The next day was Thursday, and ripples of excitement concerning the upcoming Quidditch game, though slightly marred on the Gryffindor side by the news of the loss of Harry, were running through the school. Harry did his best to ignore the Slytherins who hissed at him when he passed them in the corridors, and Defense Against the Dark Arts was a nightmare, as Snape seemed to be blind and deaf to the constant insults and gestures thrown in Harry's direction by other students. Meanwhile, he also had to concentrate on calming down Ron, who had entered a state of frenzied anxiety as the final match drew nearer.
"It's all right, Ron, just control your breathing. Don't hyperventilate," Harry said soothingly to Ron on Friday morning, patting him on the back and offering him a flagon of pumpkin juice. Hermione was sitting opposite them at their table in the Great Hall, poring over a huge, yellowing library book, when she raised her head suddenly and said, "Look! Malfoy's back!"
Harry turned around and could see Malfoy entering the Great Hall, escorted by Pansy Parkinson and Snape. He looked healthy as ever, aside from the slight pallor Harry had noticed in his cheeks for the past several months.
"Well, Snape was really making a big deal over nothing, wasn't he?" said Ron. "Nothing's wrong with Malfoy now!"
"You should have seen him when the spell hit, though," Harry said, lowering his voice. "It was more blood than I've ever seen, I think. I really thought he was done for."
"So, do you still think he's a Death Eater, Harry?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well..." Harry took a long pause. He knew Malfoy was a Death Eater, but a funny loyalty to Malfoy reared within him, preventing him from speaking about it further. Luckily the start-of-classes bell sounded, and Harry was thankful for the first time that Ron and Hermione hadn't been that keen on his suspicions.
x x x x x x
Later that night, Hermione prepared a Calming Draught for Ron, who had been nearing hysterics as the Quidditch match was less than twelve hours away. She and Harry sat silently by the fire, reading, until midnight when Hermione rose.
"Are you going to go to bed, Harry?" she asked him.
"Uh? Oh.. well... I'm not too terribly sleepy," Harry said, her question having roused him from intense concentration. "It's not as though I need to rest in order to prepare for Snape's detention," he added glumly.
"All right, goodnight then," Hermione said, shrugging, and marched up the spiral stairs to the girls' dormitories. Harry looked down at the book in his lap, which he had opened at random several hours ago and had been pretending to read. The only people left in the common room now were two third-year boys playing wizard chess whom Harry did not know. Repositioning himself on the armchair, Harry prepared to slip back into his thoughts, but was jolted by a loud, sudden CRACK!
Kreacher the house-elf appeared before Harry, the odious expression on his face illuminated by the flickering fire. The third-years in the other corner had stopped their chess game and were staring at the ugly little elf. Harry glared at them and they hastily turned their backs, whispering.
"Er, hello, Kreacher," Harry said, having forgotten that he'd assigned the house-elf the task of monitoring Draco Malfoy.
"Kreacher has a note from Master Malfoy," Kreacher said, removing from his filthy frock a piece of parchment folded into a small square. Harry immediately sprang forward and grabbed it and shoved it into his pocket.
"If Kreacher may give a word of warning, be aware that young Master Malfoy now knows that he is being followed by Kreacher," the elf said blandly.
"Okay, well, you can stop following him now, and tell Dobby to stop following him as well, then," Harry said quickly, urging the house-elf to disappear so that he could read Malfoy's note. Kreacher gave a resentful bow and vanished with another CRACK. Harry removed the folded note from his pocket and read it. It was only one line of text:
Potter,
Trophy room, tomorrow midnight. ALONE.
After reading it over several times, Harry looked up. Then, smiling faintly, he remembered that this was not the first time Malfoy had requested to meet him in the trophy room at midnight. That was in their first year – God, was that long ago! In his hours of thinking Harry had recalled his very first encounters with Malfoy, when they had been eleven years old. When Harry met Draco Malfoy, he had been intimidated by how prepared Malfoy had been to make his acquaintance. He knew now that Malfoy had likely been instructed by his father to either forge an alliance with Harry, in order to persuade him to join the Death Eaters, or to regard him with utmost antagonism. Though the entire fight against Voldemort was rooted in revenge, in the memories of past horrors and betrayals, Harry suddenly found it absurd that both he and Malfoy had been preconditioned to hate one another by virtue of the grudges of another generation. We're both clever wizards, Harry thought, for Malfoy had caught on to my spies quickly enough. If everyone wasn't so fixed on blood, Malfoy and I might've been friends.
