus . . .
For Harry, they were just achingly real flashes of the past, but he knew that Snape was getting the full tour of his memories, of his confusion, his suffering, his grief, his agony. . . Everything was sped up for the mind invader, requiring the invaded to be able to react far more quickly. Harry struggled to get his baring, to tap into those powerful feelings, then suddenly, Harry found himself able to use that fury and horror to push Snape out of his mind, to fuel his own unintended invasion. . .
There was a flash of Malfoy saying, "No, I don't want any help," then fleeing the room; then of Snape angrily teaching a group of third years; then long stretches of mourning and regretting; then of pain and agony and guilt as his accepted the Dark Lord's punishment; then an incomprehensibly intentional fade into a memory that had been haunting him since the start of the school year: the last time he saw the real Narcissa Black . . .
She was young and beautiful and frightened and still full of life. They were meeting in an abandoned classroom, and Harry instinctively knew that both were in their seventh year at Hogwarts.
"Severus," her voice was strained with pain, and her breathing was heavy. Severus placed an arm around her shoulders, his heart heavy with concern and. . . love. It mattered not that she was arranged to be married to someone else.
"What happened?," Severus asked apprehensively, almost soothingly.
Naricissa looked panicked for a moment before a determined resignation took over. "Mr. Malfoy – Marlin Malfoy, I mean – he's. . . my father," she managed.
"What!?," Severus demanded, mind suddenly reeling, incredulous and viscous at the same time. Was she lying, playing at something? Or was it true? Either way, what were the implications? Things were so complicated in Slytherin, trust so fragile. . .
"He had an affair with my mother. Father doesn't know, oh Merlin. . ." Narcissa looked on the brink of tears and the expression she directed at Severus was thick with desperation and pleading.
"Who told you these lies?," Severus asked angrily. But he wasn't sure that they were lies – none of Narcissa's sibling were blond and blue-eyed: Bellatrix had mousy brown hair and wild green eyes like many other Blacks.
Tears finally sprung forth and Narcissa sobbed, "Lucius! I didn't believe him, so I asked my mother, and she said it is true!"
It had been on the edge of his mind, but only then did the implications hit him. "No! They knew, they knew!"
Narcissa buried her face in his shoulder. "They did!," she cried hysterically, though her voice was muffled by his clothes. "Mr. Malfoy has some insane idea about keeping the Malfoy blood line pure, but its crazy! It's wrong! I have never liked Lucius, but this is too much!"
"And your mother allowed this to happen?," Severus growled.
Several more sobs racked Narcissa's body. "She tried to fight against it, but father is determined, and she can't tell him the real reason!"
"You can't let this marriage happen!," Severus demanded, not even caring that he was able to find hope for himself in her predicament.
The delicate blonde quieted and stilled, then looked up through mascara smears. Her features gradually hardened as she retreated into her Slytherin shell. Then she suddenly stood and wiped her angry eyes. "Something will be done about this!"
Then she stalked out the door. She would never have an intimate conversation with Severus Snape again. . .
Harry felt himself reeling nauseatingly. He stumbled backwards and to the ground, and grabbed his head in a vain effort to stop the spinning. Large inhalations eventually allowed him to focus on the dark and imposing figure of Professor Snape looking down at him with almost murderous expression contorting his face. A bony hand shot out and delivered a sharp slap, and Harry's head snapped back with a gasp.
"Control yourself better next time, Potter!," Snape growled dangerously. "If that had been the mind of someone untrained, you could have gotten lost in their mind; as you certainly don't seem capable of pulling out yourself!"
The entire excursion into each other's minds had only lasted forty minutes, and most sessions with Snape usually lasted an hour to an hour and a half. Then again, most sessions didn't involve an unintended trip into the potions professor's twisted mind and tortured memories.
"However," Snape continued with a ragged breath. "This incident is not entirely your fault. So let this be a lesson to you that even an experienced Occlumens can easily find himself out of control when distracted. Now leave." Snape marched back to his desk and began to intensely study the papers there. Harry took a moment or two to gather himself, then fled without a word, welcoming the opportunity to digest this new knowledge in peace.
