a/n: thank you for reading! my apologies for taking a long time to update. i've not been well lately, but i think i'm getting better. reviews are wonderful and extremely appreciated!
If there's one thing that Draco knows for certain, it's that nothing is ever "easy." If you want to get things done, you have to work to get them done. It's simple. It's how he got ten O.W.L.s. Of course, this little rule applies in areas other than studies.
So he's going to learn what, exactly, will make Potter want to trust him. Potter has little reason to ever even give Draco a second glance, but Draco's confident he can at least get Potter to look his way. After all, he's always been good with getting people on his side, hasn't he? Potter's just always been a bit difficult. But he can't have high standards, can he? He hangs around with Granger and Weasley all the time.
Potter is two things: selfless to a severe fault and awful at hiding his emotions. Oh, and he's terrible at Potions. Or, at least, that's how it should be. However, it can be said that he's not actually bad enough to need to take Remedial Potions. After all, you can't get into a N.E.W.T. level Potions class if you're that bad at the subject.
But Draco digresses. No, Potter is selfless, as in he will put his life on the line for anybody. He might even do it for Draco.
There are a number of life-threatening things at Hogwarts. A number of things Draco avoids, to be more precise. He's never been one to try to get killed. Not like Potter is.
It's simple, though. The hero will always save the day, because that's what heroes do. Heroes will save everyone. Even those who deserve to die.
Potter approaches him later that day, catching him right outside of the Great Hall.
It's a surprise, but then Draco remembers what happened just two days ago. It was the note. That stupid note. Why had he given it to Potter, anyway? He had written it half-asleep, and he has wasted more parchment to word it right—which he still hadn't wound up doing anyway, apparently—than he would like to admit.
"Can I help you, Potter?" Draco asks, slightly irritated, but holding his breath. He also remembers that Potter had laughed at the note, that he had locked eyes with Draco and his eyes had sparkled with mirth and everything else had seemed to fade away. Maybe it worked like it was supposed to.
"Yeah." Potter pauses, shifts, then frowns. "I wanted to ask you why you did give me that, er, note." He coughs, and he's looking more than awkward. Draco thinks maybe their last exchange would be better off forgotten by them both. "I mean, why does it matter to you?"
"It doesn't," Draco says stiffly. "I didn't know what it said. It was an accident that you wound up with it at all."
This a blatant lie, but Potter seems to buy it.
"I see. But that's a bit . . . contradictory, don't you think? I mean, I reckon there has to be a reason it was written at all."
Draco sighs. "Potter, sometimes you do things that even I can't quite comprehend. I wouldn't go around trying to analyze every person's motives, if I were you. It's not your style, for one, and it's also extremely hypocritical, all things considered."
"Well, Malfoy, caring about anything has never really struck me as your style, so I'm beginning to think we're both breaking our own morals or something here."
"Morals?" Draco demands. "This has nothing to do with morals. Merlin, Potter, you're dense. I'm thinking—" He stops himself, and almost curses. If he's going to befriend Potter, he's going about it all wrong. Think before you speak, he chastises himself.
"What was that, Malfoy?" Green eyes narrow, and Draco marvels at how nice Potter's eyes are. He's never really noticed before, but they're really quite gorgeous.
Draco swallows, his thoughts sinking in. Potter does not have nice eyes. Especially not when they're narrowed like that . . . with such a fierce anger in them. It's not attractive. It's not.
"Nothing," he says, voice not at all how it normally sounds. He clears his throat, silently cursing himself. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have better things to be doing right now."
He turns on his heel, and he feels Potter's eyes burning into his back. They're really green, Draco thinks. They spark a feeling in his chest that he can't properly describe, but it almost feels like home.
His mother tended to rose bushes on the grounds. They were pretty, sparkling with dew in the sunshine, red as blood. Draco remembers being ten years old and complaining about these roses, because his mother gave them more attention than she gave him.
She had simply smiled and shook her head. Grabbing his hand, she led him back to her rose bushes and let him see them, pointing out all the little things about them. They all had their faults, and some of them were wilting. Some were just beginning to bloom.
"But they're still pretty, aren't they, Dragon?" she had said quietly. "They have these little faults all over, but they're still pretty. I hope that, one day, you can see people like roses."
"Why?" Draco had said, bewildered. "People are people, not flowers!"
