A/N: Once again, Procyon Black deserves boundless gratitude for finding all those sly and slippery mistakes.
Chapter 13: Words Between Worlds
Son, said his father. Bachgen.
He heard his father's voice from where he was standing in front of the grandfather clock. The words filled him with a strange and desperate urgency that burned. He had to get in—he had to find his father—he needed to—because he was his father's son, him, him, him, not that boy who was inside the room.
He couldn't see anything besides the whiteness, but he could feel the pendulum, swinging to and fro, to and fro. He tried to clear his mind of the urgency, to calm himself and focus on the rhythm, to match it and to touch the spot on the grandfather clock to enter his father's room. But the rhythm seemed as slippery as a fish, changing every time he reached out his hand. To andfro, it went, toand frotoand f r o to and
Son, said his father. Bachgen. Bachgen.
He was near tears in his frustration, trying to find the rhythm (to and froto andfro), but he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried. The pendulum kept changed its movements, one moment sluggish and nearly suspended in time, another moment flashing like a deadly blade, constantly denying him access.
Father, said a voice. He knew the voice. It belonged to a blond-haired Slytherin with pale, aristocratic features. Draco Malfoy. Father, said the boy.
Harry thrust out his hand. He couldn't wait—he couldn't, even though he knew what would happen. He felt the pendulum falling, falling, felt the instant in which the pendulum was a hair's breath from his skin, and at last, it touched him, and the world exploded—
He sat up, body soaked in sweat. For a moment, he simply breathed. Then he exhaled deeply and flopped back down.
This was the third night he had dreamed this same dream, the third time, for God's sake. Three times in three nights—or days, since he generally fell asleep some time in the dead of the night and woke when the sun hung high in the sky.
He got up, wishing there were some way he could take a shower. No matter how oily he felt his hair was or sweaty he felt, most of that grease and sweat magically disappeared, but he still felt dirty. Disgusting. Like filth.
He sighed again. This nightmare is so—aggravating, he thought, pacing. He wasn't stupid—he knew what it meant. Obviously he was jealous of Draco Malfoy. Obviously he was afraid the Malfoy Heir would suddenly become Snape's adopted son. Obviously he wasn't being rational. His fears were ridiculous. It was impossible to picture Malfoy and Snape in a familial embrace; he simply couldn't see Snape smiling at Malfoy—or smiling at all. Neither could he see Malfoy with glowing contentment on his fine-boned face.
On the other hand, he could hardly see anything in his imagination lately. Images had become scattered, like light through a prism. Memories were fading.
Rationalize this, Harry told himself. Think. Don't rush in like an idiot Gryffindor. From Malfoy's letter, it was pretty clear that the younger Malfoy was upset at the elder. From Malfoy's own mouth, Harry had heard the words, saying that Severus liked him. But did that mean that Severus would suddenly claim Draco as his son?
Of course not, Harry thought, feeling somewhat relieved at his own thinking. I'm being stupid. Worse, I'm being jealous. It's almost like a corny romance plot. Brief images, fleeting memories came to his mind—mostly of Cho, sniffing and sobbing, red-eyed and teary. Harry shook his head. All that seemed so alien now. They belonged to a Harry who no longer existed.
They belong to Harry Potter, golden son of the golden Gryffindor couple, not Harry, son of Snape. A sudden gloom settled over him. Snape—who hated him. Who'd rather have Draco Malfoy for his son.
"Stop it!" he muttered to himself. God. He was being obsessive compulsive, his thoughts locked in inescapable cycles. Anyway, the notion of Snape adopting Malfoy was simply ludicrous. It was—
He stopped. What if they were happy? he thought. What if they did get along—what if Snape did adopt Malfoy as his son—and was happy?
It was something he had never quite thought about before. He supposed that he would—that he'd be—happy for his father. He'd be happy for Malfoy, and for Snape. Yes, he would. He closed his eyes and felt a terrible wrenching at his heart.
