Perfect Memory
PG-13
Ron/Hermione and other relationships yet to be decided.
Chapter Seven: "Though it's not what we wanted before"
The Past, Graduation Day
Finally the day had arrived that so many Hogwarts students both dream of and dread. The day when they would no longer be children attending school, but adults thrust out into the real (and very dangerous) world. It was finally graduation day at Hogwarts.
Outside the castle, people were gathering for the Leaving Ceremony. Parents milled about, chatting excitedly about their children's accomplishments. There were quite a few reporters as well, but they had been confined to a press box for the event. Dumbledore didn't want them harassing the other guests. The sky was a pristine blue, with towering white clouds floating lazily past. Light sparkled across the lake, and the Giant Squid had disappeared to the bottom of the lake. The weather was warm, and would have been unbearably hot in long robes had it not been for the cooling charms attached to all of the chairs. Hagrid was lugging a large and rather cumbersome podium up stairs of the presentation stage, absently muttering to himself about how much trouble it was to be working in his best suit.
Inside the castle, there was a much more panic. Seventh-years had been confined to their dormitories for the time being. All the other students, of course, were long gone. Graduation was always one week after the train left Hogwarts, giving the seventh-years time to finish any last minute preparations that studying for their NEWTS might have prevented.
Up in the Gryffindor dormitory, Ron paced nervously in front of the unlit fireplace. Hermione was still upstairs getting ready, and Harry was slumped moodily in one of the over-stuffed chairs, reading and re-reading the worn sheet of parchment that was supposed to be his speech. It was covered in almost illegible handwriting, with numerous mark outs and several notes made along the sides and top. Harry had tried to write it last night, and unfortunately, what had seemed like brilliance last night was turning out to be drivel in the morning light.
Ron glanced at his friend, who was muttering to himself, angrily re-writing. After the incident at Hogsmeade, Harry had been even more reclusive than he had been in the past. Ron didn't know the whole story, although rumors had been flying all the way up to end-of-the-year feast. Hermione was being unusually tight-lipped about it as well. The generally accepted story was that Harry and Malfoy had started some sort of duel, and the Slytherin had cast an Unforgivable. Of course, that really didn't make sense—why would the blonde risk getting caught like that? In broad daylight, in the middle of Hogsmeade? It just made no sense. Ron wasn't a simple child any longer who would just swallow any story fed to him, and as much as he detested Draco, it was obvious the story was flawed.
Not that it particularly bothered Ron that the story was undoubtedly a half-lie. He was used to Harry lying to him and he had accepted that Hermione couldn't tell him everything. As for what was going on between Harry and Draco—it was obvious that tensions had reached new heights between the two after their last two duels. First half of Gryffindor and Slytherin hospitalized, now the use of Unforgivables…soon, very soon, one of them was going to die, and what scared Ron the most was that he wasn't sure which one he wanted to live.
Tugging at his black graduation robes embroidered with scarlet and gold, he glanced nervously towards the girls' dormitory for what felt like the millionth time. Where was Hermione?
Up in the girl's dormitory, Hermione sat in front of a vanity mirror, expertly applying hair-care products to her frizzy hair to give her manageable, smooth curls.
Once her hair was finished with, she wiped her hands off on a stray towel and began on her makeup. Once, she would have stumbled through this and eventually given up in favor of Lavender doing it for her. But practice paid off, and after a year, she had it down to a science. So as she pulled out brushes and pads and tubes of color, she allowed her mind to drift.
She had taken the bag to the West Tower, just as Harry had asked. But when she had gone back the next morning, the bag was gone, probably taken by Harry that night and stashed somewhere safe.
By now, Hermione was quite sure she knew what had been in the bag. Small glass marbles, yes. But not just marbles. If she was correct (had she ever been wrong?) Harry had created a bag full of mini-wards. Just as he had attached a huge, complicated ward to the large glass orb that was meant for Ron, he had done the same on a much smaller scale for…whoever he gave the bag to.
