Hiding behind words
Welcome to chapter two of the OOC madness that is Harry/Draco. Feel free to laugh at and/or flame me for this. I know I would.
After watching Malfoy flee down towards the dungeons, Harry made his way up to the common room. With every step, the letter rustled inside his robes, reminding him that it was still there. He didn't dare take it out in the corridors, in case someone spotted him – he had a feeling even his mail might not be sacred anymore, with Voldermort's power strengthening by the day. Besides, everyone knows how bloody neat Malfoy's handwriting is – they'd recognise it immediately! Even so, it took all of his self-control not to flip the parchment out and read it on his journey to the tower.
I wonder what it says? Probably insults…or maybe some stuff for the Order… If it is, I should take it straight to Dumbledore! He swivelled around, and began to head back towards the set of steps he'd just ascended, intending to go to the head master's office. Yet, when a sprig of holly on the banister caught his eye, he remembered what day it was, and that Dumbledore was likely to be in the hall with the rest of the school. I guess I'd better read it first anyway, just in case…
Just in case what? He asked himself. What else would Malfoy bother writing to me about? Five pages no less! Harry decided that it must have something to do with the Order, considering how long the message was. Even though Malfoy was a detestable bastard most of the time, he had helped the Order a lot already. He'd joined in the summer, able to return to Hogwarts under the pretence that he was studying for a 'Potion's Mastership' under Snape, who'd agreed to back the story up. He knew, were it not for Snape's intervention, that Draco would have been transferred to Durmstrang Academy (something that Ron was incredibly sore about!) Other than that, the Gryffindor didn't know anything else about the arrangements for Malfoy…just that he'd been very helpful.
Even if it is about the Order, why would he write to me and not Dumbledore? And he wouldn't leave something that important just lying in the snow, in the off chance that I'd see it. All these thoughts circulated in his mind, every single pattern of thoughts reaching the same conclusion; Harry had no idea why Malfoy would be writing to him.
It seemed like an eternity had passed by the time the boy-who-lived reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. She was surrounded by a flurry of painted pixies, who were providing music for Sir Cadugon, his horse and two red-faced monks that she was entertaining. She looked up at the sound of him approaching, and hiccupped loudly, before girlishly giggling, "P-password?"
"Twinkletoes," he answered, feeling stupid when the residents of the painting all burst into laughter. The Fat Lady nodded, and the portrait swung open. Harry hopped in, and feeling particularly vindictive, due to the ridiculous Yuletide password, slammed the portrait closed behind him. A loud burp and a raucous cacophony of giggling followed him into the common room, which was covered in red and gold decorations.
The dark-haired boy made his way over to one of the large armchairs by the fire, taking care not to walk under any of the sprigs of mistletoe on the ceiling. They trapped unwary students, and kept them there until someone kissed them and released them. Personally, after having Dennis Creevey offer to free him, he didn't want to relive the experience.
Personally, I'd rather not live the Christmas experience at all, he thought grumpily, plonking down onto a chair and looking at the flickering flames in the fireplace. His frown was briefly replaced with a smile when he remembered Sirius talking to him through the fireplace a couple of years ago, during the Tri-Wizard Cup. He closed his eyes, and imagined that the soft chair that was enveloping him, was really a hug from his Godfather. However, when an ember flared in the fireplace, he opened his eyes, and found himself alone again.
He pulled himself up into a proper sitting position, and after another pensive glance at the fire, took out the sheaf of paper from Malfoy. The edges of the letter were soggy where they'd been lying in the snow, and he carefully extended an arm towards the heat of the fire to dry them off – another ember drifted out, and he quickly withdrew his hand, not wanting to set the paper alight!
Now to see what the hell all of this is about. Harry bought both legs up onto his seat and wrapped one arm around them, using his other hand to flip open the pages. He readjusted his glasses, and then began to read.
To Mr. Harry Potter
Care of Mr. Draco Malfoy
Right, ummm. Well, I'm writing this letter (dictating it actually). No quill, you don't need to write that bit down – just edit out the stuff that isn't important. Got that? Good. Now, where was I? Errr – yeah. I'm writing this letter to inform you of something that I've been thinking about for a while now. You're probably going to want to kill me for this in the foreseeable future…I just beg that you hear me out before you try and decapitate me, or whatever the hell it is you muggle people do…
For the past year – well, not quite a year – since the spring of fifth year. Not that that matters, but, well, just so you know I guess. Ummm… Well, I've been having; Merlin, this is going to sound so stupid!
Harry raised his eyebrow, and flipped over to the next page, a small smile on his face. Obviously, Malfoy had forgotten to set his talk and write quill onto the 'edit' setting, so it had written down everything he'd said. And I always thought he was supposed to be eloquent. The boy-who-lived shook his head in amusement, and continued to read.
Never mind about it sounding stupid. I've been trying to find a way to tell you this for ages, so I suppose a letter's going to have to do. You're probably going to laugh at this, but ever since the spring of fifth year, I've been having rather…ummm…how can I put this? Bizarre – no, that's not quite the right word… More… Odd I suppose is a better one. Yes? Yes, odd. I've been having rather odd dreams, which have occurred every few nights over an extended period.
