Disclaimer: HP and the HP Universe are the property of JKR.
Question for Readers: Oh, where is the love? Why so few reviews? As a sociology graduate, I have long noted the bizarreness of review distribution. has a lot of trash on it (bad writing, unoriginal plots, poor character development, outlandish AU and OOC, etc.) that receives loads of reviews; meanwhile, some of the better pieces receive almost nothing. Does anybody have any idea why this might be? Do young readers like work that could have been written by young teens? Do people just not want to deal with complex reading? What is going on here?
Chapter 8: Day Four, Part I: Va-Va Boom!
"Hey. . . Potter," came the voice, confident but quiet, piercing the empty hallway.
Harry turned cautiously towards the source of the recognizable inflection. His eyes scanned Malfoy's height – the other boy was one of the shortest first years, but it did nothing to shrink the stature of his presence, or to detract from his superficial attractiveness.
"Malfoy," Harry responded warily. After their unfavorable encounter on the platform, Harry wasn't sure what to expect. The Slytherin's face was mostly blank, with only the slightest trace of distain, but it was enough to put H on the defensive. "What do you want?"
Malfoy's eyebrow arched slightly at H's tone. "Look, Potter, I don't care if you like me or not. Truth be told, no one likes me. But it would serve my purposes to have a working relationship with you. And it would be in your best interests to have such a relationship with me."
Who talks like that in first year! There was just something about this boy that pricked up all the hair on his arm. "Oh, yeah? Why is that?"
Malfoy's lips grew into a malicious, toothy grin. "Because I am very close to the people who want you dead. This being the case, it would behoove you to be on my good side in any event. However, this is your lucky day, and I happen to want these people dead as much as you do. Hence, it would be in our best interests to work together."
What on Earth was he talking about? Nobody wanted him dead, right? This Voldemort character was long gone, and everyone thought he was a hero. Right? . . . Then again, there appeared to be a lot going on in the wizarding world that he was in the dark about. "I don't want anyone dead," Harry replied a little uncertainly.
An elegant eyebrow arched up in skepticism, before settling into an expression of ominous amusement. "You will, Potter. And when you do, I suggest you come find me."
Malfoy turned away and was off before Harry could even muster a response, leaving the Gryffindor stunned by the course of events. He tried to shrug it off and made his way towards the library.
Once in the library, he felt much more at home, as if he had been at Hogwarts for years. Indeed, he was inexplicably taller and buffer, as big as the fitter fifth years – and yet, everything seemed completely normal.
There was Hermione, concentrating single-mindedly upon the text in front of her. Harry's instincts pushed him towards her, before suddenly noticing a very particular shoulder bag. It was made of dark green dragon suede, with illegible silver lettering: Malfoy.
But there was something he needed to talk to Malfoy about, something which directed him to traipse through the stacks until spotting the falsely nonchalant figure of Draco Malfoy. Somehow, over the years, Harry had gotten to know his classmate very well – at least superficially. It was extremely difficult to determine what the blond was actually thinking or feeling, but it had become rather easy to decipher what he wanted the word to believe he was thinking and feeling; and that itself was a greater understanding of Malfoy than most ever achieved.
"Malfoy."
Malfoy turned languidly towards his sometimes-nemesis sometimes-ally, as though he expected the Gryffindor to be there. "Potter, what a pleasure."
Harry's eyes instinctively glanced at the tome in Malfoy's hands – the veiled sexual tension was nothing compared to the aura of untrustworthiness that emanated from the aristocrat like a radioactive particle (this was a bloke that hated everyone as much as they could possibly hate him). The text was partially covered by his arm, but what he could make out read, "Muggle N- . . . -nology."
"What's that," Harry asked, nodding toward the large and conspicuously current book in Malfoy's arms.
Malfoy smirked maliciously: though he had matured, grown taller and more handsome over five years, his single-minded vindictiveness had barely changed at all. "This is how I'm going to destroy our enemies."
By this time Harry had become the skeptic – this was not the first time Malfoy had claimed to have a solution to the "Voldemort problem". "Right, whatever you say," he commented, rolling his eyes.
