Chapter Two
by Capella
A/N: A small note to Louisa: Ummm -- I'm not sure why you were cussing me out in your review; did you have a problem with the story, or am I just a son of a bitch on general principle?
And by the way, stalking is illegal in all fifty states.
What the hell is a mord sith? Is he your personal trainer or something?
"At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman, and these hills, the softness of the sky, the outline of these trees at this very minute lose the illusory meaning with which we had clothed them, henceforth more remote than a lost paradise...that denseness and that strangeness of the world is absurd."
Albert Camus
"Hey, Malfoy!"
Harry's voice hit him as soon as he got off the train like a punch to the gut; he had been hoping to avoid Harry in the scramble to get to the castle, but it seemed as though Harry had found him first. Better still, Weasley was standing next to him, glowering and holding the hand of his Mudblood girlfriend. Draco forced a smirk onto his face.
"Potter," he said, and Harry grinned up at him. Well, not up, precisely; Draco had always been the taller of the two, but ever since the end of sixth year Harry had hit a tremendous growth spurt, and they now almost stood eye to eye.
"Back from your father's, I see," Harry said, still smiling, "alive and intact, no permanent damage, too."
The whip-marks on his back burned with every touch of fabric to his skin. He barely kept his hand from rising to his sternum to feel the smooth skin where, only a day before, there had been two deep, bleeding puncture wounds. He had burned the clothing he'd worn that night, and when his mother asked why he hadn't work his nice green shirt lately, he'd mumbled an answer and gone to his room. His mother looked at him differently since that night; he had no doubt that Lucius had twisted what had happened when he'd told her why she heard her son screaming from the dungeon.
"It went fine," Draco lied. "We barely even saw each other. Just at dinner."
Weasley sneered at him. "Too busy at his Death-eater meetings, I bet. Why weren't you there?"
Draco barely spared a glare in Weasley's direction, but the words dug at him regardless. Harry rolled his eyes and shrugged good-naturedly.
"How was castle life with Lupin and Ma --"
Harry's eyes widened and he made a subtle cutting-off motion with his hand near his waist. Draco suppressed a smile; he evidently hadn't told Ron about Mandy. He changed his word into a cough. Ron gave him a suspicious look but didn't say anything.
"It was fine," Harry said vaguely. He gave Draco another tentative smile, and the potion in Draco's pocket felt somehow heavier. "We should probably get going. The feast's going to start soon. Besides, I'm getting sort of hungry."
Draco managed to force a laugh, turning his head slightly to avoid the sun's glare. Suddenly, he saw Harry's eyes widen as Harry's gaze fell on his cheek.
"Jesus, Draco," he breathed, his hand raising to touch his cheek and the ragged, raw cut slicing from right below his left ear to his nose. His fingers brushed Draco's skin gently and Draco flinched away. "What happened? Did -- did your father --"
"No," Draco said sharply. "I fell down the stairs." He left it at that; Harry looked at him for a few moments without blinking, and Draco felt the confession well up in his throat: the cut, the torture, the poison in his pocket. But Harry smiled slightly.
"Figures," he said with a half-hearted laugh. "You're always so clumsy." A lie; Harry was the one forever bumping into things and knocking stuff over, and Draco had never tripped since he learned to walk. Draco knew that Harry knew that. "Let's get going."
Harry and his friends quickly outpaced Draco; they talked excitedly as they walked about the coming school year, graduation, Snape's all around unpleasantness and a number of other subjects that Draco might have almost been interested in before break. He walked slower, his steps lagging, ignoring the looks Harry threw over his shoulder at him. His father's words echoed in his head.
'The poison, when put into a drink -- for the sake of example, pumpkin juice -- is odorless and tasteless. Put the entire thing in Harry Potter's goblet at supper, and destroy the vial.'
Draco wondered how his father knew what Harry always drank at supper.
'I will be very displeased if you should fail, and Harry will be more so. If you do not kill him, I will have him brought to my mansion, tortured, beaten, raped, and executed. You will experience the same, save the murder, as it would be singularly unpleasant to be forced to kill my only heir. I would prefer not to dirty my hands, however.'
