Disclaimer: Once upon a time Miss J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter. Then I wrote Names. Guess which one belongs to who.
The song words at the beginning belong to Snow Patrol.
A/N – Oh my goodness!! The last lines made me want to laugh and cry writing them! Here you go then, a Christmas special… a chapter that doesn't end on major depression!! And I know I've been a bit behind with updates, but the workload has been hideous. Thank you so much to all my constant reviewers who have waited patiently for this, and for all you newbie reviewers too. Special thanks to Freja Lercke-Falkenborg, Shaitanah, Lady Crucio, Skullera, druplusspike, and Catchy Turn, who have stuck with me from the beginning. This one's for you guys.
Oh, and by the way, Names will NOT be turning slashy. Several people have asked, so I thought I'd make it clear.
Friends
The weight of water, the way you told me to look past everything I had ever learned
The final word in the final seconds
Why is it that bravery is often synonymous with stupidity? Why is it that someone who can stare the Dark Lord in the face and resist the urge to curl up into the foetal position can not comprehend the notion of risk? How, to put it bluntly, can someone who has survived as long as Potter has still be such a complete and utter idiot? Such questions ran through my mind as we tucked him into his bed the following morning. It had been Weasley R. who found him, sprawled across his floor, breathing shallowly and doing his damned best to impersonate a corpse. The entire Weasley family ran around like headless chickens searching for the intruder who had done this to him, whilst it was left to me to pick up the golden fragments lying beside him and work out just how much of a suicidal idiot he was.
I will say this very slowly. He. Broke. The. Horcrux. On his own. Have you ever wanted to jump up and down on someone's face and just scream 'Why, why, WHY are you so stupid??' That's how I felt. This is what pride does to you. It makes you think you can go one to one with one seventh of the Dark Lord's soul, without even bothering to tell anyone that you may shortly be in need of life support. He didn't bother waiting for us, oh no, because he's the mighty Chosen One and he doesn't need help when fighting with someone who's far more experienced than him (that fragment of Voldemort's soul was placed in the Horcrux when he was far older than Potter's measly seventeen years). And this sort of action is applauded?? Oh yes, it's brave and heroic and dashing. Never mind that Potter nearly killed himself (by all rights he should have been reduced to small, bitesize chunks), and that he caused his entire adopted family to go into spasms (Granger and the Weasley girl nearly drowned us in tears) and that, worst of all, he disturbed my tranquil morning's slumber. Instead of being slapped back into life or placed under a cold shower, as he deserved, he was lovingly tucked into bed, made comfortable with piles of pillows and cooed over. His hand was held by multiple females (even the Auror Tonks dropped in for a session) his brow mopped, his hair stroked. And through it all he was allowed to remain in blissful unconsciousness.
Since no one else in the house seemed to possess the presence of mind required, it fell to me to place all of the pieces of the broken Horcrux into a box, which I taped shut firmly with yards of Spellotape. It made me sad, holding the fragments, to think what had been lost. This cup was part of our history, part of Wizard history. That it should fall to the son of a mudblood to shatter this link to our past was just too cruel. Maybe I'd have felt more sympathy towards Potter, damaged by his fight with the sliver of the Dark Lord's soul, if he wasn't already drowning in it.
Much of the pity and compassion flew out of the window though, when Potter opened his eyes in the late afternoon. Daddy Weasley was absolutely furious. Having already had one child possessed by the Dark Lord, he wanted to know exactly what Potter would have done if Voldemort had triumphed in their battle and possessed him, before embarking on a mass killing spree. Mummy Weasley (tearfully) couldn't believe that Potter could do this to them, couldn't understand why he hadn't told them, hadn't waited for their help, hadn't entrusted it to the adults (who, of course, were all extremely experienced at breaking Horcruxes, my word, yes). Potter looked at them both greenly, then threw up heavily before passing out again.
But just because the Chosen One, Hero Supreme and Champion against the Dark was out of action didn't mean that life didn't go on. Weasley R. went out around midmorning, and, watching him go, I suddenly had a yearning for fresh air. I collected a coat from Potter's room, tucked my wand into my jeans pocket and stepped out into the warm August morning. A typical muggle street faced me, lined with cars. I set off briskly, turning corners at random, until I reached a public park. A nice large grassy area surrounded a dilapidated roller-rink, but the playground itself had obviously been refurbished recently. I sat on one of the swings as small muggle children scrambled up climbing frames and played on the newly painted slide and roundabout. Swinging gently, I realised just how much I had wanted some me-time. I was sick of retreating to my bedroom, sick of sharing quarters with Weasleys. I was a Malfoy, forced to live with people towards whom my feelings ranged from apathy to active dislike, to despising them.