It explained why he was always so drained after making wards; and why the spells had always seemed to take longer than they should have. All that time he had been creating not just one large spell, but multiple smaller ones as well. He had paid for every one of those damn marbles with a piece of his soul, though. Slowly but surely he had been spell-poisoning himself with the burden of excess wards. Who could have possibly been worth the risk of his life? Everyone involved in the Order had already been taken care of. Who outside the Order could have been so important to Harry? And it couldn't have been just one person, after all, it been a whole bag of those things…Hermione had the very bad feeling that she wasn't going to like a single one of those answers.
The last coat her "Persephone's Pomegranate" red lipstick completed her face, and she gracefully stood and retrieved the earrings that Harry had given her last Christmas. She remembered that The Daily Prophet had somehow found out, and turned it into a huge issue. Something about her and Harry being a serious couple. It was so silly, really. After all, they were only earrings.
Of course, they were beautifully crafted, ordered from the finest jewelry shop in Diagon Alley and undoubtedly very expensive, since they were gold, ruby and diamond. When she had first opened the box, she had been shocked. Never had she expected such a present. She had tried to refuse them, but Harry had simply waved his hand differentially, citing money was not a problem and it was the least he could give her. When she had pressed the matter, he claimed he was tired and went back to bed.
So she kept them, realizing that when Harry said it was the least he could give her, what he meant was it was all he could give her, because she and Ron would never be able to have his love—at least, not any longer. Not since…Not since Voldemort rose. Not since Sirius died. Not since the war started. Not since Harry— she wrenched away her thoughts from that path. Today would be a happy day. She refused to worry about Harry's allegiances today. Today was her and Ron's day, her and all her classmates' day. Not Harry's. Not the war's.
She only rarely wore the earrings, since they annoyed Ron so, but she had to admit, her new engagement ring matched them beautifully. She wondered if Ron intended that. Once she had put on the earrings, she fished around in her cosmetics box for that small velvet box that she kept her engagement ring in. She hadn't worn it since that first day—she really didn't want anyone finding out until Ron and she had a handle on things. After all, the situation was difficult enough for Ron and her. But today was a special occasion, and everyone would be too busy to really notice the small sparkle on her hand.
Carefully slipping it onto her left ring finger, she pulled on a sensible pair of black pumps and gave herself one last look in the mirror.
"You look boo-tee-ful," spoke the mirror, with a strangely Bulgarian accent. Hermione smiled wistfully, and made a mental note to herself, as she did every time the mirror spoke to her, to change the voice of the mirror to something less upsetting. Victor had died a year ago now, working in the Quidditch off-season to end Voldemort's increasing influence in his country.
Hermione turned and headed out of the girl's dormitory, ignoring the giggles of excitement coming from the opposite corner of the room, and took to the stairs. She would forget to change the mirror's voice, of course, and the next time she stood in front of it, she would once again receive that shock of memory. Some part of her realized that she didn't want to lose this last link with the first boy that had ever fancied her, but (perhaps because she was so in love with Ron) she wasn't able to admit this to herself. So she just kept promising herself and she just kept conveniently forgetting.
Ron's face broke into a huge smile as he watched Hermione descend the stairs from the girls' dormitory. Her caramel-coloured curls cascaded across her shoulders, secured away from her face by a delicate gold clasp. Her strawberries-and-cream complexion was as radiant as ever, and her lips were stained a darker pink. Normally, Hermione was pretty. But as Ron stared at her now, he realized that it was not a girl that he was in love with, but a woman, and she was beautiful.
"Hermione," rumbled Ron, his voice a bit deeper than usual, "You're gorgeous."
She blushed but managed to cheekily reply, "I know. You clean up quite nicely yourself."
Still scowling from the re-crafting of his speech, Harry looked up at the couple. Ron had slipped an arm around Hermione's waist and they were looking at each other like the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Dean and Seamus had also looked up and were seemingly dumbfounded by the idea of Ron and Hermione being affectionate towards each other.
Harry rolled his eyes at them and snapped out, "As if it hadn't been obvious for years. Stick your eyes back in your heads." Both boys hurriedly looked away and began talking to each other in low voices.