"People are people," Narcissa had mumbled. "They are, aren't they? It's a silly thing for me to say, to compare people to flowers."
Draco had nodded earnestly then, but now, six years later, he wonders if maybe his mother had a point. Beautiful things have imperfections.
But the way she had looked when he had told her that people are people was so different from any look Draco had ever seen on his mother's face. It was a twisted look, as if she wanted to be angry but simply was sad instead.
Draco keeps this memory hidden inside him. He saw a side of Narcissa that not a lot of people did. She has always been the most important thing in Draco's life. Draco thinks she might be the only person he's ever properly loved. Of course, he does love his father, but . . . it's hard to love a person when you don't love their ideals.
Lucius's ideals are something Narcissa has never agreed on. Looking back on it, Draco realizes this in a way he's never really bothered to before. It was that twisted look of sadness and anger on her face and the way she repeated her son's casual words.
Draco, throughout the summer, had forgotten of the rose bushes. He remembered them late in August, close to when he was meant to return to Hogwarts. Despite having a house else to be able to do things like tend to the rose bushes, Narcissa liked to do it herself. Why, Draco doesn't know.
What he does know, is that without someone to take care of something, it will die.
And on that late August day, when Draco went to see the roses, they all laid sun-baked and dehydrated, completely withered.
They all laid dead.
Draco is beginning to think that doing something dangerous to have Potter rescue him may not be so bad. Even if it winds up that Potter doesn't rescue him at all.
It's exhausting. All of it. Too exhausting. He's really fucking tired and he would be much happier if none of this were even happening at all. Of course, it's all bloody Potter's fault. All of it traces back to Potter in the end.
Potter is the kind of person who acts without thinking. He's the kind of person that expects to be worshipped for being a hero, and he lives of the publicity of it. He does rash things, he gets credited for them, and he gets to be everybody's favourite person.
It's the way things are. What Draco knows is this: there are heroes, and here are villains. And in the end, the heroes always manage to beat the villains, anyway.
Something else Draco knows is that everybody's hero is a different person. He knows who is father's hero is, and he knows who Potter's hero is, but he'll be damned if he knows who his hero is. Maybe it's just too late for him to have any kind of hero. He thought it was his father, once, but now he doesn't think that's exactly right.
"What are you doing?" comes Pansy's voice, amused.
"An essay," Draco says shortly, not bothering to look at her.
"Doesn't look like it to me." She sits down beside him and frowns. "In fact, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you've been sitting here for fifteen minutes doing nothing."
"I'm not doing nothing."
"You know, Potter notices you already," she says thoughtfully. "He thinks you're an idiot—and, darling, we all do—but he's intrigued by your idiocy. He can tell you're up to something, and he's curious as to what. You just have to say something else to him."
Draco sighs, shaking his head. "I was thinking something more along the lines of accidentally throwing myself off the astronomy tower and seeing if he'll catch me at the bottom," he says bitterly.
"Doesn't seem like a good idea, dear." Pansy pats his arm. "How about you do something more . . . I don't know . . . damsel-in-distress-y?"
"I certainly hope I didn't just hear the words damsel-in-distress-y come out of your mouth."
"Sadly, I think you may have. But you're distracting yourself from my point, which is entirely wonderful and a sure-fire way to capture any man." She winks, and Draco suddenly has the feeling she's trying to say something else with this conversation.
"Drop your books or something," she says, serious. "Trip in a corridor. He's a Gryffindor. He'll either kick you while you're down or help you up. If you really want to make a point, 'accidentally' knock him down with you."
"Pansy, I know you may be under the belief that this is similar to getting a boyfriend, but it truly isn't."
"Does it matter?" She shrugs. "Your relationship status isn't important as long as you manage any type of relationship with him at all. I'm not telling you to fall in love with him. I'm telling you to do whatever is going to help you get your family back." She stands, and looks back at him, something sparkling in her eyes. "You don't need to suffer over Potter, Draco. He doesn't deserve it."
And she walks away without another word, Draco sitting in silence behind her. He understands, then, the light in her eyes: pity. Pity, for him, because he can't decide if he should choose Potter over his parents, when the answer should be more than obvious.
Draco's mother was a storyteller, and she told him beautiful stories of women that danced through flowers and slayed dragons, because she was powerful.
