JKR is the man (so to speak.) She owns, not me.

Ch 9 Closed Doors

It took a moment to separate the redback cards from the bluebacks. A different kind of silence lay between Harry and Draco; not awkward, not expectant, just quiet until they both had a deck in their hands. It made Harry curious about how many kinds of silence there were in the world. Probably half of them were invented in this very Room.

They shuffled for a minute or two, the tension growing. The previous games had been relaxed with nothing riding on them, but this one was different. Draco watched Harry's hands manipulating the deck, splitting it, riffling the two halves together, then making the bridge to slide them into place again. He did it with such practiced ease, it was clear his claim of years of experience were quite true. Draco's method didn't have quite the same flair, but it got the job done. He determined to learn how to shuffle that way. Of course, there were wizarding card games, but the shape of the decks could be anything.

"Are you ready?" asked Harry. Draco looked up into those vivid green eyes, framed neatly by the round-rimmed spectacles. Harry's face looked so intense, so focused. Just the way he looked during a Quidditch match.

Draco nodded and started dealing his side of the game. He was trying to find that self-confidence, even his arrogance, that had always been with him. Until he came to this room, he'd been quite sure that he was the best at everything, the best of everything. Sure, his attitude irritated people like Harry, but it was something that kept him moving forward. Draco had become dependent on it; and here it was gone.

But he was sure he could still play cards.

He finished dealing then rested his hand on his face down cards. "You set?" He was gratified to hear that he could still sound confident.

Harry nodded with a smile. "Go!"

This time there was no time for conversation. The sound of flipping cards, the swift movement of the hand from one pile to another, the gratification of turning up an ace.

"Ah!" cried Harry. "I was going to put my four there!"

"Too slow again, Harry!" Malfoy gloated. He threw down four more cards in quick succession.

"I think not," Harry said, tossing a quick glance at Draco's cards. Years of experience with the game told him that unless there was another red five in Draco's hand, he was doomed. Harry swept his eyes back to his own cards, determined not to make a similar mistake.

A couple of minutes later and it was over. Neither of them were able to play all of their cards into the top row, but that didn't matter. Harry's tableau was down to three stacks, his last few cards still in his hand. The three-turn rule made the game more challenging, but it also lead to more unfinished games.

Through some clever manouvering of his cards Draco had made real progress, but he had far more cards left over by the time he was stymied. Frustrated, he flipped through his deck a couple more times. Then, with a gusty sigh, he set them down in front of him. "Do we count the cards?" He asked.

"Well, we have to seperate them at least," replied Harry, gathering the center stacks together. As he sorted them out, he counted them in his head; thirty-five of his blue deck, twenty-one of the reds. The piles sat there, making the winner of the game clear.

"Good game," said Harry cheerfully.

"Yeah," Draco agreed. He was suddenly nervous. There was still the bet to settle, and with Harry, he had no idea what to expect.. The rules of the Room precluded injury, and Harry wasn't the type for that, but there were things scarier than pain. "So what about the bet?" Better to get it over with, he reasoned.

"Oh yeah," Harry said, as if he'd forgotten. "I suppose as winner, I get to ask three questions, and you must tell the truth." He was grinning.

Draco was afraid it would be something like that. He looked down and picked up his red cards, trying to shuffle them; anything to look away from those green eyes. "Fine. Ask away."

"All right, question number one. Uhm, are you dating Pansy Parkinson?"

Draco snorted, glad for an easy one. "Definitely not. She might think so, but I just let her hang around a lot. Annoying, really."

"Okay then, number two." said Harry, who had just thought of a brilliant question. "What do you hear or see when you are around a Dementor?"

The question slapped Draco in the face. He stiffened, lightningstruck; all the blood drained from his face. From far away, like in a dream, he heard his father's voice. "This is what happened to the last one of those we had in this family, Draco. I know you would never disappoint me like that..." The air left Draco's lungs, like he hadn't breathed in days.

"What is it?" Harry was alarmed. Belatedly, he realized his question had actually been, what is your worst, most miserable memory? He'd been faced with his own terrible past so many times, it didn't have that shock of impact anymore.

"I-I can't," Draco stammered. He was angry now; the adrenaline dumped into his system by the surprise was coursing through him. "You have no right to ask that of me, Harry! I'll play your silly games while we're trapped in here, but I don't have to... to..." he could no longer speak.

"I didn't mean-" Started Harry, holding out a placatory hand.

"Oh, of course not," Draco said scathingly. "Just an innocent question!"

"Now wait a minute," Harry said, starting to get angry himself. "What are you trying to say?"

"Playing the innocent now, are you?" accused Draco. "Trying to figure out how to get to me, ways to manipulate me. What would you use that for, I wonder? Sell it to the Daily Prophet? Or that rag the Quibbler, more like!"

Harry leapt to his feet, enraged. He was surprisingly stiff and achy, but he didn't show it. "First of all, that's the kind of thing you've done before, not me! Second, weren't you paying attention? We both, both are spellbound to keep secrets from this Room, remember?" He stalked over to the table, just so he wouldn't have to look at Malfoy's steel-grey eyes looking at him like that. Like he was some kind of monster who would betray someone... His furious gaze lit on the bottle of firewhiskey which had reappeared full earlier in the day. He splashed some in a carved wooden cup and tossed it back. He rested his hands on the edge of the table, keeping his back to the blond boy.

Draco sat rigid, leaning his head backwards against the wall, staring determinedly up at the ceiling. He was still angry, but Harry's words had an effect. In the years they'd been rivals, enemies, it had been him, Draco, who had pulled every underhanded, hurtful trick he could think of. He refused to think about that too much just now, though.