Unable to find any decent books in the house, unable to engage in a stimulating conversation, I craved the ultimate elegance of silence. Away, I wanted to be away. Away from their mess, with jackets strewn over the backs of chairs, away from their incessant babble. I craved the sophistication of Malfoy Manor; the elegance of the trappings, the peace and tranquillity. I craved silken Summer afternoons with the excellent company of Misty and an interesting book. I was bored beyond belief. The fear was dying, the terror of the Dark Lord finding me. He seemed miles away, and insignificant, as the warmth and light of the sun washed over me. And Hogwarts seemed miles away too. Suffice to say, I would not be attending the new school year. Would the others be? I wondered. Potter wouldn't; he wanted to devote himself full time to the fight against Lord Voldemort. And Weasley R. would follow his hero over a cliff edge. Granger? Would she give up furthering her education? Ultimately yes, I decided. She would stay with Potter out of friendship and loyalty, and with Weasley R. out of…well, I didn't want to pursue that thought. As far as I was concerned, any female who consented to kissing Weasley R. without the excuse of being blind drunk was distinctly lacking in taste, and thus not worthy of my concern.
What about the Weasley girl? With her recent split with Potter it seemed likely that she would return to Hogwarts. She had less to stay away for than any of the others, and she might well want to avoid her new ex-boyfriend.
I yawned and stretched luxuriously in the sunlight. My father used to say that I was a cat in human clothing; dignified, demanding and supremely selfish. A twinge of pain ran through me. I'm not entirely selfish, I argued with myself. If I had a chance to do something differently, perhaps if I could go back in time and offer the Dark Lord my life in return for him sparing my mother… I would! I told myself. I would die in an instant if it could be her, here, enjoying the sunshine. But the words felt flat inside me. Truth to tell, I was moving on. A few weeks with the Order of the Phoenix, a few weeks without her and the ache was dying. Was I really so terrible? Out here, in the sunshine, happy and peaceful for once, it was impossible to wish my life away. The past is past. You made me what I am, and now I shall carry your legacy onwards. I'd like to say those inspiring words were the only ones which came to me in the sun. But I'd be lying. As I stretched out on the grass and watched an attractive jogger pass me through slitted eyes, the word Coward danced round and round my mind.
Weasley R. returned some time after Potter had pulled off his vomiting trick in the afternoon. Seething with pent up frustration, Mummy Weasley took it out on him. He had barely come through the door when it started. Listening in the living room, I heard every word.
"Where have you been?"
"Filth, Blood Traitors!" (Ah yes, and the rancid cow in the portrait in the hallway had her say as well.) A murmur followed.
"I said 'WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN'?" I winced as the volume tripled.
"Out."
"'Out'? Is that all you can say, Ron? Out? You're ALWAYS out!"
"Well if I'm going to be yelled at whenever I come home it's seems a better option."
"Desecrating the house of my ancestors!"
"Don't take that tone with me, young man! None of you children have any consideration for what you are putting your father and me through."
"I'm not a child, Mother!" He sounded very upset. I allowed myself a satisfied smile. A miserable Weasley R. is always conducive to a happy Draco M.
"Then stop acting like one, Ronald. There's Ginny, throwing strops and wanting to move out, there's you, out all the time, back at all hours, going God knows where! And then there's Harry, bless him, feeling so insecure he can't even ask his friends for help in taking on the You Know Who! If you were in more he wouldn't be upstairs unconscious."
"Oh, so now that's my fault?" Weasley R. yelled. I could see his point, I supposed. Potter's condition was really entirely his own stupid fault, but M. Weasley was on a roll. She was matching the portrait in volume (not a mean feat), which incidentally was currently wailing "Shame, shame, shame!"
"Honestly!" M. Weasley cried passionately. "The only one of you children with an ounce of thoughtfulness is Hermione. I don't know where I'd be without her helping me in the kitchen, running errands, helping tidy up after you lot."
"Well, too bad Hermione isn't your daughter," Weasley R. said bitterly. "Why don't you adopt her? And Malfoy too, whilst you're at it." Ah, I'd wondered how long it would be before I was dragged into the argument.
"Vile filth!"
"At least Draco isn't causing me problems and worrying me sick!" she retorted. I snorted. I had better things to do with my time than bother with worrying lesser life forms.