"Why am I even thinking this?" he said aloud, annoyed. Firstly, it was ludicrous—and more importantly, it didn't matter at all if Snape hated him or loved him or adored him or loathed him. Either way, he had the prophecy on his shoulders, and he had to kill Voldemort, or get killed by Voldemort, the latter of which was by far more likely. I wonder if Snape would accept James Potter's money, if I give it to him in my will, thought Harry. Do I even get to write a will? Maybe Dumbledore'd just scoop everything up and donate it to a fund for condemned orphans.
There was the sound of a door opening.
Harry was in the shadows of a corner within the blink of an eye. He knew he would be unseen; he knew because he had been unseen three times in three days.
Coward, he thought, the word lashing through his body like a whip of flame. Coward.
He listened to the intruder's breathing, at first loud and gradually softening. It was familiar by now. There was the soft thud of books being set on the desk, the door being firmly shut, the quite murmur of the locking charm, the scrape of wood against floor as a chair was pulled back, and—different this time—the slight hesitation before the intruder sat down with a rustle of robes.
The word ran through his mind: coward. Coward. Coward. It howled at him as he stood there, silently. He heard the turning of pages, the sound of restless shifting, a barely audible exhalation.
Harry closed his eyes, feeling numbness overtake him. It was his retreat, this numbness. His sanctuary. He felt suspended in time. Dimly he noticed that his nose itched, and that his shoulders itched a bit from his hair brushing them, and that his feet were uncomfortable. But it all seemed far, far away.
Malfoy gave a loud sigh. "Where is that idiot," he muttered.
That's right, I am an idiot, Harry thought. A bigger one you won't ever see.
There was another loud sigh, this one tinged with annoyance and frustration, and then Harry heard the harsh screech of the chair being pushed out. Someone approached. Harry shrank back, pressing himself against the wall though he knew he wouldn't be seen. He was too good at hiding.
Then Malfoy exhaled, long and tired and defeated. Then there was the sound of a book sliding into a book bag, heavy footsteps across the stone floor, the door opening, the door closing. Silence.
He unclenched his hand, roughly massaging the places where his nails had dug into his palm. Perhaps, he thought, Malfoy will really be gone, gone for good. Perhaps he won't come back. He didn't wait as long this time. He smiled bitterly. Good one, Harry—you've successfully driven off the only one who might have been a friend. He reviewed the thought and paused—Malfoy, a friend? Perhaps it was better this way; who knew what would happen when (for it was impossible to hide forever) Malfoy found out who he really was…
Harry shivered with disgust. Here he was, pretending to be altruistic and far-sighted, pretending to be considering the inevitable end of any possible connection they might have when it was just cowardice and jealousy that was driving him to hiding. He was a coward.
Then leave, he thought reluctantly. Step back into the world of living. Dread formed a pit at the bottom of his stomach. He shook himself. Why the reluctance? He'd have to return, sooner or later, for the world could not afford a cowardly Harry Potter.
He moved towards the painting within the painting. Here it was, a portal to the outside world. All it took was one step—one step forward…
He touched the frame of the painting. Not here, he thought. His heart was pounding and blood was pulsing in his ears. Air whispered past his ears as he darted into a different painting. Cold stone brushed his feet as he ran—long grass scraped his legs, water touched him.
He stopped at last when the desire to run left him. Stretching his senses for a moment, he recognized where he was: in the painting of a great tree out of which flowed a stream. He touched the tree, and his mind went back for a moment to the painting of the tree in the Chamber of Secrets, from which hung countless unborn snakes. He thought of Salazar Slytherin, who had given him his gifts and changed him so much, though he hadn't known it then.
The edge of the painting was near, mere steps away. He felt as though he were standing on the edge of a cliff—he was standing on the edge, and once he leapt, he would fall—fall into a corridor in the Slytherin dungeons.
He took another step. There was nobody in the passageway. Silence deafened him. All he could hear was the thud-thud, thud-thud of his heart. He realized he was trembling.
Just another step, he thought. Just another. Just another. One more.
