Chapter eight: Confessions are good for the soul
Harry was…shocked to say the least, by Malfoy's condition. What the blond Slytherin would tack onto his permission for Harry to read his poem, had not matched up to what he had thought it would be.
"Why- why do you want to know about that?" Harry asked, his voice sounding too shaky for the piece of mind of his pride. Malfoy looked at him, his grey eyes boring into Harry.
"I've been watching you." He began. "You never go near a cupboard if you can help it. In class, you always send your partner to get the supplies. And outside of class, you never go near a broom cupboard and you practically sprint way from one that dared be under a flight of stairs and you keep your broom with you in your room as if you're afraid to keep it in the store cupboard…or maybe you're afraid of the store cupboard. I simply must know what this is all about." He explained.
"Curiosity killed the cat," Harry mumbled.
"Curiosity may have killed the cat; more likely the cat was just unlucky, or else curious to see what death was like."
Harry blinked at him.
"It's from a poem by Alastair Reid. I found it in one of my mother's books." Malfoy said looking away.
"Why does your mother have a book of muggle poems?" Harry asked. Malfoy scowled.
"Stop changing the subject." Harry's mouth dropped open.
"You're the one started spouting out muggle poetry." Malfoy looked at him.
"Yeah, so, what's your point?" He asked blinking owlishly at him. Harry shook his head. "So, Potter, spill."
"Alright." He sighed. "I'm claustrophobic." He mumbled. "It means I'm afraid of small spaces. Most the time, when there's danger or whatever I'm ok, but other than that I get all queasy and shaky." Harry shuffled his feet and wondered how much to tell the blond. He decided to go all the way. "Up until I was eleven, I lived in the cupboard under the stairs in my aunt and uncle's house. I guess ever since then I can't stand small spaces. Bad memories and all that." Malfoy looked at him for a moment.
"Your relatives...put you in a cupboard for eleven years?" Malfoy questioned deadpanned. Harry nodded staring at his feet. "And yet you want to save arseholes like that?"
Harry's head snapped up at the unexpected comment.
"Just because they're not the nicest people doesn't mean they deserve to die." Harry said. Malfoy scoffed.
"If the arseholes of the world don't deserve to die, who then?" He asked. Harry looked at him.
"Malfoy….I may be the Saviour of the Wizarding World but it's not for me to say who lives or die, other than the people at the other end of my wand." Harry said. Malfoy shook his head.
"We are all going to die, Potter. Some sooner than others but in the end we will all take the same journey." He said looking away. "Despite status, race, or ability, death is the ultimate equalizer and only in death will all the prejudice of the world stop."
Harry was a bit shocked by Malfoy's words. He hadn't known that the blond Slytherin was so…deep.
"That's true, Malfoy." He said but the other boy didn't seem to be listening. The pair lapsed into silence for a few minutes until Malfoy broke it.
"So the Golden Boy isn't perfect." He said, Harry couldn't identify his tone.
"You're not going to tell anyone, are you?" Harry asked anxiously. The other boy looked at him with an odd expression it was almost…pensive and thoughtful.
"No, I'm not. I think I'll keep this revelation to myself for a while." Malfoy responded. Harry nodded gratefully. Malfoy yawned. "I think I need to rest some more." He said and Harry got the hint.
"Oh, ok," The black-haired boy said as he got up and slung his bag over his shoulder. He grabbed Malfoy's lunch tray from across his lap and head toward the door. Harry stopped once he got to the door and turned back to the blond who was already lying on his back.
"Draco?" He called. Malfoy's head snapped toward him but he didn't comment. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Malfoy's face took on an unreadable expression and the boy gave a tight nod in acknowledgement to Harry's words. Harry gave a short nod of his own and left the room.
XxXxX
Draco was exhausted. Too many confessions and revelations in one day. They say 'confessions are good for the soul', Draco didn't know about that but he did know that they were hell on the nerves. How was it that Potter was always able to slip through his defenses so easily? How could it be that his rival, his enemy, could stir such emotions in him that he hadn't felt since the end of the last school year?
True, Potter had always gotten a rise out of Draco. No matter how calm, collected or simply melancholy Draco was, going into a confrontation with Potter, he always walked away feeling hot and bothered and thoroughly ruffled.
But now the emotions were completely different. Why did it always have to be one extreme or the other with Potter? Why couldn't the pair simply meet on middle ground? But no matter how much Draco wondered that, he could never quiet pin an answer, in words at least. In his heart of hearts and in the depths of his mind he knew why but he couldn't but the vague thoughts and feelings into actual words.
Then Potter had to go and confess to being locked in a cupboard for eleven years.
Draco, like many of the students at Hogwarts, naturally assumed that Potter was treated like a god by his muggle relatives. How could anything else be true? Potter was the boy-who-live; he defeated Voldemort when he was a baby! How could know-nothing muggles not live in fear of him? Yet in less than an hour, Potter had completely dispensed all thoughts that Draco had about his fabulous childhood.
And it had left the blond utterly rattled.
How was he to deal with this information? If it had been two years ago, he could've sold the scoop to that horrible Skeeter woman, but now? Draco didn't know. The knowledge was weighing heavily on his heart and tugging at the rusty strings of sympathy and empathy. This was the last thing Draco needed.
