Author's Rambling: Bah! I'm so sorry! I'm so late with this chapter! I've had a bit of a writers' block, and was busy, and my computer insisted on getting stuck all the time, which kind of ruins the mood for writing. Nevertheless, I have already started the next chapter, and hopefully, it'll be up soon.
The next chapter, in which Draco fights with guilt and a more painfull realization, and acts like a total prat, and Harrymakes a Discovery (yes, with capitals) about certain powersin his posession. Have fun!
This chapter is dedicated to all those who had stayed with me during this long break of mine. I love you all!
Again, sorry for theshortness of the chapter- blame the writers' block.'Sides, it seemedright to stop it there.
-
Draco's sleep that night was the worse he could remember for a very long time. He should've been ecstatic, should've been smug as the cat who had just eaten both the cream and the canary, and was offered a third helping; after all, he had set his plan in motion, he had rolled the dice, and the numbers looked to be in his favour.
But instead of gloating and congratulating himself, he felt worry and anxiousness gnaw at him; what if he had forgotten something, some part that was crucial for the success of the spell?
But no, he had gone over it time and time again, and it was perfect.
What if the spell would be traced back to him?
But no, that was impossible; no one would suspect something was wrong until the very last minutes, and by then, the echoes of his magic fingerprints would have faded completely.
What if he had hurt Potter?
Draco sat up straight in his bed, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open. His heart was beating furiously against his ribcage, his head spinning wildly.
Where did that come from? He wondered, a little shaken. Of course he wanted to hurt Potter; that was the whole point of this spell. He had gone to great lengths just to hurt the Gryffindor. He wanted to have Potter at the mercy of his wand, to kill him, and he wanted Potter to know it was Draco who did him in.
He eased back into the mattress, trying to envision it. He used to do it a lot when he was younger, especially after the Gryffindor-Slytherin matches, when Potter had beaten him yet again. It was always the same scenario, and now it unfolded easily in his mind, familiar and almost comforting.
Rain; for some reason, there was always rain. Potter sprawled by his feet, covered in mud and sweat, wandless. Draco himself standing above him, wand trained on him, his mouth curling in a faint smirk.
"Well, Potter," he would drawl, "it seems you chose the wrong side after all".
Potter would glare at him through his wet hair, his eyes full of intense loathing, and spit at Draco's feet. It was always like that; even when he was twelve, Draco knew Potter would not beg, would not grovel, not even for his life. He would glare and curse and spit, but even when things were hopeless, he would refuse to surrender.
Draco was all right with that, surprisingly. That was simply the way Potter was, and Draco felt his victory wouldn't have been as complete if Potter would have pleaded with him.
He closed his eyes, concentrating, losing himself in the scene playing out before him.
He would raise his wand, noticing the tiny, brief spark of fear in Potter's eyes- for anyone would be afraid, faced with the absolute, final proof that he was really going to die, even Potter- and then he would utter the killing curse, those beautiful poisonous, deadly words, and it would be over.
He imagined himself looking into Potter's eyes- his eyes were the greenest Draco ever saw, as green as the Avada Kadavra itself, and it was only fitting he would die that way, really- opening his mouth, the trickle of water slowly making it's way down Potter's face as he raised his head, and-
Draco blinked.
Again, he thought. Raising his wand, opening his mouth, and-
He couldn't.
He couldn't. He, Draco Malfoy, couldn't bring himself to imagine killing Harry Potter. He took a deep, calming breath, feeling angrier with himself as the seconds ticked by.
What was wrong with him? Was he getting cold feet? Was he getting nervous?
Coward, he hissed at himself, coward, bloody coward, bloody failure. Get a grip on yourself, you're ready to do this, you have to be able to do this…
Family above everything else, his father echoed in his head, only adding to Draco's furious confusion. Destroy those who offend the Malfoy name.
Destroy Potter. For me.
I want to be able to, father, Draco answered, almost desperate. I want to see him dead, I really do.
A face swam before him, replacing the already wavering vision; of a pale face, dark hair, and green eyes, looking at him steadily from behind wire-framed glasses.
Draco clenched his fists, screwing his eyes shut.