At the sound of Harry's voice, Hermione and Ron startled and turned toward the Gryffindor heir. Harry stood up, carefully scrutinizing Hermione from head to toe. "Well, Hermione, I must say, you look boo-tee-ful," he said, pronouncing the last word with a Bulgarian accent, his eyes burning into Hermione's, full of knowledge that he should have never had. Hermione's eyes widened, but she said nothing, and Ron, not noticing Hermione's reaction, wrote the accent off to Harry's increasingly eccentric personality.
In the distance, bells tolled the hour. It was time for the Leaving Ceremony to begin.
With a great deal of fanfare, the seventh years had processed in by name, same as they had in their first year. Diplomas had been received, cameras flashed. The top student of every class was announced. Surprisingly enough, Hermione was only the top student in a few classes—Transfiguration and Charms as well as some obscure high-level class about ritualized spell-casting. Draco Malfoy took top marks for Potions, Neville for Herbology, and despite his difficulties with teachers, Harry managed to pull top marks in Defense against the Dark Arts. The rest of the classes went to Ravenclaws, with the exception of Divination, whose top student was a Hufflepuff.
Next came top student overall—this, unsurprisingly, went to Hermione. The second top student was actually Blaise Zabini. Lucius Malfoy looked angry enough to swallow his cane at the news. Not only had a mudblood beaten out his son, but another, lesser Slytherin? Draco, however, looked like he couldn't have cared less, clapping for Blaise, looking haughtily bored while doing so. Then came four speeches, which were given by four different students who represented each of the houses. Gryffindor's speech was last.
As Harry walked up the steps to the stage, the audience fell silent. Finally arriving at the podium, he pulled out his speech from the pocket of his robe and set down. He stared at it for a moment, before suddenly tossing it aside. It burned as it fell to the ground. Harry looked out across the many familiar faces and began to speak.
"That was my speech. I didn't attempt to write it until last night. I kept thinking I had all the time in the world to do it, that there were more important things to be done. And then it came down to last night and I was caught unprepared so I did my best to finish it all, to craft something poignant and intelligent that could wrap up so neatly all of my difficulty and joy that I have experienced in the past seven years here at Hogwarts. Last night, I thought I had done a decent job.
"I was wrong, of course. I re-read my speech this morning and realized it was horrible. I couldn't present it to all of you. It was trite and stupid and said all the things that I thought people might want to hear, which happen to also be things that I would never want to hear myself say.
"I attempted to rewrite it, but I just couldn't. So I stand before you now, completely unprepared, not knowing what to say next. But you know what? That seems to be how I get through most of my toughest obstacles, so I figure that I'll manage somehow," he gave a weak laugh, and the audience laughed lightly with him.
Growing somber again, he began. "Over these past seven years, I have grown from a boy to a man. I have faced off against death over and over again. I have had friends and family die in front of my very eyes, unable to save them. This war cost me my health, my sanity, and perhaps my very soul."
Harry paused and turned to look at the press box, where reporters' dictation quills were scribbling furiously. He smiled regretfully and continued.
"I do not know what history will say about the type of person I was. But I can hope, that at the very least, textbooks will say that I did not hesitate to make that final sacrifice.
"I know," he said, as his emerald green eyes swept over his classmates, "that many of you are worried about what kind of world you are being sent into. I know many of you have already chosen sides. Even in Gryffindor—and yes, in Slytherin, too—the lines are not clear cut. I don't know if we will all live to see the end of this war, but I will not stand by and do nothing but hope for the best. I will act. I will destroy Voldemort and end this war, no matter the cost to me. I've never had it easy, and I expect this to be no different.
"But before I step off this stage and into the rest of my life—however long that may be—I want to thank all of you. For all of your time and commitment to this school, whether or not our agendas have agreed, all of you made the experience worth the trouble. For those you who caused the trouble to begin with," Harry's eyes briefly rested on Draco; not long enough for anyone but Draco himself to realize the look, before he was back to scanning the rest of the crowd, "it would have been much less interesting without you. And most of all, I would like to thank Gryffindor…"
After the ceremony was over, there were endless amounts of pictures to be taken. After pictures, came interviews:
"As heir to the Malfoy fortune, do you have any plans to work now that you've graduated?"
"Mr. Potter, we've heard that you've had several offers from well-known Quidditch teams…"
"Dumbledore, is it true that you will be hiring several students to take over for retiring staff?
