XV.
An ungodly droning filled the still air around Harry's head, forcing him into consciousness with a loud groan that echoed through him. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. Disgusting. He did not remember anything, at first, and wondered why he'd been woken up at all.
Then he heard it. The sound of at least four different owls pecking at the glass of his window.
He squinted, then realized he didn't need to. Harry reached up to his face, and very carefully noted that he'd slept with his glasses on.
It came back to him in flashes.
Azkaban.
Could it have been real?
Lucky Felix.
Harry groaned, slamming his face into the cushion and feeling the pulsing hangover like a living creature inside of his mind, clawing as though to escape.
Had he called off all of his work responsibilities? He didn't remember. What had he told Draco? Why had he had so much to drink?
And why were the owls still there?
Harry wanted to throw something at the window, frighten the creatures away for just a minute. He needed to get his bearings, but he knew that excess movement would probably result in great discomfort and the pecking was starting to physically pain him.
Very gingerly, Harry pulled the covers off of himself—where had they come from , anyway?—and slowly inched his way towards the edge of the couch. He was amazed at the distance, the torturous distance he had to cross before he reached the floor. His legs slowly reached towards the floor, his toes curling at the cold surface.
He looked out the window again. It was hardly morning. It was stormy, clouds dark, and he wanted to go back to sleep.
Harry hadn't saved the wizarding world by whining, so he gritted his teeth and stood, trying to deal with the rush he heard in his ears without toppling over, and made it to the window with no further incident.
Five owls. Merlin.
Ginny's, Hermione's, one holding a letter with a Prophet seal, and two unknown birds.
Harry shivered. It was simply too early to be faced with everything. He hadn't even had a chance to drink any hangover potion. Did he even have any?
A deep breath through his nose later, Harry had opened the window and stepped aside for the owls to enter. He could have left them outside, he realized in retrospect, when they all took his spot on the bed, lined up and staring at him with their beady eyes. Then again, they probably would have annoyed him and aggravated his headache until he'd relented, so he'd really just accelerated the arrival of the inevitable.
"What do you want?"
They did not answer. Harry had a moment of embarrassment, but then remembered that they were owls and that he was allowed to be in a mood. He had no idea what the letters would bring. How long had he slept? Was it even the same year?
He didn't recall ever feeling quite so groggy after a night out. He usually held his liquor rather well, at least better than Ron did.
Hermione's owl regarded him shrewdly, as though it had heard the thought.
He extended one hand to the owl, which hopped, took flight, dropped the letter, and circled around the room again to land on its spot.
It wanted a reply. Good grief.
Harry, is what the papers say true? Respond immediately—I want to help you. I have various resources that could help us retaliate, which I think is best if you know who did it.
Why didn't you tell us? We would have given you all our love and support. This must be hard for you. I'm so sorry.
Please answer,
Hermione
Harry, I can't believe you did it. After all this time, I'm so proud that you wanted to come out with it this way. At least you won't be hiding. I always thought you would feel so much better once more people knew, and I'm so happy for you.
Dean said he always knew and that you'll all have to go for drinks to celebrate.
What's all this about Draco Malfoy?
Love, Ginny
HONOURED HARRY POTTER,
THE PROPHET WOULD BE HONOURED TO BE THE FIRST TO HEAR YOUR REACTION TO THESE STORIES, RECEIVED FROM AN ANONYMOUS SOURCE. THE WIZARDING WORLD WOULD LOVE TO HEAR YOUR SIDE OF THE STORY. IS IT TRUE? WHAT WAS DUMBLEDORE'S ROLE IN YOUR HOMOSEXUALITY? WHY HAVE YOU BEEN SPOTTED WITH CHILDHOOD ENEMY, DRACO MALFOY? ANY INFORMATION IS GOLD TO YOUR ADORING PUBLIC. PLEASE CONTACT US FOR AN EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW.
from,
Leo Duce and Evind Skeeter
Editors of the Daily Prophet
55 Diagon Alley, London, UK
Company number: 69334444
Potter,
It wasn't me. Please see me later. I just read the paper.