Go away, he shouted silently, leave me alone.
Kill him.
The face stayed, unmoved by Draco's attempts to wash it away. A soft smile curved the usually tense mouth.
Draco sucked in a breath, with a sudden, awful realization, so sudden it was like a hammer to the head;
I don't. I don't want to kill him. He tried fighting against this revelation, denying it to himself vehemently, but it badgered, demanding to be acknowledged.
More than that. I don't want to see him die, either. It's not cowardness.
He buried his face in his pillow, his shoulders shaking.
I'm not afraid of the consequences- I actually- I actually care. About him. About Potter.
I'm sorry, father, I'm so sorry.
I have failed you.
-
In the morning, though, things looked much better, as they often do. Draco was able to calm down, to channel his panic and desperation into pure, blazing anger.
He must have put some sort of curse on me, he seethed. There's no other explanation.
He's probably having a laugh about it right now, with all his little friends.
He sat down at the Slytherin table for breakfast, tearing savagely two pieces of toast apart without actually eating them. Pansy and Blasie eyed him in worry, and edged away a little.
He glared in the direction of the Gryffindor table, looking automatically for a dark head. He saw Potter seating between his two devoted followers, face pale and almost ashen, eyes half closed. The miniscule pang of concern he didn't feel was immediately turned to glee.
Ha, he thought. Serves him right. Probably tired from casting this spell on me, he added, conveniently forgetting Potter's reaction to Draco's spell the night before.
The mudblood was trying to force feed him, apparently having given up on the wretched boy actually eating by himself.
Let him starve if he wants to, Draco scowled at her. That way he'll die now and spare us all the trouble.
-
Harry didn't remember much of the night. Ron told him he had started coughing and choking so loudly he had woken Ron up, and when he hurried to his side, he found Harry covered in cold sweat, after having, apparently, torn his pajama part open in order to cool down.
Ron claimed he had thrown up after that (although in the bathroom, thank Merlin- he didn't throw up beside his bed again like he did in fifth year). He couldn't remember any of it.
The only thing he could recall, in fact, was a sliver of a dream he had; of an angle, standing over him, whitish gold hair framing it's face.
In the morning, though, that was not the first thing he had thought about, as the headache hit him as soon as he had opened his eyes.
"Ugh…" he groaned, and Ron rushed to his side immediately, tangling in his trousers (which he was in the middle of putting on) and almost falling flat on his face.
"How are you feeling?" he asked anxiously, and Harry dared to crack open one eye.
"I've had worse," he answered carefully.
Ron looked relieved.
Harry gingerly pushed himself up to a seating position, feeling nauseated.
Ron gave him the thumbs up.
Harry gave him a tight-lipped smile in return, and made a beeline to the bathroom, where he proceeded to throw up whatever managed to stay down after the night.
-
He insisted on coming to breakfast and class as usual, although Ron all but tied him to his bedpost to keep him in bed.
"You look sick, Harry," he had said doubtfully, above the sounds of Harry having a panic attack because he had missed his morning run and Kingsley would probably kill him; "I really don't think it'll be a good idea".
Dean and Neville nodded their agreement, while Seamus, who was not known for being tactful, of all things, said bluntly "You look like death warmed over, mate. If I was you, I'd stay in today and catch on to my beauty sleep, which frankly, you could use right now".
Dean kicked him for that, but Harry only laughed and wobbled down on his unsteady feet.
-
Breakfast was a sorry affair, to say the least; the smell of food in his nostrils made Harry nauseated all over again, although he doubted he had anything else left that could come up. Hermione gave him concerned looks once in a while, but other than that left him alone, after he managed to convince her eating was a good idea for him right now.
A little while before they left for Charms, he raised his head, and found himself looking straight into the furious eyes of Malfoy.
What did I do now? He wondered tiredly, while Malfoy was trying to kill him with the power of his gaze alone. Harry yawned and turned away, missing the pinkish flush of anger appearing on the Slytherin's face.