And after interviews were over, it was time for games and fun. Most students chatted excitedly and exchanged information to stay in contact after they went their separate ways, younger siblings raced across the grassy lawns in energetic games of tag. As the sun dipped low, everyone was called into the Great Hall for the last feast they would have at Hogwarts student tables.
The house elves had prepared a feast to remember. It was an elegant meal, but delicious as well. Students and parents alike flitted from table to table, socializing and laughing.
Midway into the meal, Ron took Hermione's hand under the table and squeezed it. She turned and smiled at him, hoping he would lean over and whisper in her ear sweet nothings, or, perhaps more likely, for him to lean over and whisper in her ear to pass the gravy.
But Ron surprised her and did neither. "Hermione, Harry's up to something," he whispered.
"What?" She asked, confused, but her question was answered as Harry stood up and raised his wand, muttering a vague spell.
Ron covered his face with his hands and muttered just loud enough for Harry to hear. "Mate, please don't do anything that I'm going regret."
Harry just clapped a hand onto Ron's shoulder and grinned. When he finally spoke, he was addressing the entire hall, and his magically enhanced voice carried clearly across to everyone.
"I believe I'd had the spotlight on me a bit too long. I'd now like to take the opportunity to shift everyone's attention to Ron and Hermione, my best friends since first year. We've had our ups and downs, but I couldn't have asked for better companions to stand at my side. It's not easy being my friend, but they've not abandoned me, and I can't think for two people more deserving of happiness," he smiled down at his two friends, and raised his goblet.
"Which is why I would like to propose a toast to my two best friends," he raised his goblet a bit higher, giving his most charming smile, and waited for the rest of the Great Hall to raise theirs. The majority of the Slytherins were about to abstain when Draco Malfoy, with a cynical smirk on his face, raised his goblet almost mockingly. The rest of the Slytherin Court glanced around nervously to their parents before following suit, affixing copy-cat smirks to their own faces, unsure of what game their ice-prince was playing.
Harry smiled at the assembly of raised goblets and continued. "To Ron and Hermione—congratulations on your engagement and may your future together be filled with love and hope."
There was dead silence for a moment or two before Neville blushingly stood and stuttered out, "T-to Ron an-an-and Her—Hermione."
To which the rest of the guests quickly responded, "To Ron and Hermione!" and eagerly knocked their goblets against their neighbors.
As soon as the toast was completed, the great hall erupted into gossip. Ron and Hermione, engaged! While it shouldn't have come as a surprise, considering their close friendship, the Daily Prophet had been promoting the idea that Harry and Hermione were the couple. It was quite shocking to hear Harry so willingly give up his supposed true love to his best friend. Lavender leaned over excitedly to the Patil twins and eagerly whispered with them, not so subtly pointing over to Hermione and then Harry.
Hermione blushed, recalling Lavender seeing her in the hall with Harry, after the wards had been finished. She had the sinking feeling that Ron was going to hear soon enough Lavender's tinted version of what happened. Why can't things ever go how I plan them? Why must boys be so stupid? Although, even as she asked the question, she wasn't sure if she was talking about Ron or Harry. Maybe both.
At that moment, Molly and Arthur Weasley choose to fling themselves at the couple, Molly blubbering her happiness and Arthur all proud smiles. Charlie and Bill were on their heels, and Ginny hurriedly embraced Hermione, squealing out how "Isn't it great, we're going to be sisters!"
Ideas held by the Order seemed to have been forgotten, and for this night at least, there would only be happiness. Congratulations would have hounded the couple all night, if it weren't for the band striking up, signaling that the dance portion of the evening had started. Ron and Hermione took refuge on the dance floor, enjoying the peace that an elegant waltz provided.
Hermione, of course, knew how to dance and was all grace, while Ron spent the first few minutes of the dance staring at the floor and trying to avoid Hermione's feet. Ron wasn't an awkward boy anymore though, so drawing on the quiet but strong confidence he had gathered in his maturity, he followed Hermione's steps. By the third go-around the floor, he had matched himself to Hermione, and the couple was earning admiring looks from those still sitting at the tables.