Malfoy was predictably pissed, but there was also a hint of. . . what? Hurt? "It doesn't matter if you believe me, Potter. The end is near. And if you're smart, you'll make yourself part of it enough to be able to take credit for Voldemort's defeat. If not. . . fuck you and everyone else, I'm doing this for myself anyway."
This sort of behavior was relatively normal for Malfoy, but his words were still disconcerting. "What are you going on about," Harry demanded.
Malfoy leaned forwards unexpectedly, so that his face was suddenly inches from Harry's; his pupils were large and piercing, but his breath betrayed a recent consumption of Vizard Vodka (aka Wizard's Watah). "There are some practical concerns, but I'll have this figured out by the time school starts next fall."
Harry felt a little dizzy by Malfoy's heady proximity, but he reflexively proffered the same response he always gave to Malfoy's outlandish plans, "You're all talk and no action, Malfoy. You said the same shite last year, and the year before that. I'll believe it when I see it."
But this time, instead of his usual indignation and offense, Malfoy smirked proudly and vindictively. "Oh, you will, Potter," he commented off-handedly. "Admittedly, you didn't support my earlier plans, which, unfortunately, couldn't succeed without your participation. But I finally took the hint. You don't want anything to do with me, I get it. This time, I'm gonna kill them all in one foul swipe, and you won't need to do hardly anything. I didn't want it to come to this, but I've finally found a solution that didn't need the bloody Boy-Who-Lived to sacrifice anything. This time, if I'm lucky, I'll be known as the Boy-Who-Died. If not, whatever. People are prejudiced against me 'cause of my father, but God'll still know that it was me."
By the end of spiel, Malfoy's calm manner had melted into one of whispered distress, and the Slytherin was left glaring at Harry. Harry's mind grasped for a response, but he was too slow, and Malfoy actually growled like an animal. "Grgh! I just- . . . Damn you! You're supposed to be the hero! I'm supposed to be the one who just sits around and lets everyone rot! I don't want to die! Why are you forcing us to trade places!"
"I'm not! I've got everything under control! So don't you go messing everything up, you prat," Harry hissed angrily, completely unconvincingly.
Just then a third year Hufflepuff appeared in their isle, and Malfoy eyeballed her before turning his attention back to Harry. Malfoy gritted his teeth for a moment. "Liar," he mouthed, before-
Beepbeep. Beepbeep. Beepbeep. BEEEP!
Consciousness snapped into focus almost immediately, and Harry instantly sat up in bed. Merlin, the alarm was loud this morning.
"I hate you, Seamus," Ron sleepily mumbled. "I really truly detest you."
"It's not me," Seamus grunted, barely coherently.
Only then did Harry realize that it was his, rarely used alarm that was going off. He quickly leaned over and palmed it off. He paused a moment to see if any of his roommates were planning on getting up – none of them were.
Well, he must have set his alarm for a reason, so Harry sprung out of bed and walked briskly to the bathroom. Gone was depression and frustration of the day before, and its place was a sense of urgency, of edginess, as though the time was upon him. He didn't know what it was time for, but he trusted his instincts (or was it the connection?) well enough to take heed.
He showered quickly, his mind replaying the dream. . . though he recalled it to a suspicious degree of detail. It was also uncharacteristically ordinary compared to Harry's usually wacky (when not terrifying) dreams. Indeed, it felt almost like a memory, though it was certainly no memory Harry had ever remembered.
He went to breakfast early with Hermione, who was coincidently happened to be waiting for him at the stairs of the boys' dormitory. It was an experience suspiciously vacant of its usual lecturing content (at this early hour the Great Hall was also particularly vacant of students), and Harry played it cool, hoping that Hermione would reveal the clues necessary to determine what was going on. Sure enough, it wasn't very long before she leaned over and whispered agitatedly, "I read a bunch more material after you went to bed last night, and I practiced a bunch more, though without a living trial I still think it's pretty risky. But he's confident in my abilities, so if he's willing to be the guinea pig, I can probably execute it."
Harry felt his stomach plummet sickeningly, inexplicably. "Sounds good," he said, trying to be as vague as possible; nodding, he didn't even look up from his porridge. He felt strange, almost as if the knowledge of what was happening was just of the tip of his mind. As if the each consecutive reality was progressively closer to revealing the truth; as if each reality was closer to fusing his memories with the memories of that reality.