"Oh, it's 'Draco' is it, now?" Weasley R. snarled. "Getting very cosy with him, aren't you, Mother? Well, aren't you lucky? Unlike Lockheart, Malfoy actually lives with us! So you won't need to bother cutting out his photo in the Prophet!" There was a sharp sound. I pricked up my ears, wondering who had slapped who.
"Go to your room, now." Her quiet tone was far more deadly than any of her previous yelling.
"No, I don't think I will." He sounded hurt, on the verge of tears. At a guess, I'd say she had slapped him. "I'm going out again, Mother. I can barely breathe in this house, and I'd hate to keel over and cause you further worry." The front door slammed shut. What followed hit me hard. A sobbing sound. Stealthily I stood up and slunk to the doorway, peeking out cautiously. Whilst the portrait continued its banshee screaming, M. Weasley sat on the bottom stair and sobbed into her hands.
I froze in indecision. A good person, the sort of person I was turning into more and more these days, would have offered comfort and support. A selfish person would have shrugged and gone back to amusing himself. A Malfoy would have laughed. What was Draco to do? In the end I pulled out my wand, walked into the hallway and cast a silencing spell on the portrait. I pulled the curtains across as the lady kept opening and shutting her mouth like a goldfish, then turned back to the woman on the stairs. She was snuffling into a handkerchief now. I walked past her, into the kitchen, and returned three minutes later, bearing a steaming mug of tea. She glanced up uncertainly, drying her eyes hastily as I stopped in front of her, and seemed surprised when I offered it to her.
"Thank you. That's very kind." She sniffed loudly. "I, I don't know what to say. You're seeing us at our worst." I didn't reply, just gave her the tea and walked up the stairs. A good person would have offered comfort and support, would have listened and offered encouragement. I guess I'm not a good person after all.
As I trotted upstairs I bumped into the Weasley girl. She actually physically walked into me, and there was an embarrassing moment as we untangled ourselves.
"Was that Ron I heard?" she asked, avoiding looking at my face.
"Yes. And your mother. Why is he out all the time?" I wasn't really curious; it was just a mystery that would be neater if resolved. She shrugged.
"I don't know. I think he's got another girlfriend, perhaps." Her head snapped up, face blazing. "Don't you dare tell Hermione I said that!" I laughed lightly.
"Relax. I have better things to do than gossip about your brother. Believe me." She frowned, and then pushed past.
"Excuse me."
As I watched her go downstairs an urge to laugh harder filled me. I mastered it with difficulty. This was the famous Order of The Phoenix? This was the mighty Weasley family? If Voldemort could see what a dysfunctional bunch of selfish, miserable dishcloths were facing him he'd laugh and sleep easy. All of them were too wrapped up in themselves to have time to truly fight. Potter: trying too hard, injuring himself again and again in his quest to prove himself the next Dumbledore. Weasley R.: dissatisfied, moody and too busy drowning in angst to see past his own concerns. The Weasley girl: searching for something that just wasn't there, and missing what she had in the process. I mean, come on! She was dating Harry Potter, The Boy Who Is Loved By Millions, and she wasn't satisfied? Granger: well, she was certainly having problems with her boyfriend as well. Particularly if he was cheating on her. Daddy Weasley: struggling to hold onto his family, his job and a chance of winning this war. Mummy Weasley: stressed, terrified of anything 'bad' happening. And their various Auror friends. None of them were around enough to notice that the core of the Order of The Phoenix was rotten, that their organisation was falling apart.
And I wouldn't care except that it was my problem too.
I stopped outside Potter's room, unwilling to walk in on what sounded like a very private conversation. Listening carefully, I could make out Granger's voice.
"What happened to us, Harry?" she whispered. "What happened to the four of us? You and Ginny, and me and Ron. We were all going to go hunting Horcruxes together. Don't you remember? At Dumbledore's funeral we said we'd do it together. But you never let us in anymore. You talk to Draco more than us, Ginny's leaving and I'm losing Ron and I don't know what to do." I could hear the catch in her voice. Potter appeared to be still asleep, as he offered her no answer. She went on. "We're falling apart. And I want to blame Draco, but I can't. It's us Harry. It's us. We're falling apart and drifting further and further away from each other. What's happened to us?"
And then he did answer her.
"I'll do better," he croaked. "I'll do better. Oh, Hermione, I'm so sorry. I've been neglecting you, and Ron, and I won't anymore. I'll be here, and it will be the three of us, like old times. Always the three of us."
