Secrets and Surprises. Chapter Twelve: War
Disclaimer: I own NOTHING! JK Rowling is a Goddess and I am nothing but a lowlife.
Warnings: Teenage angst to the max. Slash, eventually (Gee whiz!). I am a whore for hurt and comfort. Potentially triggering content. Not perfect match with the books.
Also: I think I stayed a little from the characters in this chapter, but I like it nonetheless.
Harry was there. Oh God, he didn't know why, or hell, even how, because the day had passed in such a blur—full of grumbled assurances of "Yes, I'm fine," or "Just tired," and even once, "Would you leave me alone?" to a stunned and hurt Hermione, but two minutes to 10:00 and he was there, lingering in the deserted hallway.
And then, with a flash of hope crushed by an overwhelming feeling hurt, hurt, hurt, oh God, Malfoy was there. The blonde didn't say anything, he just stood for a moment, staring at Harry, unrecognizable look in his eyes.
Draco flew silently through the corridors, giving anyone who opened their mouth the cold shoulder and continuing on his path. And then he was there. 10:00. And in front of him was the haunting sight. Harry looked like a ghost, pale, dark shadows under dulled green eyes that waited—waited for more hurt, judgment, and rejection. A wave of guilt smacked the Slytherin in the face, and all he could do was stand for a moment, trying to collect his wits and trying to call on the strength he had to get this done.
A brief flash of indignant anger bit him, a thought from the night before coming back—How dare he do this to me? Harry must have noticed, because the boy winced. Draco repressed the emotion, instead striding over to Harry and grabbing his arm above the elbow, trying to ignore the other's attempt to recoil at the touch. Instead, he dragged Harry with him as he strode back and fourth down the hallway. I need somewhere to talk. I need somewhere to talk. I need somewhere to…
And the door was there at the next turn around. Harry blinked blearily, through the confused cloud of emotion; he still was awed at this simple (but probably endlessly complicated) bit of magic. Malfoy twisted the knob and threw open the door, all but dragging Harry in behind him.
Once inside, Draco released Harry's arm with more force than needed, and strode away towards the farthest wall, resting forearm against the cool surface, mind wracked with thought. End this madness.
Harry stood awkwardly in the center of the room that had taken the same shape as the night a week previous, and internally shrugged at the sentiment. He guessed it was fitting.
Christ, why was he here? Because you want to be. Sick, he thought. I'm sick. He hates me, and all I want to do is be around him. Please, he thought sarcastically, crush me some more.
"Potter." Malfoy began, and then heaved a sigh. "What is your problem?"
That finally provoked a reaction from the despondent Harry, who rallied at the inspiration to finally get angry—to feel that forbidden emotion.
"What's my problem? Malfoy, you know my problem already! Oh, wait, you mean the most current one? Let me think." A fake pause, laden with unspoken bitterness, "Yeah, the one person who I trusted—God, I can't believe I trusted you, you Goddamned—I trusted you! However stupid that was, I did! And still, you have to go on and hate me? What was I thinking, that maybe you'd understand?! Here I am, stupid enough to think that things could change, and imagine my surprise yesterday to hear the one person, and the least unlikely person, at that, doing everything he can to encourage his meathead friends in taking a cheap shot at The Boy Who Can't Defend Himself! My problem? Hah, I'm unstable, weak, confused, GAY, unable and unwilling to express any of it! My problem is that the only fucking comfort I have is a fucking razor hidden underneath my bed! We know my problem, Malfoy, now what the fuck is yours?!"
The echoes of Harry's shouts quickly died in the small room, leaving behind a devastating silence. Malfoy's posture hadn't changed, not an inch, his back was still to Harry, arm still pressed against the wall. But now the blonde was shaking.
"My problem." Draco laughed shortly, the sound a harsh bark. "My problem is, and damnit all, I'm trying to help someone in the only way that I know how—and they resent me for it. You know what's really funny, Potter," Draco finally rounded on Harry, taking large strides so he came face to face with the Gryffindor, voice like ice. "It's funny that before you came along, I never wanted to help anyone. And then when I did, it blows up in my face!" Draco broke away for a moment, then turned back. "And you're begging me to be understanding without being willing to do it your own self!"
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Harry whispered through gritted teeth.
"My father is a Death Eater!" Draco screamed the forbidden statement out loud, sickly pleased to see the discomfort on Harry's face at the words. "And do you know what happens to me if we're friends? The child of the Dark Lord's right-hand-man, cavorting around with the one who is supposed to kill him? I die, Potter. I die."
There was a stunned silence, Harry staring at Draco with a newfound understanding, Draco staring at his hands at the realization that he had just spewed out loud.
"They'd kill me if they knew."
The way he said it, and judging by the haunted look in those eyes, Draco could have been talking about any number of things.
"Draco, I—"
"Don't! Don't…just, save it. Come here." Once again, Draco grabbed Harry by the arm, around the wrist this time, and pulled him over to the twin set of chairs, setting the Gryffindor down in one, seating himself in the other, and looked at Harry expectantly.
Harry, confused for a moment, lurched in surprised realization and pulled the robe off over his head. Embarrassed, he hid the mark on his forearm with his other hand as he turned back to Draco.
"Harry, I've seen it before."
"I know…It's just that this time—well, this time—" He had no words, and so he released himself, offering the wound for first aid.
Draco sucked in air through his front teeth. There, on the pale skin, a vivid "M" was scratched into the flesh. Ouch. Closing his eyes a moment, deciding not to tell the other just how much that hurt him, he reached out for the arm and simply stated,
"You know, what I said really protected you more than anything." He dabbed the cloth around the area.
Harry's voice was confused. "How in the hell did it do that? Ow…"
"Hold still. First, think for a moment about what I could have said, and then think about what I did say."
Harry thought. "You could have…you could have told them. You could have told them that I was gay. You could have told them anything…But you lied. You made them think…Holy—you really are smarter than me."
"I know." Draco grinned savagely up at Harry, wrapping the wound and patting the boy's warm palm, unable to stop himself from letting it linger there a second longer than what was necessary before pulling away.
Harry must have noticed, because he blushed a furious shade of red before shifting awkwardly in his seat, looking away from Draco. Well, that's interesting, the Slytherin thought, suddenly in brighter spirits.
They were done, and Harry didn't want to go. Would it be out of line if he… "Hey. I know a muggle card game, it's called War, and it's not hard or challenging, really, but it's a good waste of time and I don't really want to go back yet because that means I'll have to make up with Ron and Hermione, and yeah, the game is War and it pretty much fits us, right, and—"
"Harry, you're babbling."
"That's not true, Gryffindors don't babble."
Draco smirked and looked around the room, he found a deck of muggle cards peeking out from underneath Harry's armchair. Stupid room, it always knew, didn't it? Reaching down and grabbing it, he pulled the cards out of the case.
"Yeah, and Slytherins don't play cards, either."