He did take another—and abruptly felt it: the boundary of magic that separated the world of paintings from the world of the living. It took him by surprise, and he stopped short, frozen like an animal hearing the sound of its death approaching.
Just another. Just another just another.
His legs wouldn't obey him. He swallowed hard, felt faint. It was only a thin sheen between him and the rest of the world—just a thin sheen, that was all, he wouldn't be a coward, he was determined not to be a coward—
one more just an—
jus
His mind clouded with panic. He couldn't do this—he couldn't—he heard Snape's face, imagined it twisting with disgust and loathing and fury, telling him to leave, telling him that he was unworthy of being his father's son—he heard Malfoy's self-satisfied voice saying how Severus liked him—
Numbness. He was frozen in place, frozen in time. Nothing reached him.
Silence.
Footsteps.
Harry darted away from the edge of the painting, instinctively hiding behind the great tree. The sound of footsteps approached, and he recognized it with a sinking heart—Draco Malfoy. For a wild instant, he thought to fling himself out from behind the tree, to be seen—but he didn't. He couldn't. The footsteps drew near, passed, and faded away.
For what seemed a long time, he could only concentrate on his breathing, the harsh in and out of air as his chest rose and fell. Then he turned around and set his forehead and hands on the trunk of the tree.
He was a failure. There was no way to deny it, no way to see past it. He was a failure—he couldn't even step out of the world of the paintings to face his destiny, his fate—he was hiding here—he was a coward—one worse than Peter Pettigrew, for while Pettigrew had betrayed his closest friends, he, Harry Potter, was betraying the world. He was a coward. A freak—unwanted, disgusting. Cowardly.
A sob wrenched through his throat. He clenched his hands on the rough bark of the tree, felt it digging into his skin—he pulled, dragged his hands down, feeling his skin break and the pain bloom in his mind, hitting him like a drug.
Oh God, I'm such a coward, he thought hollowly. I'm such an unbelievable coward. His hands throbbed, but it wasn't enough—he tugged his hands down some more, reveling in the physical agony. It hurt, oh God, it hurt so much, so much, but it numbed some of the anguish in his soul.
He let go of the tree and felt his palms and fingers. It felt warm, wet. He was bleeding, and he knew his blood would be smeared on the trunk of the tree. For a moment, he shivered. He was glad he was blind, that he wouldn't be able to see the palms of his hands. The sight of blood and gore had always made him feel a bit uneasy.
He was exhausted. His feet dragged heavily as he made his way back to the painting of the cell. He held his hands at his sides, the palms facing away from his robes so that they would be stained. Perhaps the magic of the portraits would heal his hands, or make all stains go away, but he didn't want his hands healed. The bed was soft and as he lay on it and let his mind wander free, he concentrated on the soothing pain. He felt a tiny, tiny bit absolved—as though a measure of his soul had become pure.
qpqpqp
"Ginny?"
"I'm fine, Neville."
"You don't look fine. I—"
"Go away, Neville Longbottom! I can't understand you! I can't understand any of you."
"Ginny?"
"Go away."
"I'm sorry, Ginny. But I can't tell you. It would go against… against whatever it was that put me in Gryffindor."
"Gryffindors are supposed to be loyal. Gryffindors are supposed to be good friends."
"Harry's hasn't stopped being my friend—"
"Oh yeah? Then why am I the only one defending him when Malfoy sneers and simpers and says the most horrible things? Like—'Oooh, Potter's the new Dark Lord now, he's going to betray his House and friends and family and cast the Cruciatus on everyone.'"
"I… it's not a good idea to respond—"
"Stop making excuses. You know what I mean. Not responding, I can understand, but… what you're doing is… is…"
"Not acting angry enough?"
"Neville, be serious! You seem troubled, as though some part of you actually believes that crap. And Hermione, too! Not to mention Ronald."
"I have tried to get Ron to stop being like that, Ginny, but it's not working."
"No really. It was like trying to drill a hole in a tree with your fingers, wasn't it?"
"Well… I mean, he—"
"You don't have to excuse or defend him. Ever since summer started, he's become an unbelievable git. He's snarking worse than Harry last year one moment, and then he's smiling over the silliest thing."