Blaise leaned over towards Draco, the soft puff of his breath tickling Draco's pale cheek as he whispered. "Even you must admit they look splendid together. Who would have ever thought the mud-blood and the Weasel would have ever grown up to be so good-looking?"
Draco showed no expression, but Blaise could tell the Slytherin Prince was tense, and for his own health he leaned away. When Draco finally smiled, it was razor blade thin, and every bit as cutting. "Blaise, my fellow, you would do well to watch your words."
Blaise's eyes widened with the fear that he had somehow offended the leader of his house. "But Draco, I was only speaking of aesthetics! Surely you understand that my words are innocent."
The aristocrat slid off the bench and stood with the natural grace that only a Malfoy could have. Everyone else looked awkward as they clambered over the long benches of the house tables, but Draco always exited as smoothly as though he was sitting in his own personal chair.
"Innocent? You know as well as I do, old friend, that innocence is a trait Slytherins are born without; a quality of luxury that only the other houses can seem to afford. As much as I loathe admitting it, money can't buy everything." With that he walked towards the door. Suddenly, he stopped, as if suddenly remembering something. Turning back towards Blaise, he said, "Do me a favor?"
Blaise bit back his instinctive reply of 'What's in it for me?' and cut it off at "What?"
"If they ask, tell my parents that I went for a stroll to clear my head. I'll be back soon enough."
"Whatever you say, Draco," muttered Blaise.
"I know," was Draco's reply, but by the time the words registered in Blaise's mind, he was gone.
"Hermione, let's take a rest. We've danced four songs in a row. C'mon, you sit down and I'll get us something to drink."
Hermione smiled, her face flushed from the exercise, and she laughed. "Don't you dare, Ron Weasley! You're not leaving me to suffer at the hands of the public. You can go sit down and answer questions about our engagement. Really, Harry couldn't have picked a worse time to out us. All these people! Not to mention the nosy reporters." With that, she pushed her way through the crowd towards the refreshment table.
Ron nodded in an absent-minded fashion, scanning the room for shaggy back hair out of habit. He blinked, suddenly realizing what he was doing. How many months had it been now since he had started keeping an eye out for Harry, as if any moment the boy might explode? Which brought him to his second realization—Harry was not in the room.
Instinctively, Ron turned towards the Slytherin table to look for Draco Malfoy. But the blond heir was nowhere to be found. Malfoy's favorite tag-along, Zambini, was standing over by where the Slytherin parents were sitting, speaking to Malfoy Sr., who was listening intently, his brow furrowed.
Finally, the pale man shook his head and waved the tall boy away, his icy eyes staring towards one of the corridors. It looked as though he was going to stand up and rush off, but then Mrs. Malfoy turned to him, drawing him into a conversation with the Parkinsons. Blaise wandered off unhappily and sat down near Milicent, half-heartedly engaging in conversation with her.
Malfoy…Malfoy's missing—ten galleons says he's headed down that corridor—Harry's missing, too, which equals one very bad combination. The last time Harry and Draco met up, Unforgivables had been let fly. Now that they were free from the worry of being expelled, there was no telling what the two of them could be up to.
Ron turned and quickly caught up with Hermione, glancing around nervously to see if anyone else had noticed the troublemaker's disappearance.
"Ron? What's wrong?" asked Hermione, her young face lined with worry.
"It's Harry," he said quickly. "I can't find him."
"Oh," replied Hermione, tension easing out of her face. "Well, I wouldn't worry about that. It was difficult to convince him even to attend our graduation, remember? I'm not surprised he left early."
"But 'Mione—"
"It's okay; he's most likely collapsed in his favorite chair up in the West Tower. He probably ducked out to avoid the fallout over that announcement of his. Some Gryffindor," she said, give a short, harsh laugh.
"Hermione, listen to me! Malfoy's missing too, and I'm betting it's not a coincidence."
In an instant, Hermione's entire expression and stance went through several changes. She slipped easily from the role of "laughing fiancé" to "worried mother-hen" to "self-assured Order member". Giving a tense smile, she frowned. "So Malfoy's missing as well? Then I guess you better go and find them, hm? Don't worry; I'll hold everything together here."
