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Ch 10 Dangerous Silence

Draco sat, his cup now empty. It was definitely no fun to drink alone and upset. True, he hadn't had nearly as much as the previous time, but the lazy way his body and mind wouldn't respond to his will was pronounced and annoying. And there was nothing to do in this place. More out of boredom than anything, he crawled the short distance to the dilapidated bookshelf to examine the titles there. Without really thinking about it, he took them all off the shelf and tried to stack them in a single pile. When the stack fell the second time, he gave it up and started putting them back on the shelf.

Giving his body something to do was clearing his head a bit. The shock Harry had given him with his simple question had worn off, but his own reaction to it was still fresh in his mind. He'd flung stupid accusations at Harry, spoken cruelly. To his surprise, it bothered him a lot that he'd made Harry mad. Draco told himself that until there was a way out of this Room, he would do better to keep the peace. Surely that's why he felt so guilty.

There was another reason, and his hands sorted through the books as his mind sorted through his own motives. They had done a secret-keeping spell, hadn't they? Wasn't his intention at that point to share at least some of his thoughts? He'd been almost eager to, then. Was it just that a moment had passed? Was it too late?

Would Harry even talk to him again?

The thought made the breath catch in his throat. Don't be stupid, he berated himself. Harry's not like that. Besides, he doesn't want to be alone in this place either. Draco felt certain that if they stopped talking all together, it would be just like being alone. Alone hurt. Alone felt like going mad, and madness wasn't allowed either.

Draco could sense himself sliding back out of control and tried to hold on, but his thoughts were causing the panic to rise again. He remembered the staring eyes, looking accusingly out of the terrifyingly still portrait. In his mind, it became his own face, empty and hollow, an example for others.

He was hyperventilating. His throat felt closed, a band of hot metal wrapped around it. Body thrumming, filled with tension, he fought against himself. Something was screaming to be let out. Draco was afraid of it; without letting himself understand what he was fighting with, he ruthlessly tamped it down. It was harder this time. No matter how much practice he got keeping these things down, under control, it was harder every time.

Abandoning his pile of books, he paced. Kicking the cushions out of his way felt pretty good but it wasn't enough. Stomping made his ankles and the soles of his bare feet sting, but it didn't help. His frustration built up, and up, and up. His mind was yelling words, words that wanted to be spoken aloud, but his mouth was closed, his teeth clenched. He dropped to his knees on the floor, now almost clear of cushions. He pounded both fists on the solid stone, pounded and pounded until the pain finally made its presence known.

The Room was completely silent. Draco could not make a sound.

He stayed as he was for a few minutes, for an hour, he couldn't tell. He was still on his knees on the bare floor, hunched over to rest his forehead on the ground between his still clenched fists.

The moment had passed again. He could sit up and look around. He could breathe again. His throat ached, dry as bone. Nothing could really register in his mind except for his surroundings, but he saw the pitcher of water, provided in the nick of time once again by this terrible Room. Getting unsteadily to his feet, Draco walked to the table to pour himself a drink. It took him two full cups of water to feel halfway normal again.

He shook his head at himself. I've got to stop doing that, he told himself. Histrionics and mania didn't suit a Malfoy, and what would happen if someone saw? Fully in control of himself again, he set his cup back on the table. His eyes lit on a strange glistening drop on the polished surface. Looks like blood.

Draco stared at it, a bit confused. Where would blood have come from in this place? The first drop was joined by a second. That's when he realized he'd injured himself pounding on the stones. He inspected the palms of his hands. There were small abrasions on the sides of both palms, bleeding very slightly. The drops, however, had come from his right hand's palms, where one of his fingernails had broken the skin. The rest had left angry red welts, but only the one was bleeding. Quickly looking at his left hand, he saw the same thing. Scarlet crescents like horrible little smiles. None leaking blood just yet, but…

That must have been a bad one. All he wanted to do was wash his hands.

Harry was sitting in the empty tub. He'd let all the water out five minutes ago, but didn't really want to move. He'd even got his towel wrapped around his shoulders, but sat down again, hugging his knees to his chest. He didn't think he could go back out there, just yet. Draco was probably fuming, probably glad for the solitude. Harry rested his chin on his knee, staring at the rubber stopper on it's metal chain.