Draco shuddered. He could only imagine what sorts of tortures his father could inflict when he got serious. He was beginning to think that what Lucius had done to him had been mere play.
'I understand that the vial could break, or something else unfortunate could happen. Thus, I am giving you this dagger. The same poison that I would like for you to put into Harry Potter's drink is sprinkled on the dagger. I would recommend not touching the dagger. If you somehow do not poison the boy's drink, put the blade in his heart.'
Suddenly someone bumped into his back and Draco stumbled a step forward, barely catching himself in time to save his dignity. A beefy hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked up and up into Goyle's face. Crabbe, as usual, was by his side. For some reason their expressions were melancholy.
"Sorry, Draco," Goyle mumbled. "Didn't mean to. I'm a bit off lately."
There was absolutely nothing that Draco could care less about, but he had to ask, to keep up appearances. "Why?" His voice sounded tired, even to himself.
To his surprise, it almost looked like Goyle was about to cry. It was obvious that he'd forgotten about his hand resting on Draco's shoulder. "My dad was killed," he said, and Crabbe nodded. Draco raised his eyebrows.
"Yours too, Crabbe?"
"Yeah," he said in his typical stumbling tone. "Your father owled us and told us. He didn't say how. I guess it was some Auror or something."
Suddenly Draco's stomach felt like it was frozen, and he had to steel himself to keep from shrugging Goyle's hand off. God. Now he knew the identity of the two men in the dungeon that night.
Chin up, now.
He shivered and hurried on, and Crabbe and Goyle did not stop him, too caught up in their own bumbling grief to bother with him.
Thinking of those two men brought up memories that Draco did not want to relive. He wondered if his father knew what a thorough job he'd done in breaking his spirit; he was jumpy, and it was starting to get difficult to keep up the cold, spoiled facade that, until break, hadn't been a facade at all. Even thinking about disobeying his father made him want to vomit.
Harry's laughter filtered down through the crowd to Draco. He snuck a hand into his pocket and gripped the vial.
The entire evening went by in a blur. He missed the sorting ceremony; he stared into his goblet during the school song, not like he'd ever sang along with it, anyway. He could feel Blaise, sitting by his side, giving him a few curious looks, but nothing further than that. He was grateful.
The food appeared so suddenly that he near jumped a foot into the air, and he knocked his pumpkin juice into his lap. He sat there, staring at the dark stain slowly spreading on his cloak, and made no move to clean it up. He had been considering putting the potion into his own drink, up til then.
"Clumsy, Malfoy?" Blaise asked, grinning, and magicked the juice away when it was clear that Draco wouldn't.
"Yeah," he said, and smirked a little, and Blaise turned back to his meal, obviously confident in the fact that Malfoy was starting to act a bit more like usual.
Harry gave him the tiniest wave from the Gryffindor table when he caught Draco staring at him for the fifth time. He made a "come here" motion and Draco's breath caught in his throat, suddenly faced with the prospect of completing what his father wanted him to do.
Panicking, he shook his head no, and Harry shrugged and turned to Ron, already laughing again. Draco's hands were shaking, and his fork clattered against his plate. Blaise glanced over at him out of the corner of his eye.
"You all right, Malfoy?" he said, with what might have been a touch of actual concern in his voice. Draco nodded without taking his eyes off Harry.
"Fine," he murmured, and dropped his fork onto his plate. He lurched up and off the bench, almost running out of the room, unconscious of the few curious stares following him. He could go as he pleased, since he'd been made a prefect the year before.
Poison was so impersonal. He needed for Harry to know that it was him. He wanted to be there next to Harry as he died, to explain why he had done it.
When he got to his room, he poured the potion down the toilet. It fizzled angrily in the water.
He imagined the blade doing the same thing as it touched Harry's skin. It was a tiny consolation that his stomach didn't hurt so much anymore when he thought of Harry dead.
Then Hedwig tapped on his window with a message sprawled across the paper in Harry's characteristic messy handwriting.
Come to my room once everyone's asleep. You seem off. Are you okay?
Draco slipped the dagger in his pocket and waited. There were advantages to Harry being Head Boy and getting his own room. He wouldn't have to kill any witnesses.