Now, this concerns you for two reasons – no! Crabbe, get out of here, I'm trying to write a letter!
But, Draco, what about quidditch pract-
Bugger off, I'll be there in a minute!
OK.
Idiot.
This must have been written a couple of weeks ago, at least, if there was quidditch practice… Harry thought as he turned onto the third page. His heart was fluttering in his chest at the mention of dreams, but he told himself the dreams Malfoy was referring to probably weren't anything to do with what he hoped they were to do with. Hope they're to do with? What the hell's wrong with me, why would I hope something like that would ever…? I'm going mad… Just carry on reading onto the next page…
Can't get any bloody privacy round here…
Now, these dreams – I've been having them for a while now…and…whilst you're probably going to despise me even more than you already do, I need to say something before I go mad.
I just wish I could take back all the arse-hole comments and things I've done in the past, but, c'est la vie, I can't, so… I'll just say sorry. It's the only way I can think to say it. I'm even sorry about the way I've been to Granger and Weasel – Weasley I mean – if that helps…? Probably not… Well, at least I tried, right?
Harry blinked, and dropped the pile of papers onto his lap for a brief moment, re-reading the third page. Sorry? Draco Malfoy's saying sorry? If I didn't know any better, I'd say he didn't write this… He took in a deep, steadying breath, and went onto the penultimate page.
OK, enough rambling. The dreams. Ummm…
The long and short of them comes down to this.
You. Me. A romantic attachment of…sorts… Between the two of us, I mean. Errr – heh – absurd, I know…but…there you are. You're probably a little shocked; apparently homosexuality is frowned upon by muggles (at least if what I've heard is right on that count), so no doubt you think me very odd. But, well, it's different in the magical community, Harry…
It's weird not calling you Potter…hmmm…
Anyway – it just – isn't that much of a stigma, and…I thought…maybe… But no, you'd never…what with Cho Chang and… This was all just silly…
The Gryffindor's hands shook slightly as he turned to the final page, on which the handwriting was a lot messier, and written in blue ink, rather than black. He must have written this after the rest of the letter – and in a hurry, judging by the writing. Having to pause every so often to decipher a messily scribbled word, he pored over the last page, disbelief mounting on top of a desperate wish to believe all that he read. I really have gone mad.
Harry. I haven't been particularly eloquent. But that doesn't matter. If you decide that you don't want to kill me and/or publicly humiliate me (and I wouldn't blame you…I've been a prick), then all I ask is a letter in return. I'd suggest using a school owl because people know your one. Perhaps I'll be able to make more sense face to face?
Beneath this scribbled mess was Draco's signature, and a stamp of the Malfoy family crest. Harry let out a low whistle, and looked up at the fireplace. The clock on the mantle above it caught his eye, and he saw that people would soon be returning from the Christmas feast. Rather than stay and make small talk with them, he decided that he wanted to reply to Malfoy at once. I don't think I'd be able to wait around and talk to Ron and 'Mione with something like this to think about…
He wasn't entirely sure what he thought of the situation to be honest… Maybe talking to Malfoy face to face will help me figure out what's really going on. The pessimistic side of him immediately decided that this was some sort of elaborate farce to make him look stupid, yet the optimistic side told him 'not to be such a big girl's blouse, and speak to the boy for heaven's sake.'
His optimistic side sounded surprisingly like Sirius.
With a slight chuckle at his own madness, Harry slid off the chair, and left the common room, in order to hurry up the stairs to grab his school bag, which was still full of parchment, quills and ink. This done, he hurried back downstairs, and exited the tower, turning right towards the owlery.
Draco hurried along the dank underground passageways of the dungeons, his speed fuelled by his nerves. He still couldn't believe what he'd done, but he'd be damned if he was going to back out now. He'd been carrying that letter around ever since the last quidditch practice before the dirty match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. So many times he'd contemplated just tearing it up, or muttering 'incendio' as he walked the Castle grounds, just to be rid of it.
Finally, that morning, something had just snapped in him...
:-:-:-:-:
He'd been reading the usual pompous letter from his parents, wishing him a Merry Christmas and all that, and had opened his expensive and completely useless presents, when he heard laughter from the common room. Curiously, he'd wandered in, only to find his fellow Slytherins passing around a copy of the Daily Prophet.
As one of the richest children in the house, it had been easy enough for him to demand to see the paper. He took it, the rest of the house crowding around their prince, and smoothed out the paper so that he could read the headline. However, it was the picture that caught his eye first. Is that one of the Wease- Weasley twins? The black and white picture didn't show the shocking red hair, but he recognised the young man, who was leaning heavily on a pair of crutches, because his legs had literally turned to jelly!
