Disclaimer: I don't own a damn thing.
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CH 4
Harry trusts the invisivility cloak. Some nights, he wraps up in it in bed. He's not scared of Ron, or Dean, and it won't keep Voldemort out, but he's still safe. No one knows he's there. So, for those hours, he's not there at all. For a few hours, Harry Potter doesn't exist.
Tonight, cloak wrapped tight around him, he's a ghost, wandering the halls. One of the nameless spirits of students, too sad to stay, too frightened to leave.
Eyes closed, he makes his way to the infirmary. He's been here so many times; he can count the steps, follow the scent of healing potions and clean linens.
Nearing the door he hears footsteps, and Snape sweeps by, muttering to himself. Something about napalm.
Inside, the room is white. Even invisible, Harry feels conspicuous. Somehow his silhouette of pain and fear must stand out from the pristine background, but it doesn't. He walks from bed to bed, most of them empty. Finding one set by the window, he clambers up. The cloak is awkward, his hands flash free for a moment, but then he settles in. He can sleep in the infirmary, does sleep there. Medi-witches and patients are used to the silent weeping, stifled cries of pain. They don't notice him, or pretend not to.
"I can hear you."
Harry sits up. Moonlight streaming through the window and he can't see anything. Fuzzy grey shadows shift as the wind blows the curtains.
"I can hear you."
"Who is it? Who's here?"
"Well, I'm hurt. I'm really hurt. You nearly kill me and don't have the decency to recognize my face?"
The voice is familiar, but pitched low and quiet in the still of the infirmary, Harry can't quite place it. A white shape moves towards him. Cedric? Closer still, and the hair is too long, the form too slender, graceful.
"Malfoy?"
"Who else, Potter? Why can't I see you? Don't tell me one of my father's wishes came true and you're dead. No, that can't be it. I'm still alive."
Harry pulls off the cloak, frozen at the sight of the boy in front of him, closer than he's ever been, close enough to see. Shirtless, the shadows dance over skin rumpled and coiled, Harry tries to name the shapes he sees, like the shapes of clouds against the sun.
Seeing the hungry look in the boy's eye, Draco steps back.
"See anything you like, Potter? Aren't I beautiful?"
Harry has heard scorn from this voice for years, but never so rough, never so real. Anger and disgust, and Harry quails.
And he cannot stop himself.
"What happened, Malfoy?"
The silence stretches out, cold and tight. Harry aches for the cloak, wanting its warmth more than anything in his life. More now than Sirius, more now than his dead parents. More now than the death of Voldemort himself.
"I burned, Potter. I burned."
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Note:
1. I wasn't sure of the time frame, but since Sirius is dead, it must be post Order. Any details other than that; well, just consider them AU, because I'm afraid I don't have the time to look them up.
2. As a member of a large family, my parents worried that we would get jealous of one another, so on one child's birthday, all of the rest got a small gift as well. It was only a token, something to unwrap, but it was nice. When we were little, our parents bought these gifts, as we grew, when we were flush, we continued it. So, since today is my birthday, I'm sending out shiny new chapters. I hope you enjoy it.
Read and review, please.