Harry thought of every taunt, hex and sneer he and his friends had endured over five and a half years at the hands of Malfoy and his underlings.
Then he thought of the sounds he heard in his third year, when approached by the dementors of Azkaban: the screams and pleading of his parents. Their swirling, spectral forms in that cemetery at the end of his fourth year: the juxtaposition of their visage with that of Voldemort, Harry's true enemy. The death of Sirius less than a year previously: it stung him more severely than any conflict with Malfoy.
How petty their rivalry seemed, now. Dumbledore had clued him into this when he'd lectured him about getting Slughorn's memory after Harry had been obsessively tracking Malfoy with the Marauder's Map.
Harry shifted his thoughts. What did Malfoy want to meet him for? Did he want to duel? Was he preparing to set his minions on Harry? Should he tell Ron and Hermione?
He decided to sleep on that question. Apprehensive about the coming day but also exhausted, he dragged himself up the stairs, and collapsed into bed.
x x x x x x
Harry had been anxious about doing detention with Snape, suspecting that the professor had probably selected a particularly grueling chore for him, but he was merely ordered to sort records of old rule infractions and punishments for Filch. He hadn't mentioned anything to Ron and Hermione about Malfoy's note. He figured that if he divulged it to them later, he'd tell them that he didn't want to give Ron any more to worry about before the match.
The detention was frustratingly dull. Snape had evidently plotted it out more than Harry thought: many of the cards he was sorting featured descriptions of his father's and Sirius's antics during their school days. After some time Harry's eyes began to glaze, and by the end of it he was sure he'd mislabeled and disorganized more than half of the cards, but Snape appeared not to notice or care. Finally, just after one o'clock, he dismissed Harry, reminding him that he was to return in a week's time. As soon as he'd closed Snape's office door behind him, Harry began to run up to the main floor, to see if the Quidditch match was over yet.
When he reached the end of the castle nearer to the pitch and found that the field was empty, he ran up to Gryffindor Tower. His heart suddenly thumping in anticipation, he reached the Fat Lady's portrait and gave her the password.
To his relief and surprise, the common room exploded with laughter and cheerful sounds. Ron immediately shoved a bottle of butterbeer into his hand and Ginny launched herself at him out of nowhere, throwing her arms around his neck. He grinned at both of them, and said, "Well done, then! I knew you'd get it, I'm not so necessary after all –"
"Oh, Harry, don't be so modest!" said Romilda Vane from behind him, beaming. Harry could see Hermione smirking at him from across the common room; Ginny was still clinging to his neck.
"So, tell me about the match! How'd you manage it?" Harry asked, as some of the other Gryffindors drew in around him. Ron began to explain how Demelza Robins had scored two goals right in a row, and how Cho Chang had crashed into the bottom of a goal post after getting hit by one of her own team's Bludgers, leaving Ginny to catch the Snitch. Harry stayed in the common room for a long time, celebrating with his teammates and Hermione, but knew that he would have enjoyed it more had he not been sensing a creeping nervousness about his forthcoming meeting with Draco Malfoy that night. He downed several alcoholic beverages hoping to quell this feeling a little bit, but it ended up only sending him to the bathroom more times than usual.
At a quarter past eleven, there were still at least fifteen people in the common room, playing Exploding Snap, retelling moments in the match, and laughing loudly. Harry began to wonder how he'd be able to exit to meet Malfoy without arousing suspicion. He decided to go up to bed, much to Ron and Hermione's protests; he drew the hangings and sat up, minding his wristwatch and clutching his Invisibility Cloak. At five minutes to midnight, Harry drew the Cloak around himself as silently as possible, and stepped out of bed. He put on his slippers and tiptoed down to the common room, where, he was pleased to see, only two people remained, both apparently asleep and surrounded by empty glass bottles. He removed his Cloak to walk through the portrait hole, and then put it back on after rounding the corner. Then he set off down the stairs to the trophy room.
Though the castle was almost entirely dark, Harry could see that the trophy room was filled with silvery light, bouncing off of the great quantity of reflective glass. When he was about twenty paces from the door, he could see that another figure – a single figure – stood in the shadows.