Harry's question had thrown Draco almost bodily back to the day Lucius Malfoy had shown him the portrait, and told him the story of his great-uncle. The whole event had been a pointed lesson, deliberately aimed at then fourteen-year-old Draco. His mind shied away from it. To have Harry, of all people, bring it up just triggered too many conflicting emotions to handle all at once.

Meanwhile, Harry was feeling a bit ashamed of himself. It had felt so comfortable for a while, especially during the card games, that he'd sort of forgotten that he was dealing with Draco Malfoy. Why should a Malfoy share things like that with him? The thought made him angry again, although it was a bit different this time. He'd already confirmed a couple of his unarticulated suspicions about Draco, just in the time they'd been here. It was the Malfoy's fault; the whole ancient line of them. He briefly imagined a pureblood line of Dursleys, passing their idiocy and cruelty down through the generations. There was more to the story, though; that was clear.

The silence grew deafening. Neither boy knew the other well enough to be able to even guess what they were thinking about. Harry couldn't stand it. He filled his cup with firewhiskey.

Without turning around, he announced to the room at large, "I'm going to take a bath." With so few options, it was the only thing he could think of to give them both the privacy they needed to cool off. He walked with deliberate calmness into the bathroom, carefully not to even appear to slam the door.

As soon as he was sure he was alone, Draco slid sideways down the wall and buried his face in a pillow. What the hell do I do now? He berated himself. Harry was probably telling the truth; he wouldn't have done anything with the information. He also probably didn't mean anything by the question. Draco had been so thrown by it, he'd just lashed out.

He refused to break down, to sob into the pillow like a child, but he couldn't stop the tears themselves. They were absorbed immediately by the soft fabric, so he could pretend he wasn't crying. He hated being weak, having these reactions that he couldn't control. They were for lesser beings, or so he'd been told so many times. The only emotions his father ever displayed were anger and contempt. Icy, aloof. Imitating these traits had become more than just emulation, they were necessary to survival. Even his mother Narcissa, who did actually have feelings for her son, expected ultimate self-control, always.

The door in Draco's mind was struggling to open, and was trying just as hard to stay firmly closed. It was too much.

After a few minutes, he regained control of his breathing. Moments later, he was able to sit up. He longed to drink some of the firewhiskey, for the freedom from thinking it granted, but the memory of his sickness last time gave him pause. If only there was something to eat...

Graciously, the Room provided a loaf of hearty dark brown bread and a small crock of butter. Simple fare, but enough to quiet his churning stomach. It filled him surprisingly quickly; a couple of the thick slices and the constriction in his guts and his head loosened. Or maybe it was the mundane task of buttering bread, chewing and swallowing that calmed him. It was done without thought, and without other more upsetting thoughts intruding. He felt hollowed out.

Draco filled his cup only half full of the firewhiskey, still mindful of the dangerous nature of the stuff. While he sipped it, he leaned on the wall, looking at nothing, and glad of it.

Once the bathroom was truly closed, Harry leaned against it, feeling shaky. Surely it was too soon for the firewhiskey to have an effect; it must be something else. Harry was in turmoil. He was convinced that he'd truly screwed something up; done irreparable damage to the unlikely friendship that had developed. Really, how could he have known what effect his question would have? It seemed out of proportion. He vaguely remembered the conversation they'd had on the Hogwarts Express in his third year; long, long ago to him. One of the Weasley twins had said that Draco had run into their compartment, white as a sheet, after the Dementor's started their search of the train. They'd been, what, thirteen years old then? Was that the same memory, or had something more terrible happened to Draco since then?

He decided he didn't want to think about it anymore, so he went to the bathing alcove and started the bathwater. He let it fill, blankly watching the water pour from the spigot and the steam rise. Once it was full enough to float in, he pulled the curtain across and undressed. He floated in the water, trying to maintain his blank mind. It wouldn't let him, of course.

What am I doing here? He asked himself. Sure, even trapped in a room at Hogwarts was better than going home to the Dursleys, but what was he actually doing in this place? Trying specifically to turn his enemy into a friend? As if he could. Draco had been a sort of obsession to Harry, almost from their first meeting. Over the past couple of years, however, Draco's behavior had made Harry angry for a new reason. Of course he got mad when the Slytherin boy taunted him and humiliated him and his friends, but lately it was really getting to Harry. Now that he had a little more experience around the boy himself, Harry understood himself a little better.

Harry wanted very much to be able to like Draco Malfoy. There were times in his fourth year, and this past year as well, when he imagined them being friends. He'd always sort of laughed at himself about it; it seemed so impossible. There was no way Ron would ever forgive Draco for all the snide comments, the jinxes, the insults to Hermione. And most of the time, Harry thought he felt the same way. But the thoughts came to him anyway, unbidden. He and Draco talking, joking, laughing. In his fantasies, though, the boy who looked like Draco didn't act like the Draco he knew in school.

In my head, he acts like he acts here in the Room, Harry realized. Even the explosion just now was understandable. Harry had unknowingly pushed too hard, trying to make the real person in front of him more like the idealized version in his mind.

But now I've screwed it all up. He was sure of it. Draco had become Malfoy again, because of a thoughtless question. Harry remembered the cold anger he'd seen on the pale face. He flushed with shame. Damn it.

X x X

I'm afraid I won't be updating as frequently as I started out, because I just started school online, but I promise I won't stop writing this until I've brought it to some kind of finish. It's gratifying to see how many people have read the whole story, especially since this isn't H/D pr0n. So a big thanks to my regular readers, and reviewers not only win at life, but they win at the internets. Or should that be the other way 'round?