Draco silently pushed open the door to the bathroom. He considered announcing himself, but for some reason he didn't. He looked at the curtain covering the bathing alcove. The sourceless light cast the shadow of the taps on the curtain, but nothing else. It looked like no one was back there. Draco told himself that if Harry was in the water, he wouldn't be visible, but his ears told him that there was no water in the tub either. No sound of ripples, no drip-drip from the spigot to the tub; pure silence.

Not really intending to spy, still Draco was drawn to the edge of the curtain, moving as quietly as he could. There was a slight gap between the wall and the drapery's edge. He carefully looked around it. He saw Harry, sitting in a drying tub, towel draped over his shoulder, head turned the other direction. Draco stared for a few moments, captured by the image. He couldn't identify what was going on, but it looked so sad and so peaceful at the same time. Wary of being caught, he tore his gaze away and walked silently back to the door. He was about to walk out when he realized he was still bleeding.

Draco made rather a production of opening the door noisily, then walking to the sink to wash his hands, splashing noisily. He hissed as the hot water hit his cuts, but the pain wasn't bad. The red ribbons running down the drain made him uneasy. He felt they were being pulled out of him, strings loose to unravel. The reason for the wound was unclear; his introspection was fading again.

Harry heard Draco open the door and walk to the sink. Harry stood up, wrapping the towel around his waist. He clambered out of the tub, but he didn't get dressed right away. Unknowingly, he echoed Draco's movement to the curtain and peeked through. There he was, staring down at his hands under the flow. He stood, back straight, with his head down. His hair was clean but unkempt, hanging loosely over his forehead. His manner didn't seem hostile or angry anymore, but how could Harry tell?

Dressing quickly, Harry thought about what the hell he was going to say. Draco had been so angry, and rightly so. But if it was so terrible, maybe it needed to be shared. Harry's desire to help people had been aroused, but this was still so new to him. How could he help if it wasn't wanted?

Harry sighed and ran his fingers through his damp, messy hair. He straightened his glasses and stepped out from behind the drape.

Draco jumped at the sound, startled. He tried to hide what he was doing, with no real success. Blood still welled up from the cut in his palm. It had slowed, but without a dressing of some kind, the clotting wouldn't happen fast enough.

As soon as Harry saw the scarlet-stained water, he realized something was wrong. He was still cautious, though, and merely stepped up to the sink. He looked at Draco's hand dispassionately. "You'll need a bandage for that," he observed.

"Yeah, I know."

"I'll check the table, this Room likes to put things there, it seems. Okay?" Concern crept into Harry's voice.

"I'll just wait here." Was there a touch of irony in Draco's tone?

Harry walked through the door into the main room. He stopped dead. Something strange had happened here; The pillows that had been strewn all over the floor were now in piles against the walls, probably kicked there. The books were strewn about in front of the bookshelf, and there were spots of blood on the floor.

I didn't hear a thing, Harry marveled. The wall must be incredibly soundproof, to not let fury like that penetrate it. But no, he'd heard Malfoy being sick that first morning. The curtain, maybe? An Imperturbable Charm, perhaps? But sound passed through it just fine.

After a few moments, Harry remembered what he'd come to find and started searching for a bandage, or a strip of cloth, anything to staunch the bleeding. The table still only held the bottle of firewhiskey and a chunk of dark bread wrapped in a frayed cloth napkin next to a stoneware crock of butter. No ointment, no spellbook, no roll of gauze or Muggle disinfectant. Frustrated, Harry took the napkin off the loaf and tried to wipe the blood off the stone floor and the tabletop.

He felt helpless. The havoc in the room had thrown him, because he hadn't even known it was happening. He felt that he was getting to know the real Draco Malfoy, but the more he knew, the less he felt he understood. Who knew the Slytherin boy was so complicated? Almost angrily he dipped the cloth into the mostly empty cup of firewhiskey to get at the last red spot on the stone. It took him a second to realize what he was doing.

Use this cloth, genius, he berated himself. He hurried into the bathroom, aware that he'd been gone for several minutes, maybe longer.

Draco stood exactly where he had been, still staring at his own hand like he'd never seen it before. Harry walked over to him a bit nervously, but he tried not to show it.

"I found this," he said, showing it to the blond boy.

"Thanks," said Draco, his voice devoid of emotion. He wet the cloth and wrapped it around the palm of his hand.