"Might it be what happened to him in the Department of Secrets?"
"He's been in treatment for that for months now, and if nothing comes of it, I'm inclined to think it's permanent."
"I'm sorry, Ginny."
"There's nothing for you to be sorry about—unless you'll tell me whatever it is that you and Hermione are hiding, and you're obviously not."
"Er. Sorry."
"That's okay. But d'you know what makes me really mad? Besides Malfoy and Ronald? It's those people who want Harry back just so that he can get rid of Voldemort for them. Like Hannah Abbot…"
"Ernie Macmillan, Terry Boot, Hannah Abbott…"
"Even Dean."
"Is that why you two broke up?"
"Yeah. And because—well, and because of other things. You know what, Neville? I think Ron's beginning to be like that too."
"Believing that Harry's sole purpose of life is to get rid of Voldemort?"
"Yeah. It's killing me. I mean—isn't he supposed to be Harry's best friend? The bloke who would always be by Harry's side?"
"The bloke who Harry would risk his life for."
"I still think he would."
"Harry?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
Harry felt a balloon of pain rising in his chest. He knew without a doubt that he would risk his life for Ron, even if Ron hated him as much as he hated Malfoy. It wouldn't matter if Ron never knew about it. But he knew that he couldn't—his life was (he shivered) more valuable than Ron's, because Ron never had the Prophecy on him. Ron was a spare.
Ginny shifted and sighed. "Sorry. I complain a lot now. There's just so much that's wrong in the world."
Neville's voice was quiet. It was different from the voice Harry had been used to, and Harry was glad. Neville had grown, matured. "I know."
"I've never seen you complain, and you—well…" Ginny trailed off awkwardly.
"It's all right." Harry heard the sound of robes rustling, and knew Neville had stood. "It's time for class."
"What do you have?"
"Defence."
"Oh God," Ginny groaned, "Caius Cinna?"
Neville sighed. "Yeah."
"Poor you. See you then."
Harry heard them leaving the room. After a moment's hesitation, he darted into a different portrait, following the sounds of Neville's even footsteps as the Gryffindor made his way to the Defence classroom.
Ginny and Neville's words weren't anything new. As he had flitted from painting to painting, he had overheard things, things that would freeze him in his tracks, for he couldn't help listening. They want me back to throw my life before Voldemort, and they're right, Harry thought. But I'm too much a coward to do so.
He absently rubbed the palms of his hands, and then winced. He had no idea what his palms looked like, but all physical signs of broken skin and bleeding palms had disappeared after he had fallen asleep, hands facing upwards at his sides as he lay like a corpse on his bed.
Still, he could feel it. As he touched his palms, squeezing a bit until he shivered, he could feel the pain—almost phantomlike, but still very much there.
"Oh no," Neville suddenly muttered under his breath and broke into a hurried trot.
Harry followed, darting effortlessly from painting to painting. A moment later he understood: the escalating voices were all too familiar.
"…without Potter to play favorite, don't even dream about making the team, Weasley," Malfoy sneered, his voice echoing down the corridor. "But what am I saying? Please, be on the team—Gryffindor could use a Keeper like you."
Slytherins laughed.
"Shut up, Malfoy!" Ron barked. "Potter had nothing to do with it!" Harry flinched. Ever since that terrible night when he had told Ron and Hermione his secret, he hadn't heard Ron's voice—but now, hearing it again, and hearing it say Potter the way he said Malfoy… it was like rediscovering a wound that hadn't yet closed and that time would never fully heal.
"Ron!" Neville shouted. "Don't."
"I got on the team last year all by myself," Ron snarled, seemingly not to have heard Neville. "It'd nothing to do with Potter—nothing!"
"Ron." Hermione's voice rang clearly, and Ron fell silent.
Malfoy chuckled. "Your mudblood girlfriend has you on a tight leash, doesn't she?"