Potter reminds Draco a bit of the women in the stories his mother used to tell him. He's truly gorgeous, and he shines radiantly when people look at him. But he's also fierce, and he hardly looks afraid to kill.
It's like Potter means something to Draco. It's like Draco cares for Potter in a way that one shouldn't care for their school enemy. They've never been anything but vile to each other, but somewhere in his chest, Draco recognizes this feeling as the same one he feels when he remembers that his mother could die any day now.
Draco is a lot of things, and he thinks that maybe he's spent a lot of time denying the more important parts of himself. Because he wouldn't have pegged himself as a coward three years ago, but now he's not so sure he isn't. Slytherins are cunning and ambitious, and in no way can you chase your way to the top with bravery. No, cowards are what make up Slytherin House. People who can't find it in themselves to step away from their parents' shadows or away from the prejudices that have always gripped the wizarding world. These are the people that work the curtains because they prefer to have control over the entire production rather than sit in the spotlight and bask in glory. Because it's always easiest to win if you have the upper hand.
But Draco's not so sure who has the upper hand.
He thought it was the Dark Lord. He's powerful and his ideals were the ones that other powerful people fell behind. Now, though, it seems that maybe his ideal aren't the kind the world needs.
But it's not the way the world will wind up being that Draco's worried over. No, he's more concerned about Potter, and the power he possesses. Though sixteen years old he may be, Potter has never struggled at magic. Especially not defensive magic. One could say he had a strong affinity for it, as if he was born to fight.
Maybe he was.
Potter is a fighter, jumping into the frontlines because it's in his nature to sacrifice himself. Potter has never felt the power in running the things behind the stage, because he's always been glowing in the sunlight like some kind of hero.
But Potter's always been the hero. He doesn't think twice about it. He would save a person, and he would leave them to hear about how wonderful he is for saving them. Draco couldn't be more different than Potter in this sense. They're far too opposite. Draco would rather save himself any day.
From across the lake, Draco sees Potter with Weasley. Many students are outside on the Saturday afternoon, which is warm and fairly quiet. It's one of the last nice days they'll have before winter, surely, and they're all here to enjoy it while it lasts.
Weasley speaks to Potter in what is clearly a hushed conversation, and Draco can't help but wonder if it has to do with Potter's awful appearance.
He stands up, narrowing his eyes in their direction. If he could just get within hearing range. . . .
He's nearly there, close enough to hear their whispers but not so close that he can make them out. They haven't seen him, and he thinks if he could just make it a few more steps to the left—
Someone yelps, and Draco starts, not having been paying attention much to his destination as much as he was Potter and Weasley. Looking down, he notices that Granger has fallen in a heap of robes on the ground, her token books creating a small circle around her.
He straightens, snarls down at her. "Watch where you're going—"
But the word catches in his throat, and Granger raises an eyebrow at him while she brings herself to her feet again.
"What's wrong, Malfoy?" she says suspiciously. "Don't tell me you've forgotten what I am, have you?"
"Of course not." He scoffs, but it's weak. He wonders why, suddenly, the word is so difficult to say. It's like everything his father has taught him has gone away with his father to prison.
"Hermione?" Potter says, coming behind her, Weasley following and glaring at Draco. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she says dismissively. She stares up curiously at Draco for a moment before she asks, "Why won't you say it?"
"I don't know what you mean," Draco responds, tone partly stiff and growing slightly angry.
Granger rolls her eyes. "Yes you do. You were going to call me Mudblood, but you didn't. Why not?"
"Hermione, it's not worth—," Weasley starts, but Granger shakes her head and he grows silent again.
"Perhaps you should listen to Weasley," Draco growls, and turns to walk away, but somebody grabs his wrist.
It's a warm touch, spreading through his body like some kind of heavenly fire. Draco can't help but recall the blue flames from his dream, licking at his skin like the feathery wings of angels. Somewhere deep inside of him, Draco doesn't need to turn around to know it's Potter.
"What?" he snaps, turning to face the three Gryffindors.
The area of his wrist that Potter holds shines with a dull blue, and he's not certain if it's real or not until he looks to see the surprise etched onto Potter's face and the inquiring look on Granger's face. One look at Weasley says he might have an idea of what it means.
Draco thinks he might, too.
He yanks his arm away, feeling more than harassed.