Father -- what if I get caught?
I will protect you. You are my son.
"Potter?"
Harry glanced over at the door and smiled. Draco hovered in the doorway, one hand on the frame and the other one in the pocket of his robe. He looked strangely tentative, a look that Harry had never seen him wear in his life.
"Come in already, Malfoy." Harry cleared off the clothes he'd been unpacking off his bed and scooted over, giving Draco room to sit. Draco took a step into the room and hestitated before walking over to the bed, grabbing the bedpost in one white-knuckled hand as if he needed support to stand.
"I'll just stand," he said shortly. There was a long moment of silence in which Draco stared at the bedsheets as if they were the most interesting things he'd ever seen, and Harry studied Draco more closely than he'd ever thought to do.
There were dark circles underneath Draco's eyes. Harry noticed that right away. Draco was always impeccably neat and good-looking, never a hair out of place or a blemish on his skin; somehow, he never even looked tired. Now his eyes were downcast, his shoulders slumped.
Draco's eyes lifted from his study and caught Harry staring. The gray of his irises were dull.
"What?" he snapped.
"Draco," Harry started carefully, "I know we've never really been the best of friends. Or friends at all. But this past year -- things started getting better, and I want you to know you really can trust me. If you want to."
Draco stared at him for a long, long while before replying. His reply was not one that Harry would have expected.
In a flash, the hand that Draco had been keeping in his pocket was out, and Harry barely caught a glimpse of steel before Draco was on him, grabbing him by the neck and forcing him to the bed on his back. Harry lay there, stunned, Draco's hand clutching at his windpipe so hard that he could barely breathe. There was a knife in Draco's other hand, pointed at his heart. Draco's lips were drawn back over his teeth in a surprisingly feral snarl.
"Draco," Harry managed to get out, and Draco growled, his grip growing tighter until Harry had to fight for every breath.
"I have to do this," Draco said fiercely, his eyes brighter now. "This dagger is poisoned. If I stab you in the heart, you'll die instantly. Even if I nick your arm, you need the antidote quickly. You'll be dead before anyone can get to you, and my father --" His teeth clicked shut with an audible noise, and a faint tremor started in his hand and traveled up his arms. His grip on Harry's throat loosened somewhat, enough so Harry could breathe and talk.
"Your father?"
Draco flinched and turned his head away, and the flickering candlelight fell on the twisting, ugly cut on his cheek.
"Your father did that, didn't he?"
Draco snapped his head back and glared down at Harry. "I deserved it," he snarled. "A father has the right to discipline his son." He sounded convicted, but the trembling in his limbs did not subside. The knife edged closer to Harry's heart. "I have to be a good boy," he whispered.
"Draco, listen to me." Harry drew a shallow breath. "What did he do to you?"
"Nothing!" Draco cried, and Harry almost jumped and impaled himself on the knife.. "God!" His outburst subsided into a panting silence. His chest was heaving with every racing breath, and sweat was dripping down his face. His eyes were wild and desperate.
"Okay," Harry said, thinking quickly. "What will happen if you don't -- kill me?"
"I can't -- I can't tell you. I just have to."
"Draco," Harry said slowly, "there is something on your neck."
Draco looked at him suspiciously, but he removed his hand from Harry's throat all the same, keeping the knife carefully at Harry's heart, and lifted his hand to his neck. Something that was almost shame crept onto his face when he felt the welt revealed by his collar, which had slipped down on one shoulder.
"Is that a whip --"
"Shut up!" Draco cried, and quicker than thought his fingers were digging into Harry's throat again. "So what if it is? It doesn't matter. You'll still be dead."
"You don't have to tell me," Harry said, and he felt Draco's fingers loosen imperceptibly. "Just -- get off me and we'll think of something. I promise. I won't let your father hurt you."
"No," Draco growled. "You think I can't go through with it? You think I won't kill you, just because we talked a few times?"
Harry had to make an effort to moderate his voice, to keep the obvious anger and fear out of his tone. "You don't want to be like your father, Draco," he said quietly.