Ron made a choked noise. "Why you—"
"Don't!" Hermione snapped. She sounded weary and irritated, strangely old. "Just shut up, Ron."
Harry swallowed. What had happened? Hermione sounded so tired and jaded, as though she hadn't slept in my many nights—and the way she talked to Ron… There was warmth there.
Ron made a growling sound. "I HATE POTTER!" he roared suddenly.
Harry froze.
There was an uneasy silence before Malfoy chuckled lowly. "Some Gryffindor you are… though I completely understand… your sentiments…"
Harry was hurting. He clenched his palms furiously, squeezing his eyes shut and his clenching his jaw as the pain clouded his mind, dulling it like a drug.
"Too bad you were five years too late in realizing it, Wea—"
He stopped.
Harry suddenly had the feeling of being watched.
"What're you looking at, Malfoy?" Ron asked derisively. "Cat got your tongue?"
Harry felt a chill run down his spine as realization hit him. I've been seen, he thought. He could feel numerous gazes fall on him and he stood, frozen, facing outside. He didn't dare breathe. He waited, expecting any moment to be recognized—but the only recognition came from Malfoy's silence.
"N-Nothing," Malfoy managed. He quickly recovered. "Just shut up, Weasley. Don't resort to hackneyed clichés when you're trying to insult someone. It reflects badly on what education your parents provided for you."
Harry frowned. Malfoy sounded—restrained. The bite was out of his voice, as though he were holding back. Holding back in front of me? Harry wondered, bewildered.
"Oh yeah?" Ron shot back. "Your father's in Azkaban, and he's going to stay there until some dementor sucks out his soul—"
"He won't!" Malfoy shouted. "You lie!"
"Ron!" Neville hissed, but Ron continued— "and when that happens, I'll laugh, Malfoy, I'll laugh in your face—"
"NO!" Hermione shouted, and Harry felt a small swell of magic—
Suddenly there was an answering flash of magic, and Harry shivered at the unexpected power within that burst. Who is it? Harry wondered.
He felt it moments before he heard the voice: the presence, which he realized he had felt at the back of his mind but had managed to go ignored—the presence that was like a knot in the grain, an anomaly in the texture of the castle's magic. He didn't know what it reminded him of, but it didn't feel—right.
"Dueling in the corridors? My, my. Twenty points from Slytherin for your indiscretion, Malfoy."
Ron sniggered.
Harry frowned. The voice sounded high, too high, but also very old.
"Come in now," the voice continued. "We'll be covering some of the most interesting aspects of countering Curses today…"
Caius Cinna, thought Harry. The defence professor. He groped for a way into the classroom, and to his surprise, he found one.
A few seconds later, he found himself in a painting he'd never been in. It was a painting he'd never even thought could exist—at least, by magical standards; he felt swirls of colors around him and upon him, but there was no ground, no earth, no sky. He was floating.
What an odd painting, Harry thought.
There suddenly came a loud snapping sound, like a ruler hitting a table.
"Malfoy!" Caius Cinna barked. "What are you staring at?"
"Nothing, sir," Malfoy muttered.
"Certainly not at my lesson. Five points from Slytherin for your inattentiveness."
He's as unfair to Malfoy as Snape was to me, Harry thought as Ron laughed out loud, a grating, sing-song sort of laugh.
For an instant, Harry felt a surge of resentment and anger at Ron, a feeling backed by a sense of loss. Where had Ron gone—his Ron? Even at the height of his hatred of Malfoy, Ron had never acted like this. And Malfoy didn't deserve this; Harry knew how it felt—he knew it, and knew how badly it could cut you down until all you felt was anger and misery and loneliness.
Malfoy hasn't gotten any friends, Harry realized suddenly.
"There are many ways to countering curses," Cinna began. "Does anybody know?"
There was a silence.
"Yes, Finnigan?"
"Counter Curses?"
"Wrong. Anyone else?" There was a pause. Then, with a sneer, "Malfoy?"
"Dodging and blocking," Malfoy said in a neutral tone.