"So what happened?" Blurted Harry. He couldn't stand it any longer, and he wasn't going to let the subject go.

Draco looked at him impassively, his grey eyes showing nothing. "I think I clenched my fists too hard. It doesn't really hurt." It was impossible to tell if this was true or not. There was something behind his gaze, but Harry couldn't tell what it was.

"Look, Draco. Something is wrong, and I would like to help, if I could." The desire to put a hand on Draco's shoulder was strong, but Harry resisted. It probably wouldn't be appreciated.

"I believe that you want to help, but I can't talk about it." Draco raised a hand to stop Harry from interrupting him. "I'm not dodging the question, I'm telling you that I can't talk about it. I don't know how." he finished with a little shrug.

"I don't understand," said Harry, baffled.

Draco made an impatient noise. "Are you telling me that you were instantly able to tell your friends about your home life? About the way they treated you?"

Harry realized that Draco had a point. Still, he tried to argue. "But it's easy to talk-"

"Easy to talk to them now?" Draco finished for him. You've had years with people who wanted to hear you, wanted to help you." He smiled bitterly. "I've never had anything but enemies," and he nodded ironically to indicate Harry was in that category, "and spies around me."

Harry took a moment to process this. "You mean you've never had anyone to talk to?"

"You catch on quick!"

"Wow." He felt lame saying that, but he was floored. Sure, from age one to eleven, he'd had no friends, no one to share his experiences with. Once he found the right friends, it had been an adjustment, but they had saved his life numerous times. They'd certainly saved his sanity. To be isolated even at school must be hell.

"Well, what do you mean, spies?" He was trying to keep Draco talking, even if he was a little afraid to hear the answers now.

Draco laughed mirthlessly. "Goyle, Crabbe, Parkinson. All of them report on me; Crabbe and Goyle because they were told to, and Parkinson because she enjoys it." His voice had tightened, but he fought through it. He kept his gaze almost defiantly on Harry.

"What are they watching for?" asked Harry.

Draco was sweating now, the color rising in his usually pale face. He opened his mouth and tried to speak. His voice wasn't cooperating. He tried again, and his breath became ragged. Face twisted as if in pain, he mouthed silent words as his whole body started to tremble.

Harry was seriously alarmed now. This wasn't just reluctance, this looked like interference. A spell, perhaps? "Look, we don't have to talk about it anymore, you don't want to get hurt again!"

It was too late, though. The seizure or whatever it was had a full hold on Draco again. His eyes were open and unseeing, his teeth clenched and unclenched themselves, as if he was trying to speak. Without warning, his hands doubled into fists and started striking his own body, hard.

Harry cried out, tried to grab Draco's arms, but missed. They were swinging wildly, white knuckles flashing through the air then thudding into Draco's own body. Terrified of this drastic, dangerous change, Harry could only think of stopping those flailing fists. He all but tackled the blond boy, trying to catch him in a bear hug. One of Draco's fists caught Harry in the shoulder. It felt more like a hammer hitting than a human, and white pain bloomed in the muscle.

Still the blows rained down. Harry was able to get behind his stricken companion, where it would be safer to try restraining him. He didn't want to hurt him, but Draco was far more dangerous to himself at the moment. He finally caught both arms and fought to keep them still. Deprived of that motion, Draco's body arched backwards, and Harry was forced to fall backwards as carefully as he could, taking them both to the ground. Once there, though, it was easier to keep Draco's arms under control, to keep him from hitting his own body. Harry locked his arms together as best he could, trapping Draco's arms behind his back.

The breath whistled through Draco's constricted throat, but that was the only sound coming from him. All of his muscles drawn taut, his arms still struggling madly, Draco was utterly silent.

Harry held on; there was nothing else he could do. Draco's loose brown shirt was pulled half way up his body. Harry could already see bruises forming on the ribs from the punishing blows. His own shoulder burned from the glancing strike he'd received. He lay there, supporting Draco's body over his own. His arms were getting tired. He was completely adrift and useless, unable to help his friend.

X x X

There's definitely something very powerful at work here, but what could it be? Well, you were warned of a longer break between chapters. I think this one is the longest so far, though, so it's not too bad. I appreciate the reviews I've gotten. It's gratifying to know that the style I use is effective, at least to keeping attention. Insert the standard plea for reviews here, I hate to be cliche about it. Thanks for reading!