Harry swallowed, feeling a sudden urge to vomit. The sense of urgency that he had been feeling since he had woken up abruptly meant so much more – time was running out. If he didn't right the timeline soon, he would soon not even care that there was a difference between what he knew to be fact and what had become fact.
Hermione looked at her watch. "Well, it's seven-fifty. Should we go?"
Harry found it odd that they weren't waiting for Ron, but he continued to follow Hermione's lead. He had a gut intuition that suspected exactly where she wanted them to go – a meeting with Malfoy. A rendezvous with anyone else would have thrown him for a loop, but somehow he just knew. . . Everything about the last few days had been about Malfoy.
And sure enough, there he found himself, waiting with Hermione in the empty Herbology greenhouse, when Malfoy, sporting his typical robes and shoulder bag, strolled arrogantly towards them. There were dark crescents under his eyes, and his skin seemed more pasty than its usual ivory. He stopped a couple feet before them and they glared antagonistically at each other, making it difficult for Harry to take his queues from either Malfoy and Hermione.
Malfoy was the first to break the silence, looking quite sure of himself, despite sounding as if throat was as fatigued as his eyes and skin. "Well? Is this going to happen or not?"
Hermione glanced at Harry for an answer, and Harry found himself nodding instinctively without knowing what he was getting into. Hermione took it from there – she had always been good at poise and politics. "Yes. Let's get on with it."
Malfoy nodded, then turned his attention to his bag, carefully retrieving a package enveloped in silky material. Loaded seconds passed as he portentously unwrapped the prize. . . to reveal what looked like 20 cm3 box, which he placed on the empty table between himself and the Gryffindors. Despite the aura of danger that emanated from the cube, Harry bit his lip to prevent himself from demanding to know what this device was. He could tell that his two companions knew exactly what it was, and that they were operating under the temporally logical assumption that he did too. A moment's study of the gadget told him everything he needed to know.
The device was clearly muggle: one side was a maze of computer wiring, while a second side was made of transparent material that revealed two cylinders within – one sporting an unidentifiable powder and the other an equally unrecognizable liquid. The first decade of Harry's life, spent watching much muggle TV, ominously posited a possible answer to the question of what exactly the device was: it was a bomb.
A rush of adrenaline and relief and self-depreciation swamped Harry. Merlin, it was a solution he had been too thick to think of in his own timeline – to destroy Voldemort through the very muggle technology that he so abhorred and belittled. Admittedly, he was bewildered as to how Malfoy had managed to get hold of such a device, but its existence far outweighed any concerns he had as to its origins.
Harry stood there shocked, an unwitting (and somewhat horrified) observer, as Malfoy placed the contraption upon a table, before reaching back into his bag for a tiny remote control. Though he was transfixed and frozen, a sudden hypersensitivity brought on by terror allowed Harry to notice Hermione shiver in the periphery of his vision. "Merlin, Malfoy, I know you said that it's functional, but, shit, I'm suddenly not so sure about this. What if it isn't? What if we blow up the whole school?"
Hermione must have been as afraid as Harry to curse like that, but Malfoy didn't even look at her. Instead he raised bloodshot eyes to sneer challengingly at Harry. "What about you, Potter? You punking out too? Or is the thought of someone else doing the dirty deed just too much for you?"
Harry had to force himself not to choke in panic. What the hell was the right answer in such a precarious state of circumstance? Uncertainty wracked his body with the speed of adrenaline, before old habits leapt at the opportunity to respond to the one aspect of the entire situation that felt familiar – Malfoy's gibe. "Fuck you, Malfoy. I've never punked out of anything in my life, which I'm sure is more than can be said of you."
Harry heard Hermione's gasp of fear, but Malfoy's lips just stretched into a familiar vindictive smile, and that was all the forcefully jabbed his thumb down on the control in his palm.
Hermione involuntarily released a little shriek, while Harry couldn't help but jerk at Malfoy's movement. Was it the healthy fear of explosives that only pertained to those raised by muggles, or was Malfoy truly unafraid of the contraption before him?