Cinna was quiet for a moment. "Yes, I would expect a Slytherin to know," he said coolly, sounding rather displeased. "Dodging and blocking. Counter Curses expend energy, must be specific, and require careful aiming. Only a fool will use them when he can dodge or block the curse."
His voice became stern and harsh. "Remember—there is not one curse in this world—not one—that cannot be countered by dodging or blocking."
There was a silence.
"Yes, Miss Granger?"
"But, Professor, what about the Killing Cur—"
"Ahhh, the Avada Kedavra," Cinna crowed. "Tell me—can you dodge out of the way?"
"Yes, but—"
"If there is, say, a statue between it and you, can the curse be blocked?"
Hermione fell silent for a moment. "Yes. I see, professor. Another point—what if the attacker uses a curse that is wide-ranged?"
"Good, good," Cinna said cheerfully. "Wide-ranged. That puts a kink on dodging, doesn't it? But it smears the power of the curse over a large area. A ranged Avada cannot kill you—what was that, Malfoy?"
Harry felt a tinge of shock. All he had heard, with his sharpened hearing, was a mutter he had vaguely recognized as Malfoy's voice. Who is this person? Harry wondered.
"Nothing," Malfoy said stiffly.
"Speak up, boy!" Cinna barked. "I want to hear it."
"I was just remarking that certain individuals can render a fatal ranged Avada."
Like Voldemort, Harry thought, and shivered. He was sure that was whom Malfoy had been referring to. Great, one ranged Avada, and I'll be dead.
"Certain individuals, yes," Cinna said, voice dropping. "You need not be coy, Malfoy. We all know why your father rots in Azkaban."
Ron immediately burst out laughing.
Harry felt his stomach sicken, like milk curdling. He strained his ears for any sound from Malfoy, but he could hear none. A part of him thought that he should be glad Malfoy was getting his comeuppance at last—but he knew how it felt to be targeted and alone, and the memory of that pain made all selfish vindication seem hollow and dead.
Did he have to go through this every day? Harry wondered.
"Now, ranged curses," Cinna continued. "Another method commonly used is spelling curses to track the enemy…"
The lesson passed rapidly. Harry listened, enthralled. Caius Cinna, despite his faults, was an excellent instructor, Harry admitted reluctantly. With every concept, Harry felt as though new floodgates of possibilities had opened. Memories from Dumbledore's duel with Voldemort came to his mind—and it all connected, trickling through his mind.
"And now," Cinna said, sounding like a cat as it crept towards a mouse, "we shall have a little… demonstration. Malfoy! Stand up."
Harry heard the rustle of cloth as slowly, the Slytherin stood.
"Wand out!"
Harry listened, transfixed.
A few minutes later, Ron was snorting with laughter while smothered giggles were rolling about on the Gryffindor side of the classroom. The Slytherin side was silent.
Harry was relieved—terribly relieved—that neither Hermione nor Neville had been laughing. The catcalls and jokes were like the sounds of a ring of savage animals, joined in a mindless desire to ridicule and abase. A sudden image came to Harry's mind: of a bleeding man, lying in the center of a ring of black-robed men and women. He shivered. It was all too easy to become a Voldemort, and easier yet to become a Pettigrew.
"Get up, boy," Cinna commanded.
Malfoy's breaths echoed harshly. They should have been covered by the catcalls of the class, but they reverberated like beating wings in Harry's head—tight, shallow, pained, biting back anger and tears and pain.
"You are worse than even your father," Cinna commented in a bored tone. "Class excused."
The class broke into excited chatter, as though nothing had happened. Harry unclenched his palms. He hadn't even noticed the pain.
"Watch where you're going, Malfoy!" one of the Gryffindors—it sounded like Dean—shouted.
Harry moved swiftly, slipping out of the portrait in the classroom. Outside in the corridors, he could hear the sounds more clearly—the stumbling footsteps, the haphazard flop of the book bag, the gasp of breaths holding back tears—
Harry followed the sound, moving through portraits like a shadow. They were heading towards the dungeons, towards the cell, towards refuge— Harry wondered for a moment if Malfoy was aware of being followed, wondered if Malfoy was running away from him, but the moment passed and they were back in the room where they had first met.