Potter and his friends pulling silly little pranks was one things, but when Potter went and opened himself to Draco and got Draco to do the same…it was all too much.
And what was with calling him by his first name? And why did Draco want to call him 'Harry'? Things were getting complicated fast.
XxXxX
Oh God, oh God, I just called him 'Draco'! Harry thought frantically as he sped through the Hospital Wing toward the door. Of all the times I had to say it now, after that huge confession. What the hell is wrong with me?! He wondered as he set Dra- Malfoy's tray down on a cart by the door.
As he did so, something caught his eye. It was Malfoy's poem. He must've set it down on the tray at some point.
Harry found himself reaching forward for the parchment. His noble Gryffindor side told him to leave it be, that it was wrong. However, his teenage boy side said that a deal was a deal. Malfoy had said he'd let Harry read it, if Harry told him about his claustrophobia. Fair was fair.
Harry decided it was hard to argue with that logic and decided to take the note with him to the lake so he could read it under 'his' tree on the bank of the water.
XxXxX
The sun glistened off the cerulean surface, lighting it up with golden sparks. Harry watched as the water lazily lapped at the sandy bank, each time taking more and more of it back with it to be lost in the depths. The Great Squid popped his head up every now and then to soak in some of the glorious rays.
Harry settled himself of the soft green grass under his favourite birch tree. The tree he had seen his father, and the other marauders, hanging out under in one of Snape's memories last year.
He leaned against the smooth bark of the tree and basked in the warm sun for a few moments. For the last twenty-four hours he had been wrought with worry and concern over Malfoy and then he had been riddled with guilt over the whole mess. Now he needed to get his emotions back under control.
No more slips and using Malfoy's given name. It was bad enough he kept saying it over and over again in his dreams as the blond did sinfully good and erotic things to him. It was bad enough to deal with his own shame and disgust over the dreams and the random thoughts on how good Malfoy was looking that particular day, but he didn't need the Slytherin finding out and tormenting him. He could torment himself just fine thanks. He didn't need outside help.
Harry sighed heavily. He was hopelessly pathetic and yet he couldn't help but want to sigh wistfully as well. though Draco Malfoy hadn't been on the top of his 'to do' list, no matter how literally, the other boy was all Harry seemed to think about and a thought about Draco (saying Malfoy while talking about lovey-dovey feelings towards him just seems odd) always incited a warm fuzzy feeling that spread from his chest to the very tips of his fingers and hair, where it gathered and buzzed pleasantly.
Harry groaned.
He decided to take his mind off of himself and turn it onto the piece of parchment in his hand. He slowly unfolded it and began to read;
What do you see,
When you look at me?
Do you see me,
Or who I'm supposed to be?
Can you see through the mask,
Or it that too difficult of a task?
Let me assure you,
What you see is not what you get
When you look at me I bet you'd never guess
That on the inside I'm full of hopelessness
There are things about me you could never know.
You'll always see me as a foe.
I never wanted to be this way.
I never got a say.
I was born into a world that you'd never get.
One you never even thought of, I bet.
Nobody knows me.
Nobody cares what I could be.
Nobody knows that on the inside I cry.
Nobody knows that on the inside I die.
I'm glad you never thought to care,
Because if you ever looked in my eyes, you'd see that's there's nothing there
I'm not who I appear to be,
But I don't know how to be me
There's really no point to try,
Because in the end I am going to die
And nobody will care,
Because my death will make life fair.
Harry finished and to his chagrin, his cheeks were wet from fresh tears. There was so much pain behind the words that Draco had penned. So much feeling and hurt. And yet, Harry had never guessed. He had known something was wrong with the blond but what could've happened to make the boy hurt so much.
How could he get this lonely and no one know?
And how can he be so certain of his own death. True, everyone is going to die one day or another, but the way Draco put it, was like he expected it to be soon and wholly untimely.
This baffled Harry.
The black-haired teen put his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. His mind was full of dizzying thoughts that chased each other around and round and stirred up several emotions within him, confusion being the main one but there was also, sadness, fear…and understanding.
He may not know what Draco's situation was but he understood at least one thing from the boy's poem. What you see is not what you get, for either of them apparently.
XxXxX
Draco watched from a window of the hospital wing as Potter made his way to the edge of the lake. He watched the boy sit down and, though he was floors above him, he was sure he saw him read Draco's parchment which he had left on the tray. Fair was fair, a Malfoy always stuck with his bargains, but that didn't mean they couldn't weasel out of uncomfortable situations.
Draco sighed and went back to his bed. After Potter had left, he had protested, loudly, that he was more than healed and could leave. He didn't want word of what he had done to get around school anymore than it already had. He was sure that both Blaise and Severus would do their utmost to keep it quite but things had a way of getting out around Hogwarts.
The blond snuggled under the starch woolen hospital blanket and let his head rest on the stiff and sterile hospital pillow. He stared up at the blank white ceiling for so long that he was sure that the small bumps on the left formed the word 'Harry' and the bumps on the right spelt out 'cheese'.
Draco sighed again. He was so bored. He rolled over and fell asleep.
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(AN: ok the poem is not my best work but I really tried. Also I have scholarships, assignments and college crap to contend with so my updates will be really slow. So sorry!)