Still, nothing much happened, except that there was the barely noticeable hum of electronic technology. Malfoy bent down to inspect the bomb, his face mere centimeters from wired surface. Then he stood and smugly leered at the two Gryffindors. "It's all set. Like I told you, I've got everything under control." His attention shifted slightly so that he could eyeball Hermione. "Now do you think You can carry through with the one percent of this plan that actually requires something from you?"
Harry turned to look at Hermione too, wondering again just what the Hell they had gotten themselves involved in this time. Hermione was breathing unevenly and her skin was slightly off-color. After a long pause in which her eyes never left the cube, she bit her lip and brandished her wand. She pointed it at the muggle technology, which Malfoy now held squarely in the middle of his torso.
Hermione's hand was steady despite everything, but still she lowered her wand ever so slightly. "Are you sure you want to do this," she asked, her voice wavering. "I mean, if I mess this up, I could kill you."
Malfoy's artificially calm façade cracked, and his expression suddenly revealed the slightest hint of fear and agitation, however poorly masked by a condescending sneer. "I'm going to die either way you fucking Mudblood! What are you scared of! The incrimination! If you accidentally kill me, hide my body in the lake then blow it up, okay? Merlin, are you thick?"
Harry was torn between the reflex to defend his friend against the Malfoy fiend and the distress he suddenly felt at Malfoy's proclaimed death sentence. Could he feel any more like a third wheel? Hermione, however, spun on, scowling at the Slytherin before pointing her wand determinedly at the technological apparatus. "You're such an asshole, Malfoy."
Oh God no! screamed something inside Harry, his feelings desperately warring with his petrified mind to bring a halt to whatever was going to happen. . .
"Abinsero Latus," Hermione annunciated clearly.
The device vanished, and Malfoy immediately fell to his knees with a sickening crack, clutching his chest and crying out hoarsely in pain, "Arhhhh!"
Harry reacted on his gut's impulse and unexpectedly found himself on the ground with his arms gripping Malfoy's arms, mashing him to his own body, his emotions in a state of empathy. "Draco!"
Moments later, Hermione's arms were gripping Harry in the same way he was clutching to Malfoy. There was several pregnant seconds when it felt as if pain and despair had claimed them all – Malfoy wasn't breathing and Harry was on the verge of hysteria and who the fuck knew how a frantic Hermione was actually feeling. . .
Then Malfoy gasped desperately, abruptly taking a prolonged drag of air, then coughing fitfully. He was shaking frighteningly, racked by tiny compulsive twitches.
No amount of panic that Harry felt was able to instruct him on how to react, and Harry instinctively held Malfoy close to him as the blond wheezed raggedly and tried to rock himself back and forth in desperate attempt at calming himself.
"Shhh, shhh, it's okay," Harry found himself whispering soothingly as, in the periphery of his vision, he vaguely registered Hermione observing his behavior.
Eventually, Malfoy's gasping subsided; then, when he finally seemed to realize just who was stroking his back, he roughly pushed Harry away, despite obvious weakness, and stumbled clumsily to his feet. Hermione and Harry watched him with concern as he breathed heavily for several seconds before braving eye-contact with . . . Harry.
"I'm okay. . . I made it." A wry, fatalistic smile weakly flitted across Malfoy's face.
Hermione's expression was an unreadable mix of conflicted distress and concern, but this had little to no affect on Harry when he saw Malfoy stumble backwards. – but Malfoy pushed him away when he again reached out to help.
"Your assistance is no longer needed," Malfoy hissed feebly, but with ample malevolence and bitterness. "Go back to your perfect lives and live for a fucking forever. I'll deal with the rest."
Arm outstretched, as if to ward off Harry's help, Malfoy backed off; and a gentle but firm hand on Harry's bicep indicated Hermione's intention to simply let Malfoy escape whatever happened. Harry reluctantly found himself letting Malfoy flee, and was disappointedly left with only Hermione for answers.
! END OF CHAPTER !
What do you think? I hope you liked. I know that a couple ideas form my last story have reappeared in this one, it's just that I couldn't get them to work last time, but all is going well this time around.
Please review. I know I took a long time to update, it's just that work is so busy, and the partying has been non-stop. But reviews do serve to guilt trip me into writing more, so please. . .