Malfoy collapsed into the chair and began sobbing. But, to Harry, it was an alien sound—a sharp gasp, a tenuous silence broken by the thin exhalation of breath, and then the sharp gasp, accompanied by the sniffing of a stuffy nose.
Harry swallowed several times before he brought himself to speak, his voice scratchy from disuse: "Malfoy?"
Malfoy started and knocked into the desk. "Gwalchgwyn!" he accused, nose stuffed. He was silent for a moment as he gained his composure. "What do you want?"
Harry searched for the right words to say. What was he here for? He didn't know. He didn't know, but he knew he had to be here. "I… saw you, back then—"
"Come to—come to provoke me some more, have you?" Malfoy demanded angrily.
"No! Of course not—"
"So you've decided to hang around when everyone else has had their fill of provoking me, eh? Where were you?" The last three words came out accusingly, and Harry could hear the raw hurt in them.
He couldn't muster any words for a moment. "I was—not here," Harry said. Liar, he thought. "I was somewhere else." Hiding from you. He squeezed his palms for a moment. "But I'll be here, from now on," he added, not really knowing why.
Malfoy snorted. "You know what, Gwalchgwyn?" he sneered. "That means I'll know how to avoid you then. You're a hypocrite just like them—just like those goddamned Gryffindors, saying one thing and doing another!"
"No," Harry managed. "That's not—I swear I—"
"I bet you were laughing at me behind my back, I bet you thought it was pretty funny too, didn't you?" Malfoy's was shouting now, his voice filling the room. "That's why you were there watching, wasn't it?—because you're just like them, because you hate me because of my father and because, without my father, I'll be poor—just like Weasley!"
"You've got it all wrong, Malfoy," Harry said as Malfoy seethed. He spoke haltingly, picking his words with care. "I have never and will never judge anybody based on their wealth or parentage. It—it's still an important thing, but I—"
"Judge me all you want," Malfoy interrupted. "I don't care! Even if my father doesn't go crazy after being in Azkaban, he'll change—and he's already changed. It's like the dementors ate out his heart and turned him into a shell. You know nothing about what it's like for my father to be gone—nothing!"
A kind of anger had been building in him, an anger he hadn't felt in a long time. It was an icy kind of anger, creeping through him and scorching and burning him so coldly it pulled words out of the chaos of thoughts and emotions. "I would trade places with you, Draco Malfoy. In fact, I would trade places with you even if it meant that I'd vanish and become nothing after a single day."
Malfoy sniffed loudly. "What are you talking about?"
"I had a father, too," Harry said. His throat locked for a moment, but he forced it open. The anger was still there; the pain as he clenched his hands was still there. "I had a father once, and I tried very hard to make him love me. I tried so hard." So hard. So very hard. "But it didn't matter because he hated me anyway. And the thing was, he hated me from the beginning. I'd be you for a day, Draco Malfoy. Because I know your father loved you, even if—even if he seemed to have impossible expectations. I'd—"
His voice failed. He took a deep breath and tried to make the aching at the back of his eyes go away.
"I'm sorry," Malfoy said in a very small voice. "You must think I'm a spoiled brat, don't you?"
Harry shook his head. "It's not your fault you were born rich. And it's not as though I'm not spoiled, either. I had—it wasn't as though I was… unloved. I had my mother's love, and my—adopted father's. But it wasn't ever the same, you know? Especially when the world changed, when everything was suddenly different…"
"I know," said Malfoy. And Harry fell silent, because Malfoy did know.
Malfoy sighed. "Now I feel so stupid for ranting," he said, a bit sheepishly. "You're not like the other paintings. I mean, you remember almost everything, for one, and you're not like a stupid parrot the way most paintings are."
"I am different," Harry said, and didn't continue. He hoped Malfoy wouldn't ask.
Malfoy didn't.