I left them to their sugar-coated words, and instead pondered what to do. Bored, with no one to talk to, I decided to go out and was just getting my leather jacket (all right, Potter's leather jacket) out of the hall cupboard when the front door opened and Daddy Weasley came in. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he dumped his briefcase on the floor with a bang.
"Draco. Just the person I wanted to talk to." Uh oh…He shut the door firmly behind him. "Perhaps we could go to the kitchen?" I nodded silently. Up until now, Daddy Weasley had paid me the minimal amount of attention. I might as well have been a smelly hamster Potter had installed in a cage in the loo; something unpleasant to be ignored. This indifference had suited me perfectly, and I felt a certain amount of apprehension as we entered the kitchen. Daddy Weasley shut the door behind him (not a good sign) and turned to me.
"What do you know about Dawlish?" he said quietly.
"Who?" I asked. I'd never even heard the name before.
"Dawlish," he repeated. "He is, was as Auror."
"I've never heard of him before," I said softly.
"Where did you go out today?" Daddy Weasley asked, changing tack. I shrugged.
"To a park. Why?"
"And how long were you there?" I was getting tired of this.
"Not that it's any of your business, but a few hours, I suppose." I narrowed my eyes. "Oh wait; I see where this is heading. An Auror dies at the same time I'm out of the house; ergo I must be the killer. Brilliant deduction, Holmes!" The words came out more bitter than I had intended, but I was growing so sick of accusations.
"I was merely going to ask if you talked to anyone whilst you were out," Daddy Weasley said, with false patience.
"Yes!" I snapped. "Aunt Bellatrix and my Father stopped by, so I told them it'd be a real laugh if they killed this random Auror! I confess!" Daddy Weasley gripped the back of one of the kitchen chairs hard.
"Draco, this is not a laughing matter. A man has died."
"And I am very sorry that has happened," I replied. "I really wish I could help you, but you'll have to believe me when I say I had nothing to do with it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a sick person to visit." Without waiting for a reply, I pushed past him and pulled open the door, before stalking out.
I made my way back to Potter's room, dumping the leather jacket on the banister, still seething inside. How dared they? All of them! I was the reason their bloody Chosen One was still alive, I had put my neck on the line for them, and were they grateful? Oh no, it was accusation after accusation. It would serve them right if I did betray them to Voldemort, I thought bitterly. But in reality I couldn't even do that, as I wasn't the Secret Keeper of the headquarters. In a grumpy mood I barged into Potter's room, and was pleased (no, wrong word. More like, slightly less grumpy) to see that he was alone. He glanced up as I entered.
"Draco."
"If you'd broken your neck you know you'd bloody well have deserved it," I snarled. I threw up my hands. "I mean, what kind of fool are you? Pulling a stupid stunt like this! What's it supposed to prove, your testosterone levels?" Potter smiled.
"Wow, Draco. I never knew you cared."
"I don't!"
"You're yelling."
"I'm not!" I yelled. He smiled for a minute, and then a funny expression crossed his face.
"Draco – bucket, quick!"
Later on (once he had finished retching) I set the bucket aside (that bucket will haunt me for years to come) and faced him. He looked tired, but also somewhat pleased with himself.
"Wipe that smug expression off your face and hang your head," I ordered him. He laughed, which turned into a hiccough, and I shoved the bucket under his nose just in time. "Look, Potter, what the hell is going on? This didn't happen when you destroyed the last Horcrux, did it?" He shook his head wearily.
"No, but it was harder this time."
"And you did it all by yourself!" I snorted. "Typical, idiotic, suicidal Potter thing to do."
"I am not typically suicidal," he said, hurt. I laughed.
"Potter, this whole dance started with me finding you hacking away at your wrist. You are far from normal, my friend."
"Am I?" he asked, his tone slightly awed.
"Certifiably weird," I assured him.
"No." He shook his head. "Not that. It's just… you called me your friend. Am I?" I frowned, caught off guard, surprised. He tried to kill me a year ago, and I tried to curse him. We'd fought for so long, we'd argued, we'd hated. So many doubts… but one couldn't live in doubt, could one? It was time I took control of my life again. I clapped my hands and laughed.
"Well, my life's been turned upside down anyway. Lodging with the Weasley crew and all…urgh, a year ago I'd have killed myself first." I smiled, a genuine smile. "Yeah, why not? Let's be friends."
Wow, can't believe I finally got to write this scene…
So, you like? Hit the button!