While Harry was otherwise engaged with Snape, Hermione had gone to her favorite locality – the library. She greeted Madam Pince quietly then headed for her habitual seat. On impulse, however, she stopped about a meter from her destination and turned around. She backtracked several steps and plopped herself across the table from Malfoy – who appeared to be absently doodling on a library book. He stopped for a moment to blink at her owlishly, then returned to his . . . was that a sketch of Voldemort in Bowie getup?
"Nice hair, Malfoy," Hermione voiced after a short silence.
It did look stunning. In an attempt to reconcile with the members of his house, he had allowed Parkinson to do something about his fried hair – she had twisted the blond strands into seven Celtic-style corn rows, tying each row off at the nape of the neck. [A/N: reference Mordred's 'do in Mists of Avalon; not braids, twists.] All he needed was some face paint and he would have looked like one of his ancient, Roman Empire fighting ancestors (from the druidic side, not the French side).
Malfoy looked up to make sure she wasn't insulting him, then lazily commanded, "Go away, Granger."
Hermione paid him no mind and retrieved some books from her satchel – specifically, her Arithmancy textbook, which, if she was not mistaken, was the subject of most of the books Malfoy had uselessly splayed before him. She got to work while Malfoy studiously ignored her; after several minutes, however, she began mumbling. "47 plus 10 plus 51 is 108, divided by the moon cycle, which is 3, bringing the total to 36. So 36 is the relevant inflection, 36, 36. . ."
She was now running her finger down the table providing interpretations for such numbers. Malfoy's ability to ignore distractions had been severely limited in recent months, and Granger's mumblings were no exception. He found himself listening to her ramblings and vaguely understanding her calculations, and his eyes flickered to the abandoned Arithmancy textbook next to him. It was suddenly easier to follow her voice and logic than it was to ignore her, and he further found himself wanting to take advantage of this. He knew that Granger was too smart to be doing it unintentionally, but it didn't matter; he appreciated her pretense and he jumped at the opportunity to finally be able to compete some homework. He really did want to do well in his classes, and though he knew that Granger was well aware of what he was doing, he inconspicuously grabbed his quill and pulled his textbook closer.
And so the evening waned and work was completed by both parties. Malfoy was noticeably pleased by having actually been able to complete his assignment, and Granger felt a sense of accomplishment for having been able to aid arguably one of the greatest minds in the student body (though second, surely, to herself).
By 9 pm, Hermione had finished most of her work, and had already spent more than her usual amount of time studying in the library; so she shut her book with a vigorous THWAP. Malfoy looked up from his scribbling and eye contact was made for a weighty moment. The brilliant muggle-born looked on the verge of saying something, but Malfoy had been thinking too, and he wanted to forestall any conclusions or offers she was jumping to.
"Look, I don't care if you're a mudblood or not-" Predictably, Hermione tried to protest, but Malfoy barreled on. "I know, you don't believe me because me using the term is proof enough that I think that way. But it's not true. A label only has as much power as it is given. Malfoy, mudblood, they are just labels, they don't really say anything about who we are.
"But the point I'm trying to get at here is that I don't have a problem with you, or the glorious Potter for that matter. And I know you expect that I will eventually accept your offer to join your side because it seems like I have so little fall back on, while Potter and his posse are the fucking sun in the sky. But I don't agree with your assessment. From my point of view, there is no reason to trust you lot, or to want to align myself with you. You have to earn my trust and convince me of YOUR worthiness. I'm not going to fight on your side just because I'm not on Voldemort's side."
Again Hermione tried to interrupt, looking a little outraged by his words, but there was still no stopping Malfoy. "I am not who I used to be, Granger, really. I am not that cruel and contemptible Malfoy from previous years. I understand if you cannot see past the same face that he wore, but I refuse to start from the assumption that I am that same person. You don't get my allegiance just because I used to be a shit and have to make up for it. And while I don't deny that I could use your help, I don't need it.
"I am putting myself back together. If that doesn't seem to be the case, it is only because I have had so far to go; but I have plenty to fall back on. I am intelligent and powerful, and the leader of a strong if fractured house. All I have to do now is mobilize these resources; and if all you can offer me is support in these endeavors in exchange for my alliance, well, I have faith in my own ability to adapt and overcome. That is, after all, what us Slytherins are know for. I have a responsibility to them that I must fulfill before I can even consider palling around with you lot."