"Why are you called Gwalchgwyn?" the blond asked. "I know it means 'white hawk,' because I read it in some ancient book in my family's library. It was about some fellow who terrorized the purebloods about a thousand years back."
Harry straightened. "Really?"
"Yeah. Apparently he'd come around at dawn and leave bloody handprints on the walls—one handprint for one person he was going to kill. Then at dusk, no matter where you were hiding or how far you ran, he'd find you and kill you by nailing you to a tree."
"Wow," said Harry, remembering the images he had dreamt in Slytherin's Chamber. But they were hazy now, as though they were no more than imaginings of myths and legends. "That's a pretty painful way to die."
"Not really," Malfoy said. "He'd usually nail them straight through the heart, so they'd die almost at once. I don't think he really wanted his victims to suffer. He just wanted them dead."
"What happened to him?" Harry asked after a moment's hesitation.
"He was caught eventually, by Salazar Slytherin," said Malfoy, a hint of pride in his voice. "It was quite bloody, actually. They say that Slytherin cut out the white hawk's heart and drank the heartblood."
That's not far from the truth, Harry thought, a bit queasily. "So what happened to Slytherin in the end? I mean…" He tried to rephrase his question, suddenly very conscious that he was talking to a full-blooded Slytherin. But then, he was half-Slytherin himself, and Malfoy had no reason to suspect he had a drop of Gryffindor blood in him. "None of the portraits know what happened to Slytherin after he left Hogwarts and entered the Black family."
"Well, people have all sorts of ideas," Malfoy said without missing a beat. "Slytherin left the Black family for an unknown reason, but some books say that he went into the east to spread his teachings; others say he went to Wales and settled there. There was a faction in the late nineteenth century that believed that Slytherin would be reborn when the world was pure enough."
"Interesting," Harry remarked, impressed. "You're quite a history buff, aren't you?"
"I… suppose so," Malfoy said hesitantly. The silence hung in the air between them. "Father doesn't really approve, and Mother doesn't know the difference between Mordred and Nicholas Flamel. Father says I should study Arithmancy and Potions because that mudblood keeps getting higher marks than I do." His voice suddenly became plaintive. "But it's because she's a total teacher's pet, and Father simply won't believe me when I tell him that!"
"I hardly think she's every teacher's pet," Harry said coolly.
"Fine," Malfoy snapped. "Snape hates her, but he's the only one, and her marks in Potions are still better than mine."
"But your marks in Binns are higher, aren't they?"
Malfoy snorted derisively. "Nobody gives a damn about Binns."
"But you love history."
"But Father disapproves."
Harry paused. He was on the verge of saying something he knew he'd regret, something angry, but he managed to stop himself in time.
"Your father may disapprove," Harry said carefully, "but there's always a choice." Is there? his mind challenged the moment he fell silent. Did he have a choice? He—Harry Potter, Harry Snape? Maybe it's a choice with a foregone conclusion, Harry thought. Another thought made itself known, this one striking some hidden chord deep inside him: Maybe that's how Draco feels. It's not his fault he hasn't been burdened with fixing the world. Perhaps his father is the world to him. And that he could easily understand.
Malfoy sighed sullenly. "You won't understand," he muttered. "Just forget about it."
Harry shook his head. "What I said is… only half-right. I think it's like… being blind. Where you simply can't see what choices you have, what roads you might've taken, until it's too late. Or maybe like rushing down the river without being able to see where you're heading. I suppose that's how it sometimes feels like."
"Yeah," Malfoy agreed softly, and they were silent again. But it was a comfortable silence, and Harry remembered—from so long ago—the silences he'd shared with Ron and Hermione. The memory made him feel a bit nostalgic, a bit mad at Ron, and more than a bit sad, but it also made him feel… He shook his head mentally. Friends with Malfoy? I'd never have guessed.
"You're smiling," said Malfoy, breaking the quiet.
"Am I?" said Harry.
Malfoy sounded amused. "You are."
And so I am, thought Harry, almost surprised by the fact. His hands were relaxed at his sides, the injured palms facing the soft folds of his robe. So I am.