Draco's arms were shaking so badly that Harry did not know how he kept his grip on the knife. Slowly, as if it pained him, he pried his hand off Harry's throat and sat back on the bed. There was shock in his eyes.
"You're going to die anyway, you know," Draco said, his voice higher and panicked and slightly mad. "You're going to pray that the Dark Lord comes and rescues you once my father gets you. I know. He told me. He's going to make you live for a long time before you die."
Harry's stomach twisted in delayed fear. When his life had been in immediate danger, he had managed to put the fact that Lucius Malfoy wanted him dead to the back of his mind. Now the thought shouldered its way into his consciousness and made a cold sweat break out on his skin.
"But --" He had to stop and clear his throat before he could continue. "But why hasn't he got me already, then?" Another thought occured to him. "Is Lucius acting alone? Does Voldemort know about this?"
Draco shuddered slightly, and Harry did not know if it was in fear of Voldemort's name or his father's. Draco had never been afraid of Voldemort's name before; at least, he had never shown it around Harry. "I don't know," he whispered. "Maybe he just doesn't want to get in trouble himself, if he gets caught. Maybe the Dark Lord doesn't want to risk any of his followers. Maybe I've the best chance, since I'm here with you and father knows -- he knows I've been talking to you. Why does it matter?"
It was strange. Ever since he had known that Voldemort wanted him dead, Harry had imagined every single type of attack and torture he could think of; it was almost a morbid little desensitizing hobby that he played with in his mind. But he had never considered this kind of an attack. How many other of his friends could be turned in this way?
"Please let me do this," Draco whispered, his face white. Harry felt himself growing angry.
"Why? To save your own skin?"
"No!" Draco cried angrily in turn, but then he looked away when Harry continued to gaze at him steadily, ashamed. Draco turned his head and looked at the ground. "Maybe." Harry waited for him to say more, but he stayed silent.
Harry tried to calm down, tried to think of what sort of things Draco's father had to have put Draco through to force him to do this.
"Look," he said. "I've got an idea. Maybe we can both get out of this alive."
Draco peered up at him through his lashes, a doubtful look in his eye. "Yeah?" he asked, sounding a bit like his old self. "How?"
"You --" Harry took a deep breath. "Just stab me in the shoulder. Go find someone and tell them that I've been attacked. You can tell your father that I fought you and you couldn't get in a good hit. Okay?"
"Jesus," Draco muttered. "I cannot believe you just said that."
Harry felt his stomach twist a little more in what was almost mind-numbing fear. "Me neither." Suddenly Draco grinned, and Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What?"
"Can you do me a favor?"
Harry nodded, still cautious.
"Punch me," he said, and turned his head to the side, baring his neck and cheek. "Make it look realistic. My father's a perfectionist." Draco's smile looked a little more forced. Harry smiled back.
"I'll make it good. Don't worry." He reared back his fist.
Adrenaline and a great deal of anger and fear powered his blow, and Draco fell off the bed and onto the floor with a dull thud. Harry winced when he heard a crack.
"Jesus, Potter," Draco said once he got his breath back. "You broke my wrist."
"I did not," Harry said, indignant. "I punched you in the nose. See, it's bleeding."
Draco gave him a crooked grin, made somewhat sinister by the blood pouring down his face from his nose. "I know. My hand got caught under me when I fell. At least you made it realistic." He climbed back on the bed, his face somber. Harry felt his own smile fade.
He squeezed his eyes shut. "Just do it."
"What?" Draco sounded incredulous. "Here? Now?"
"When the hell else?" Harry snapped, his nerves on edge. "Do it before I lose my nerve." The blood was thundering through his veins, the fear-rush of adrenaline making his fingers twitch.
Harry felt Draco's arms encircle him gently, tentatively. Draco's hair pressed against Harry's cheek as he hugged Harry tight to his chest. "Thanks, Potter."
Then Draco drew back, and before Harry could steel himself there was a blinding hot pain in his shoulder, and Harry let out a hurt cry before he could stop himself. The fire sped along his veins, and he fell off the bed to the floor, sobbing in agony, writhing and arching his back in a futile attempt to force the pain out of his system. He opened his eyes, his vision blurred through tears, to see Draco staring down at him in horror.