Harry's heartbeat quickened. So, Malfoy hadn't brought anyone to attack him... He shrugged off the Cloak silently as he stepped into the room. At first they just stood there; Harry could not see Malfoy's face, and he had his hand wrapped around his wand in his cloak pocket.
"Potter," Malfoy said, inquiringly. He stepped forward and inclined his head very slightly to Harry.
Harry raked his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Hello, Malfoy," he said.
"Nice try with the elves. Evidently you forgot that I am acutely aware of whom those particular elves are loyal to," Malfoy said, with a teasing coldness. At first Harry said nothing, but when Malfoy opened his mouth to speak again, Harry said,
"You know, if you are working for Voldemort, it shouldn't come as a surprise that I'd want you stopped, Malfoy."
"Of course, of course," said Malfoy. "Nor is it a surprise that you're working for Dumbledore. You know, he called me to his office for a little chat recently."
"Oh, er ... what about?" Harry asked, still unsure of Malfoy's angle.
"Well, you know that old man – he asked me if I was doing all right, said I looked ill and had had some word with McGonagall about my Transfiguration marks, but he had something else up his sleeve. I knew it was on some tip-off you'd given him, Potter, because he started casually mentioning the Dark Lord and his followers..." Malfoy paused to look at Harry's slippers: he hadn't undressed for bed, but his clothing looked awkward with the addition of the Gryffindor red-and-gold striped slippers. Malfoy himself actually looked sharper than usual: he wore robes monogrammed with silver, which fit his frame better than the Hogwarts uniform. Malfoy seemed to blend in perfectly with the glass and gleaming silver flanked by broad shadows.
"So..." Harry said, imploring Malfoy to continue.
"So," the other boy began loudly, stretching his long arms above his head and moving towards a bench by the wall, "He's trying to get me to say if something's wrong or I feel under pressure, and when I tell him no, he begins this little speech about the Dark Lord, and how he knew him when he was at Hogwarts. 'I wonder, Draco, if you believe that loyalty to Lord Voldemort is anything akin to friendship,' he was saying to me. 'Oh, faithful as his Death Eaters may be, they could never be true friends to Tom Riddle... even as a schoolboy he kept a band of devotees at his side, but never a real friend... I don't believe Lord Voldemort ever knew the meaning and importance of friendship!' And he's saying all this looking me in the eye, as if to say, I know you have no real friends, Draco!"
Towards the end of this tirade, Malfoy's tone became more anguished; he sighed brusquely. Harry was now sitting on the bench, at the opposite end as Malfoy, perched on the very edge of it, as though to get up at any second.
"He told me the same thing," Harry said, remembering Dumbledore's explanation of the roots of the Death Eaters in Hogwarts, followers of Tom Riddle when he was still a young wizard-in-training, already more powerful than half of the teachers in the place. Harry felt sure that whatever powers Draco Malfoy had gained under leadership of his father or even Voldemort, he was neither as cunning nor as malevolent as the young Riddle.
"Anyway," Malfoy went on, "After that, I knew that you'd been telling teachers that you thought I was up to something. That I was trying to carry out some assignment from the Dark Lord within the school."
"I overheard you and Snape at Halloween," Harry said before he could stop himself.
"Yes, that've done it," Malfoy said, smiling darkly.
"Can you even perform Unforgivables?" Harry asked suddenly, having tried to imagine what would have happened if he had let Malfoy use Cruciatus.
"Yes, of course, Potter, you're not the only one who receives extra help from allies," he replied irritably.
"And you would have Crucioed me? If I hadn't stopped you?"
"I couldn't have done it, I don't think, against you..." he admitted. "You're quick with those countercurses, sometimes. Snape was really concerned about the one you used. Didn't expect Dumbledore's man to perform any Dark curses..."
"Honestly," Harry said, "I never knew what that curse did. You could have died; that's worse than Crucio..."
"The number of injuries the both of us have sustained at each other's hands," Malfoy said, now smiling. "No, these useless years of schooling would not have been quite as fun without you, Potter."
Finally, Harry decided that it had to be said.
"Malfoy... why did you, er... kiss me?"
As Harry said it, both he and Malfoy turned pink.