He smiled, wanting to kiss her, but force of habit keeping him from it. Hermione seemed to understand though, and standing on the tips of her toes, she reached up and cupped his face in her hands, gently kissing him. The kiss tasted like strawberries and held the promise of "soon".
When she pulled back, she gave a mischievous smile. "We don't have to sneak around anymore, remember?"
Ron felt his muscles loosen a bit. "I'll have to thank Harry for that."
She nodded seriously. "Why don't you go and tell him now?"
"I think I will," and with that, he slipped through the crowd, unnoticed by everyone except his lover—and one other person, whose starlight blue eyes burned with concealed intentions.
Ron had no clues which way Harry and Draco had gone, other than that it was out the side corridor of the Great Hall. He simply went whatever way he felt was best, letting instinct guide him, as it so often had before, to his place by Harry's side.
He had been walking for at least ten minutes, up stairs and around and around until he felt that he must have been doubling back towards the Great Hall, when he heard the voices. Or more accurately, one voice, little more than a muffled echo. Likely a distant voice that was yelling—you knew that it should have been much louder than you were hearing it.
So Ron crept through the passage ways, following the echo as it increased in volume. Down a narrow moon-lit hallway, until it was clear the voice screaming was Harry. Once he realized that, he paused, unsure if he wanted to continue. There was no way he would be able to handle the two polar opposites. In a clean duel, he would have been evenly matched with Malfoy, but the Slytherin would never leave a duel up to chance. Harry's screams stopped, and Ron gathered his courage and kept on in the direction he had heard them. He was Harry's second, and it was a matter of friendship that he back up Harry.
A little farther up, Harry's screams continued, and Ron stopped again, realizing that pure rage filled the Gryffindor prince's voice—not pain or fear. Rage so consuming that Ron paused out of simple surprise. Once again, though, when Harry fell silent, Ron reminded himself of his duty and continued onward.
As Ron crept up to the doorway of a deserted classroom, he realized that he could hear the distant din of the Great Hall, which was closer than he had thought. I guess I did double back, then. And the music and dance is loud enough to cover Harry's voice. The door to the classroom had been left ajar, so Ron could clearly see Harry and Draco through the space between the door and the frame of the door.
Draco was standing very still in the middle of the room, his head turned away from the doorway and towards the window on the opposite side of the room. His wand hung limply in his hand, pointed at the floor. Ron thought for a moment that he had been petrified, he held so still—but no, there was no magic holding him, only the force of Harry's words.
Harry was stalking around the room, shaking with rage. His wand was in hand, but it was clear that he had forgotten it was there, as his wild gestures were just spasms of anger, not an attempt at wand work. He was yelling again, loud enough that it was a wonder his vocal chords didn't tear.
"HOW DARE YOU!" He roared at Draco. "YOU DARE TO IMPLY—IT JUST SICKENS ME! I SHOULD KILL YOU WHERE YOU STAND!"
Quicker than Ron could comprehend the situation, Harry had leveled his wand at Draco's chest. Ron was at a loss for what to do. If he stormed in now, that wand would just as quickly be leveled at his own heart. He sat frozen in indecision, terrified that Harry was about to do the one thing that would destroy all their futures: Commit murder.
"This doesn't strengthen your argument," Draco muttered, as he slowly turned his face from the window to meet Harry's gaze. "Would you do it, Potter?" He gave a soft laugh. "After everything, this is how you would have it end?"
"Yes!" Hissed Harry in reply. "Yes, this is how I would have it end! All of it, all their plans, blown to pieces! He wouldn't expect that, now would He?"
Draco shook his head. "I think you don't even know which 'He' you are referring to. Look at me. You know that it doesn't end this way. You know."
"NO, I FUCKING DON'T KNOW! I DON'T FUCKING KNOW ANYTHING!" Harry roared in reply, jabbing the point of his wand into Draco's chest, as if he planned to stab him through with the stick.
Draco remained still, unfazed by the outburst. Harry and Draco stood toe-to-toe, Harry two inches taller, shaggy black hair brushing against silver-white strands as Harry's head drooped.
Nothing more was said; they simply stood in silence. Gradually, Harry's shoulders relaxed, and then his arms, allowing his wand tip to trail down Draco's chest until his arm hung limply at his side.