-
Potter was ignoring him again, the bastard. Pretending to be innocent, of course, but Draco wasn't going to be fooled. No, it was simply impossible, him caring about Potter out of his own accord. He hated him- every time he glanced at the Gryffindor, he could feel the heat rising in him, the way it always did- the quickened beating of his heart, the adrenaline flooding his veins- what could it be, if not the most intense loathing?
But he could feel the worry simmering gently behind the hate even now; the guilty flaring of concern whenever Potter closed his eyes in a tired gesture, or pressed a hand to his forehead.
For some reason, Draco couldn't help but feel that this was something very, very wrong, that will only lead to more trouble unless he got rid of it soon.
-
Over the next weeks, he redoubled his efforts to hurt Potter, to make fun of him and trip him in the corridors and throw nasty little comments, trying to convince himself of their old animosity. Potter, it seemed, was more then assured of it; he had taken to wearing a dark expression every time he crossed Draco's way, his eyes turning harsh and cold.
However, Draco was finding it harder and harder to convince himself.
-
Harry collapsed to the floor gratefully, aching all over. Kingsley announced the lesson before that he was ready to start learning martial arts, and was as strict a teacher at that as he was at any other subject.
He gave Harry a few minutes to rest, before signaling that the break was over. Harry reluctantly got up.
"Today," Kingsley boomed, "I will teach you a few basic spells for detecting objects of Dark Magic. Those are spells that every good Auror needs to know. If you will manage them, we'll move on to more advanced ones, but don't hold your breath just yet".
He left the room for a minute, returning with a large trunk trailing after him. Harry immediately straightened, alert. There was a dull headache making itself known, just behind his eyes, which grew when he focused on the trunk.
It was a headache he was experiencing more and more since he had returned to school.
Kingsley frowned at him. "Something wrong, Harry?"
Harry shook his head, his attention still on the box. There was something odd about it, though he couldn't quite say what. It was as though there were subtle shifts in the air around it, something unseen but felt, a low, grating off-key humming that vibrated through his bones rather than his ears.
"The trunk," he said instead. "What's in it?"
The Auror smiled proudly. "Ah. In here are the objects you're going to practice on".
He tapped the lid with his wand and flipped it open. The humming intensified, and Harry winced.
"What's that noise?" he asked.
Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "Noise? I don't hear anything. Or do you mean the rain? It started raining outside just now".
"Never mind, then" Harry said, approaching the box. Kingsley, after giving him a perplexed look, kneeled beside him and started rummaging inside, producing object after object.
The first thing was a hairpin, made of copper; the second a silver pendant on a leather cord. But the third…
Somehow, Harry knew what it was before he saw it; it made the same crude, soundless humming as the box.
"That," he said.
Kingsley looked at him in surprise. "Hmm?" he answered, putting the trinket next to the other two. It was a white pebble, large enough for Harry to hold in his fist had he actually wanted to touch it, round and flat.
"It's…" Harry wrinkled his forehead in thought "not right. There's something about it…."
He leaned back as the Auror's head snapped to look at him, his eyes suddenly narrowed. "What?"
"How did you… how did you know?" Kingsley asked, still staring at him.
Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Know what? It just makes this sort of noise- no, not noise, exactly. A feeling…"
Kingsley was studying him intently now. "I wonder…" he muttered to himself, and then looked back at Harry, "I'm going to take a few more items out now, and I want you to tell me, if any more of them make this… feeling appear, alright?"
He came up with a tiny dagger, with strange writing on the blade. Harry shook his head.
A small mirror followed, with a nondescript wooden frame. "That," Harry said, and Kingsley nodded.
A candle, a pair of old, blue shoes and a small jewelry box were declared innocent, but a fancy looking quill and a gem-inlaid ring were not.
"Interesting…" Kingsley mused to himself, scratching his chin thoughtfully "though not completely unexpected. Just surprising. Not a common talent, too…"
"What?" Harry demanded, feeling annoyed and left out. "What are those objects?"
Kingsley flashed him a wolfish smile, showing his white teeth "those, Harry," he said, pointing to the group of objects who were giving the strange vibes, "are all dark objects. And you've correctly identified every one of them, without using any detection spells or having any prior experience in the field".
-
Nifty little power Harry's got, isn't it?