"Well, Potter, you saw me. I won't pretend I wasn't upset and lonely just then... you know, Dumbledore said it, I don't have any friends to talk to... I was in there talking to Moaning Myrtle..." he said bitterly. "And you, well, now that you've grown a bit, you're an attractive chap." He flashed a sarcastic, toothy smile, and Harry, unable to help himself, smiled as well.
"It wasn't the worst kiss I've ever had," he said. It was certainly better than his first slobbery kiss with Cho Chang. Harry realized that he felt quite woozy, like he'd just consumed a large quantity of firewhisky.
"I'm not gay," Harry said, suddenly feeling as though he needed to say it. Malfoy leaned forward, still smiling. Then he slid over on the bench so that he was sitting closer to Harry.
"No matter, Potter," he said, "though your apology in the hospital wing had me hoping..."
"Malfoy, it's too late for us to ever be friends... you have been in allegiance with the wizard who killed my parents, whose horrible disciples murdered my godfather, who has made my life shit since I can remember. If you don't want to kill me anymore, then I guess that's a step in the right direction, but if you're trying to put things right –"
"Don't be foolish, Potter," Malfoy said dismissively. "But we're older now, almost of age, and I think our rivalry ought to ascend to a more intellectual level."
"So... trying to snog me and then using an Unforgivable... that was your strategy for commencing more mature relationship?"
"Well, I wasn't really in my right mind at that moment," Malfoy said. "Nor were you, as you claim, with that curse." He looked at Harry knowingly; he seemed to sense that Harry was remembering his visit to Malfoy's bed the previous night, and the concern he had exercised when he saw that Malfoy had been hurting himself.
"Okay," Harry said, "I was worried about you. I felt sorry for you. I feel sorry for you, here and now. I pity you, Malfoy! You work for someone who might kill you at any moment!"
Malfoy edged a little bit closer to Harry. There were now scarcely two inches between their legs.
"Do you feel sorry for me," Malfoy enquired, "because you think there's good in me?"
"Yes," Harry said firmly, trying to ignore how close Malfoy's face was to his own. "I do, I think you don't have it in you to do whatever it is Voldemort wants you to do."
"I'm glad that witch mended your nose after I stomped it," Malfoy said, now looking very intently at Harry. "You're much better looking with a straight nose. Famous Harry Potter... Quidditch champion, master of heroic feats, and so handsome."
Hearing Malfoy talk like this was alarming to Harry, but he couldn't move. Malfoy had swung his arm around the back of the bench, so that it would be touching Harry's shoulders had there been no bench, and he was still smiling roguishly.
Harry considered his position at that moment. Dumbledore had just promised to take him on what could possibly be a series of life-altering missions, Draco Malfoy was working within Hogwarts on Voldemort's orders, and, as though this trophy room were part of some alternate realm, the two boys sat inches away from one another, clearly about to do something rash.
After finishing his mental assessment, Harry stood up.
"This is mad," he said. "I'm going to Dumbledore. You're off your rocker, Malfoy." He strode over to the threshold, then vanished in a sweep of his Cloak.
Harry went back to his dormitory, but he did not sleep. Dean, Seamus, Neville and Ron awoke eventually on Sunday, still in lively moods after their victory in the match. Harry lay with the hangings drawn for as long as possible, until Ron tugged them open at noon.
"Blimey, Harry, come down for brunch!" he insisted. "How on Earth are you still tired?"
"All right, Ron, sorry," he huffed, pulling on his clothes. The two of them joined Hermione and Ginny in the common room and they walked down to Sunday brunch together. Harry found that he was very hungry, but his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch when he immediately caught Malfoy's eye upon entering the Great Hall. He was sitting at the very end of the House table, next to Crabbe and Goyle, looking as sleep-deprived as Harry felt. Harry quickly averted his eyes, but he felt Malfoy's gaze burning into his brain.
"Malfoy isn't looking too good, is he?" Ron remarked as they passed.
"Probably upset about Gryffindor winning the Cup," Ginny said importantly.
"Neither do you, Harry," Hermione pointed out. "Is something up? It sort of seems like you haven't been yourself since that thing with Malfoy."
"It's nothing," Harry said forcefully. "I don't give a damn about Malfoy."
"Never said you did, mate," Ron said, giving him a funny look, and the four of them sat down, Harry rather stiffly, for a delicious Sunday brunch.