To Ron, the boys were uncomfortably close, mere inches separating them. Harry's whole body slumped over Malfoy's, but never touched him. They were practically breathing the same air.
Ron had once walked in on his brother, Bill, having sex with Fleur. He had been shocked and embarrassed, and hadn't been able to look either of them in the eye for the rest of the week.
But in the end, it was just sex. It was understandable, even expected from a couple like Bill and Fleur. They were both so good looking and carefree and just damn cool…
What Ron was witnessing now, between Harry and Malfoy, was something completely different. The boys were fully clothed and weren't even touching, but as Ron watched them through the crack at the doorframe, he began to burn with shame for invading something that was so obviously private. Whatever was going on between the two boys, Ron realized, was more intimate than sex, more significant than friendship. He didn't have a name for it, a word to describe it, but he understood that it was not for his eyes.
Quietly, he rose from the door and crept away. When he got back to the party, he told Hermione that Harry was asleep in the red chair up in the West Tower. It was not the first time he had lied to Hermione, but it was the first time the lie had mattered. It would not be the last.
The argument between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy was no different from all the other arguments in the past few months. There were questions of loyalty, demands for information, requests for spells, and always the word games: taunting, prodding, sneering, jeering.
But in the end, it came down to a pack of marbles.
The miniature wards were Harry's gift to Draco, the ultimate promise, the perfect way to prove purity of intentions. The Slytherin prince had opened the bag and plucked out one, a tiny crystal orb containing a thousand tiny silver lights. It glowed cold between his fingers, his skin growing numb against the icy effects of the ward. He dropped it back into the bag.
"The bag's charmed, I suppose?" Asked Malfoy, noticing that no cold seeped through the velvet pouch.
"The material is. I bought it off Madame Madkins, custom made with the same material Russian wizards use to keep out the cold." He didn't bother to mention how much it cost. Malfoy didn't care how much things cost; after all, it was only money, and for a Malfoy, money was never a concern.
Draco stared at the black velvet bag, his brow furrowing. "You didn't just work standard ward magic on this, did you? These wards are incredibly powerful, there's something different about them, I can sense it." He opened the bag again, pouring several into his hand, wincing at the bitter cold against his palm. He peered closely at them. "These are fine-tuned to not just me; there's one for Pansy, and that's obviously Blaise."
Harry nodded. "If I hadn't provided that snake-court of yours with some protection, I knew you'd just give away all yours."
"I see." Malfoy put them all back into the back and pulled the drawstring tight. "Potter, I know."
"What?"
"Don't bother to deny it; I know. I know what these wards are made of. You're a big fool that I thought."
"I don't—"
"Your soul! You literally ripped out a piece of your soul to make these! Each one of these ward orbs has a piece of your soul!" Malfoy cradled the bag with both hands. He wanted to toss the bag against the far wall in a dramatic show of his rejection of Harry's dangerous actions, but he couldn't, not with the realization that each of those were a little fragments of Harry Potter, that the very stuff that made Harry Potter who he was—his honesty, courage, passion, impulsiveness, casual and almost unnoticed arrogance, his fiery temper—a little piece of all that was dropped into each of those little marbles. "It's disgusting; I can't believe you would actually try something like this."
"You ungrateful bastard," hissed Harry, and he attempted to snatch back the bag. Draco easily evaded Harry's clumsy grab and slipped the bag into a pocket underneath his robes.
"I'm not ungrateful. These wards will keep my people alive, and I am in your debt for that. But the sacrifice you offered up in order to create these—the sacrifice was too great."
"It's my soul, Malfoy. I can do what I like with it. It's not doing me any use just sitting there," he sneered, pointing to his chest where his heart rested.
Draco took a step back, shocked by the mask of condescending anger Harry's face had become. It was a perfect copy of his sneer, and it was very strange to be on the receiving end. When had Harry picked up such an ugly, very Slytherin expression?
Draco pulled his wand out of his robes and smoothly twirled it between his fingers. "Such a careless attitude towards something so important an only reflect two things: ignorance or disillusionment."
Harry's mouth twisted up in the corners, a parody of a smile. "I know more than enough about the risks, Malfoy, but we're in a war. The end justifies the means."