"Go -- get someone," Harry panted. It seemed to snap Draco out of his stupor, and he raced out of the room, not bothering to shut the door. Harry clutched at his chest, the epicenter of the pain, as his vision darkened into an horrible, engulfing black; and as he faded, he heard faintly footsteps thundering to his side, and wondered if maybe it was too late.
Draco would wonder later at the strange twist of fate that sent him crashing into Mandy Brocklehurst outside of Harry's room as he fled out of the portrait hole and down the stairs. She flew back and rolled a few feet down the stairs, and Draco barely kept from falling, only stumbling back a few feet.
Mandy finally stopped rolling at the bottom of the stairs. She flew to her feet, her long black hair in a mess around her face, glaring up at Draco with anger and then cautiousness.
"Why are you crying?" she asked, with a typical sort of detached Ravenclaw curiosity.
"What?" he replied stupidly, and reached one shaking hand up to his face. It was wet with what he could only assume was a mix of sweat and tears. "I --"
"And what's on your -- oh my God, Draco, you have blood on your arm." Even saying that she was calm, but there was panic in her eyes.
Draco looked down at his arm. There was a few drops of blood splattered on his white shirt, something only a very observant pair of eyes could notice. He stared down at his sleeve in horror.
"Go get Snape," he whispered, and she frowned and mounted a few steps in an attempt to hear him.
"What?"
"Now!" he yelled, in the loudest voice he'd ever used around anyone but Harry. "Go get Snape and bring him to Potter's room. Just do it, damn it!"
Mandy's eyes went almost comically wide, and she turned and flew down the stairs to the dungeon, her tangled black hair flowing behind her as she ran. Draco waited until she had been gone a few moments before straightening his hair and wiping off his face on his sleeve. He walked calmly down the stairs to the dungeon, but his heart fluttered nervously in his chest. He could not imagine which would be worse -- if Harry died or if Harry lived.
But his father had promised to protect him.
Caught up in his thoughts, he did not notice the second-year Gryffindor watching the entire thing with wide eyes and an open mouth. The child waited until Draco was safely gone, then scurried off to Dumbledore's office nervously, not knowing what he would do when he arrived. It was only by pure chance that he saw Dumbledore walking the halls on his way there.
There was a knock on the door, early the next morning. Draco would have been furious if he hadn't stayed up all night anyway, staring at the ceiling and seeing Harry die a hundred times in his head, seeing his father and that room and that night a thousand.
Blaise mumbled something incoherent into his pillow.
"Don't strain yourself," Draco muttered, easing himself off the bed. The whip weals hurt a little less now. He'd put a salve on the one that almost extended above his neck.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
Dumbledore walked into the room, flanked by three wizards and two witches. They had their wands out. Pointed at Draco.
"Headmaster?" Draco asked, and was proud that his voice was steady. "What's going on?"
Dumbledore's eyes were somber. "Harry Potter is in the infirmary," he said in that hoarse, gentle voice of his, only this time there was a layer of steel beneath it. "He almost died last night. Do --"
"He's not dead?" Draco knew from the moment he asked it was a mistake. The Aurors' eyes narrowed as a whole, but Draco could not help but ask. His stomach twisted into knots in fear, fear of what his father would do when he found out. But he had tried. His father would protect him like he promised to. He had tried. Harry was not dead.
"Do you know anything about this?" Dumbledore continued as if Draco had not spoken.
Draco's eyes darted to the Aurors and back to Dumbledore. "I -- no, I don't know anything. I don't."
Blaise mumbled something again. Draco almost could not hear him over the pounding of his own heart.
"I am afraid you need to come with me, Draco."
"Go -- with you?" Draco's voice shook. "Where?"
There was a long pause before one of the Aurors spoke, and Draco's breath froze in his lungs.
"To your trial."
"No," Draco whispered, and took a step back, but it was too late; the Aurors rushed into the room and surrounded him. He was in too much of a daze to fight them off; only wincing when they tied the rope around his hands. He supposed it was enchanted.
"He told," Draco breathed, his lips numb. One of the Aurors binding his hands looked at him suspiciously, but he ignored it. He had been betrayed.