The blazing headline read 'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Wobbles With Owners Wibble-candy Woe'. He smirked slightly, but then his eyes caught the first paragraph of the article, which was in bold print (he also noticed with a raised eyebrow that it had been written by Rita Skeeter.) He remembered being interviewed by the woman, and wrinkled his nose at the memory of her disgusting artificially blonde hair and cheap scent.
The first paragraph explained the situation, which was a lot dourer than he'd thought. Mr Fred Weasley today announced that his brother, George (pictured above) experienced a severe allergic reaction to the well-loved 'Wibble-candy', and urges that anyone who has bought the sweets to return them immediately in case of defects. "We've not discovered what's wrong with them yet, but we're working on it," a disgruntled George Weasley informed us, as he made his way out of a car and into St. Mungo's yesterday afternoon.
Draco was nudged in the ribs by Pansy Parkinson, who giggled, "Isn't it funny? Stupid muggle-lovers are going to have to refund every penny – and who knows, that one mightn't ever get his legs back to normal!" She laughed again, and he joined in with a soft chuckle of his own, folding the paper and handing it back to the second year that had given it to him. The second year hurried back over to his group of friends, presumably to talk about the article.
Pansy hung around hopefully next to Draco – he found that he wasn't in the mood to amuse her, and abruptly turned around and headed back into his dorm. A quick glance over his shoulder affirmed his hunch that this had annoyed the girl, and he smiled to try and make amends. She returned the smile with a fake, tight-lipped one of her own, and then hurried off with Blaise Zabini, probably to discuss Christmas presents…or something girly…
Back in the dormitory, Draco walked over to his bed and slumped onto it face down, a sound of annoyance bursting out of him, only to be muffled by the heavy blankets on the bed. I bloody hate this house! He rolled over, and stared up at the canopy of his bed, listening to the sounds of the other Slytherin's down in the common room. It was like a low, lilting hum, which rose and fell like waves on the sea.
Since it was still quite early on in the day (everyone had been roused by a bunch of sadistic and excitable seventh years at around six), he closed his eyes, planning to catch up on some sleep. It's not as though I've anything planned for the day. The Slytherin reached up to grab one of his pillows, brushing against a pile of parchments underneath the pillow as he did so. Ah…that's still there… He picked up the letter as well, and frowned at the pages of writing.
Yet another shriek of laughter from the common room startled him, and he looked over at the door to the dormitory with wide eyes. Can't they just be quiet for a few minutes? He pondered, sitting up on the bed, his resolve firming. Don't particularly fancy another round of Christmas games like last year, after all… Maybe I should do some of that Potions homework… The idea of working didn't really appeal, but getting out of the dungeons did.
Just full of bastards and backstabbers anyway…
That was how it had come to be that the Slytherin prince had fled his house, and had wandered around the quiet hallways for about an hour, before settling in the library with a copy of 'Hogwarts: A History', balanced on his knee. Granger keeps quoting it… I'm beginning to wonder what all the fuss is about. A few hours later, when lunch was called, he was so engrossed in the book, that he only realised when he looked up to find Pansy, Blaise, Vincent and Gregory looming over him.
"Come on Draco, it's lunch!" Pansy grinned, snatching the book from his hands and putting it onto one of the many bookshelves around them. "You can do work anytime; it's Christmas for goodness sake!" Before he could think of anything clever to say to protest, the girl had grabbed his hand and yanked him from his seat. I guess I'm going to lunch then…
After an excruciating lunch, full of the usual bitching and griping of the Slytherin house (most were still on about the article in the Daily Prophet), Draco was all too happy to quietly slip out of the hall and into the grounds. Maybe a walk will cheer me up… He had wanted to go back to the library, but he'd seen Granger dragging Weasley off up there. Wouldn't want to disturb them…
It wasn't just that though…he'd seen the redhead casting sour looks over at the Slytherins for most of lunch, and knew that he too must have seen the article in the Daily Prophet. Draco had taken care not to mention anything about it, but Weasley usually put two and two together and came up with five… So…probably best not to risk my chances… I like my nose this shape…
So, as subtly as he could, Draco fled the castle and used the grounds as a sanctuary from the madness of his own house, and the members of the others.
:-:-:-:-:
I just had to go and see him, didn't I? The blond thought, cursing himself. I'm dead… Sod it, may as well Avada Kedavra myself and be done with it! He reached the patch of dank stone wall that led into Slytherin house, and muttered the password with a small trace of annoyed venom. "Mudbloods beware." Some smart alec had decided that the words of the heir of Slytherin would be perfect, and no one had objected.
Again disgusted by his own house, he nonetheless hurried inside, planning to barricade himself into his room and not come out until he absolutely had to.
Don't we all love the eloquence of a certain Malfoy? ::Sniggers:: that letter was fun to write… Sounds about as intelligent as I do when I have to give geography presentations to the little monsters in year seven. ::Shudders:: hard to believe I was ever that small and scary looking…
::Is informed that she is still small and scary looking by a passing pair of Weasley twins.:: I would hurt them – but then I wouldn't have any twincest to read. ::Weasley twins scamper off, looking scandalised.:: Heh, I'm a bad, bad author.