Draco shook his head. "You sound like him."
Four little words, but the effect on Harry was instantaneous. He swung his fist, snapping Draco's head to the side before the Slytherin could realize what was happening.
Draco's whole body froze up, his head not moving to turn back toward Harry; instead, he gazed out the window with the moonlight spilling through. Harry hadn't attacked him in ages; not they had started working together. The shock of Harry hurting him held him place; it held him silent.
Harry was screaming at him now, roaring in anger. The words held no sharpness, though. Harry knew a thousand things to say to him that would slice through his every defense and leave him broken on the floor; Harry understood Draco's flaws and fears better than anyone. But Harry said none of those things, used none of his advantages. Instead, he rained down a thoughtless parade of blunt words that amounted to little more than self-righteous anger and childish insults.
"HOW DARE YOU!" He roared at Draco. "YOU DARE TO IMPLY—IT JUST SICKENS ME! I SHOULD KILL YOU WHERE YOU STAND!"
And then Harry did something that hadn't happened since sixth year. He pointed his wand right at Draco. Draco did not need to look in his direction to know it; his senses were sharp enough. What he didn't know was if the words of his execution sat on Harry's tongue, just waiting to tumble out, if the next sensation he would experience would be his skin splitting open. He remembered the blood, the pain…
How was this fear any different from what he experienced daily at the hands of his Lord?
"This doesn't strengthen your argument," Draco muttered, as he slowly turned his face from the window to meet Harry's gaze. "Would you do it, Potter?" He gave a soft laugh. "After everything, this is how you would have it end?" His words were calm and measured; if Harry really was unstable enough to do away with him now, any hostility would push him over the edge.
"Yes!" Hissed Harry in reply. "Yes, this is how I would have it end! All of it, all their plans, blown to pieces! He wouldn't expect that, now would He?"
Draco shook his head, his expression carefully neutral to hide his confusion over Harry's breakdown. "I think you don't even know which 'He' you are referring to. Look at me. You know that it doesn't end this way. You know."
"NO, I FUCKING DON'T KNOW! I DON'T FUCKING KNOW ANYTHING!" Harry roared in reply, jabbing the point of his wand into Draco's chest painfully; the Slytherin knew his skin was bruising.
Draco remained still, trying to appear unfazed by Harry's out-of-control actions. Harry moved closer to him, and the Slytherin was aware of Harry's head leaning towards his; it was if every inch of his body had suddenly tuned into Harry. He could even feel the feather-light touch of Harry's messy jet strands brushing against his own. Their foreheads were only a few inches apart, and Draco could feel the dig of the wand against his ribs lighten.
Nothing more was said; they simply stood in silence. The wand trailed down his chest, his stomach, and then fell away, leaving a trail of electric ache and need across his sensitive skin. Harry exhaled, and Draco finally let go of a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. It rattled out of him, and he could feel it tremble across his lips. He imagined air swirling out from his lungs, and now Harry was breathing in, Draco's breath entering Harry's mouth, moving across his tongue, spilling into his lungs…Then Harry exhaled as Draco breathed in, and it all was reversed.
They stayed like that until the music in the Great Hall ended, late into the night. Draco was the first to step away.
"My father will be expecting me."
Harry swayed unsteadily, his head swimming with the sudden absence of Draco's warmth. "Yeah. Ron and 'Mione…they'll be looking for me."
"Good-bye, Potter," murmured Draco, but there was no animosity in his voice.
Harry looked away, out the windows to the setting moon. He couldn't stand the sight of people walking away from him. "You know, Draco, you need to know that I—"
But as he turned around, he realized that Draco was gone.
Author's note: For now, I will continue this story with no reference to the Half-Blood Prince. Slowly, though, I am updating all my chapters so they will be consistent with the canon storyline by JK Rowling. Which brings me to the question: Is it better to pretend HBP never happened, or change the story? Changing means that you might have to go back and re-read for clarity, because the previous story was (or was going to be) heavily dependent on Dumbledore and the trio remaining at Hogwarts. It's your call.
Oh, and what Harry was about to tell Draco—that was pretty important. Oh well, poor Draco.