By the time Malfoy's speech came to an end, he was almost smiling (he was rather proud of his own coherence), and Hermione was uniquely speechless. This was the more than she had ever heard come from Malfoy's mouth in all the previous years combined. She didn't understand everything that had been implied, but she appreciated the gist of the argument (and the fact that it was directed at Harry as much as it was directed at her) and for once didn't know how to reply. Still, it was not a speech Malfoy would have made in previous years, and the improvement in his attitude was obvious enough for her not to relinquish her optimistic determination with regards to the Malfoy Cause. So she nodded and opted for a simple reply, "Sure Malfoy."
She gathered her things and deposited them in her book bag. Malfoy had returned his attention to his scroll by the time she stood up to leave. Though Malfoy didn't see it, she smirked as she left. "See you tomorrow Malfoy."
Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room to an exhausted Harry and a hyper-active Ron. The latter was excitedly playing wizards chess with some unsuspecting second year who was losing tragically. Harry was slumped over in a chair nursing an on-coming migraine. Hermione used Ron's preoccupation to update Harry on Operation Malfoy. He listened with interest, but was obviously preoccupied. He didn't even know why he was so interested in the Malfoy issue. Sure, the lithe Slytherin had always been his rival and had always played a significant role in his life, but this role change was unnerving.
He wanted Malfoy as an ally; but why did he care? Surely it was not just because of the undisciplined and freakish display of power on the quidditch pitch. . . or was it? And how was he supposed to react to this new knowledge? Even if he still had his previous relationship with Malfoy, he didn't think he would be able to use this against him; it was too horrible. Did Malfoy even know that he was a product of gross incest? Were his genes the reason for his mental instability? But that didn't make sense, something must have happened over the summer; crazy genes don't just activate like that. . . do they? What the FUCK was going on? Harry felt even less certain about events than ever, but his thoughts just kept on coming back around to Malfoy. Malfoy's pointy, pale, inbred face; Malfoy's wild and erratic behavior, Malfoy looking confused and desperate, Malfoy bringing the sky down upon him; Malfoy being beaten to a pulp, being fried to a crisp; Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy. . . his eyes, his anger; his hair, his hate; his fingers, his frailty; his skin, his insanity; his body, his pain, his passion. . .
Harry rubbed his temples. Hermione was staring at him worriedly. He gave her a weak smile, then decided to head up to his dorm room. He was tired and wanted to go to bed, and still had to meditate to clear his mind for sleep. He gave his good-nights and retired, leaving both Ron and Hermione curious and concerned.
Malfoy struggled with his DADA assignment for a good solitary hour before finally deciding to return to his own common room. As usual, his entrance was met with the attention of most of Slytherin; the interest, as of late however, was becoming decreasingly hostile and increasingly hopeful. As Malfoy stood by the door and cautiously observed them observing him, he made a spur of the moment decision.
Instead of quickly disappearing into his dorm room, he strode into the center of the common room to glare at the seventh year who was occupying the coveted armchair in front of the fire. For a split second the seventh year – Derek Vilborne, was it? – looked as though he wouldn't move, but a moment later Malfoy felt a heavy, familiar presence at his back and he lazily looked from side to side to see his trusty bodyguards smiling shyly (ug, was it even possible?) at him. Malfoy smirked and turned back to the seventh year who was rapidly scrambling from the chair. Malfoy looked wickedly pleased as he then promptly settled in the vacancy. Crabbe and Goyle took their positions on the floor on either side of the chair, and Malfoy noticed that many of the room's occupants looked subtly pleased by this development.
"It's good to have you back, Malfoy," Goyle grumbled, not seeming at all concerned about Malfoy's recent hiatus from sanity and previous behavior. Crabbe grunted his agreement with his friend.
"It's good to be back," Malfoy said casually, though he wasn't sure if things could ever really go back to the way they were – he knew he would never be who he had been, but that wasn't to discount the possibility of molding the old order into something new. He caught sight of Parkinson as she entered the common room, noticed him, then grinned. There was a disgustingly un-Slytherin display of contentment and relief for the rest of the evening.
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Okay, everybody, please review! Tell me how you think things should progress! I have a vague story line in mind, but I am certainly willing to incorporate good ideas (as this chapter is an attempt to do). For those of you who are impatient, sorry it is taking so long to get to the slashy goodness, but I promise that it is coming. If you have read my other HP story, you know I am not promising something I won't deliver. I just need to get things there. No premature. . . well, nothing premature anyway. =-)