They all stare at him, open-mouthed and extremely awkward-looking.
"What are you staring at?" he says angrily, holding his arm close to him and rubbing it slowly.
"It happened before," Potter says suddenly. "In front of the Great Hall." He raises an eyebrow at Draco. "You ran away after that."
"What?" Weasley says, blinking. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because he didn't think it mattered," Granger says matter-of-factly.
"Maybe it's because it doesn't," Draco snarls. "Now, if you're all finished gawking at me, I would prefer if I could go."
He tries, once more, to escape, but a whisper from Potter stops him in his tracks. "Let me see your hand."
"Why does it matter?"
Granger and Weasley look between them, strangely quiet. Never has Draco pictured a day in which he and Potter aren't screaming at each other through hallways and throwing hexes at each other, or putting down their family and friends. Now, it feels so charged, and Draco thinks he wouldn't mind running away here. But something in Potter's tone stops him, something about the gentle demand, more of a question than anything else.
"Does it need to matter?" Potter sighs. "Honestly, Malfoy, what's it going to change? You've already started being weird about everything from the moment you told me I looked awful."
Draco reaches out his arm, hesitant. He's intrigued, yes, but if it winds up being true . . . he's not sure what he would do. But . . . maybe it would help him.
After all, it's not like he loves Potter.
Potter puts his palm beside Draco's, and there in the same spot as the crescent moon on Draco's right hand, Potter has a matching sun on his palm.
Draco swallows, and shakes his head. "Potter, it doesn't mean—"
Potter traces a light finger over the crescent moon, and Draco remembers his mother's gentle hands moving to the same pattern. He grows silent, watching Potter's fingers. With a slow, shaky hand, Potter aligns their palms, and bright blue light flashes around them. It's awe-inspiring, and Draco wants to close his eyes, but he can't. It's the same view as in his dream, but this is so real, so there, and Draco could just reach out and touch it.
It's warm, and he isn't certain if it's Potter's hand in his or the flames drawing closer to them with every breath he takes. But the fire falls away with the next inhale, and Potter stares at him, wild-eyed. Granger and Weasley look at them in a mix of fear, awe, and anger.
Around them, students have gathered around to see what's happened. They can't see properly, and Draco quickly slips his hand out of Potter's before they can see.
"Malfoy—"
"It doesn't mean anything," Draco says as curtly as he can.
"Bloody hell, Malfoy," Weasley says, "of course it means something."
"Only if you plan to make it that way, Weasley. As far as I'm concerned, it means nothing at all." His tone is cool, collected. His mind is in complete shambles.
Weasley snorts. "Didn't your parents teach you anything about it?"
The crowd of people around them has dispersed, all of them shrugging their shoulders. Just another Malfoy-Potter fight. They're common, expected, and nobody thinks twice about them when they happen.
"Of course, Weasley, we happen to be extremely civilized and educated. I don't see why you might think you know more on the topic than I do?" It's a challenge. Draco tends to prefer to fight when he grows nervous, and he knows he should just be letting it all go swimmingly if he wants his mother back, but it's all just coming out and he can't stop it.
"I don't know what you think is civilized, Malfoy, but your family is not it," Weasley growls, and Granger puts a calming hand on his arm. He takes a breath in and says, "But it doesn't matter. Part of the Bonding is an emotional link. It's why soulmates are soulmates, isn't it? They always have to come back to each other in the end."
"But I don't love Potter," Draco spits. "If there's no emotion that will make me come back, then what is it?"
"Hey, I don't know how it works. All I know is that soulmates always wind up back together in the end. Part of the magic, I guess."
Potter splutters, and Draco turns to glare at him. Potter was the one that caused this!
"That's not what Hermione said!" he exclaims.
"Well, the research isn't always reliable with things like this." Granger shrugs. "It's an old magic, Harry. Nobody really knows how it works. Some of the older wizarding families, but . . . it's mostly lost knowledge."
"So there's no proof in Weasley's theory," Draco says.
"Well, no, but . . . it's not to say it won't happen."
"But there's no proof it will." Draco glares at the three Gryffindors in turn, and turns around. This time, no words or fingers stop him from leaving. But behind him he can still see the blue flames reaching around him, warm and welcoming. And in the back of his mind, he can't help but wonder if Potter remembers it quite as vividly as he does.