D
We cannot control your movements but associating with a former Death Eater who has fallen so far has forced our hand. We just read the paper and await your reaction.
We will not hesitate to put more pressure on you, Potter. We do not appreciate being ignored. We will find you and control you, and then you will get what you deserve.
The public will turn on you. You have nowhere to go that we won't know about. Good luck, little mouse.
The cats come prowling.
The Occluded
Harry shook from fear and from shock. His headache was all but forgotten, but the panic that coursed through him was just as debilitating. He'd confided in Malfoy. Despite Draco's letter, Harry found himself deep in suspicion. Was he part of the group that wished him harm? They sounded similar, perhaps. Harry didn't want to think about it.
Harry didn't need the paper to know what the story was about, but how bad could it have been? Only Draco knew, but perhaps they'd been seen…? Confusion refused to relinquish its hold on Harry.
No wonder Hermione had tried to save him.
There was a hole, it seemed, in the pit of his stomach, which seemed to be burning and stretching. Harry couldn't breathe.
In the middle of his mental breakdown, someone knocked on the door. Harry didn't think he could stand to have stress cause him to pop something in his head, so he cast some charms that would tell him the identity of the person there. He immediately felt adrenaline rush through him, knew his escape routes in case it was someone dangerous who he didn't recognize.
The descriptors flashed in the air before him. Blonde. Height and weight appeared without him paying attention, because his heart had jumped into his throat.
Just then, Draco's owl let out a hoot.
The knocking came again, this time a little more quickly and loudly.
"Harry?"
"How do you know where I live?" Harry shouted, the silence following it squeezing his throat so that he could hardly swallow. Harry felt the world swim around him. He'd never experienced anything so nerve-wracking.
"You side-alonged me yesterday. Can I please come in?"
There was something straining in Draco's voice, something that made Harry feel like everything was falling apart.
What had he done? He had been holding onto Draco. When had Draco left? What had he seen? What had Harry said? What had Draco told the paper? Why?
Had it been Draco who had covered Harry with a blanket?
Harry sat down hard.
"I'm not home," he said weakly, but of course Draco didn't hear him. The whole world knew. He would have to avoid everybody for some time, until it quieted down. His life was a jumble.
"Let me in!"
Harry almost relented, hearing the note of desperation, but then he remembered the reason for all of the panic that morning. He forced himself to stay seated.
Hermione, his friend, had known what was best for him. She'd warned him. Why did that implicit I told you so hurt less than it did to know that Draco had betrayed him?
What if Draco was part of the group that wished him harm?
The thought repeated itself inside Harry's mind. There were so many possibilities that Harry wanted to dissolve into the silence that had fallen over him.
Silence? The knocking had stopped.
Harry cast the identification spell again, his heart twisting painfully when it came back empty.
Feeling sick to his stomach, Harry approached the door quietly, trying not to cause any noise. If Draco was waiting out there—though Harry wasn't sure he wanted Draco to wait for him—then he couldn't let his approach be heard.
He looked through the identification hole. No one. But perhaps he hadn't seen properly.
Thinking for a moment, Harry tried to fit his theory in with the Draco he'd analyzed for more than a month. Could he have been lying the whole time? He'd had many an opportunity to hurt Harry. What had changed?
Every one of Harry's effort felt like it had been betrayed. He had to open the door.
Hands shaking for some unidentifiable reason, Harry twisted the lock, heard the clunk of the lock, and then pulled the door towards him. He poked his head outside, turning it side to side, holding his wand at his side, waiting. It occurred to him that he was waiting for something, but though anything he imagined was horrific, nothing prepared him for the realization that Draco had really and truly left.
As he made to close the door again, mind deathly silent and heart still pounding, Harry's gaze landed on a mug of tea on the mat that sat in front of his flat. You're welcome, it read. Harry knelt to grab the mug and the note that was scribbled on some parchment that had been tucked underneath.
He slammed the door behind him, heart racing.
Harry, the note began, you have to trust that it wasn't me. The tea is to help you recover if your hangover is quite as potent as mine was this morning. I've mixed in some hangover potion. The right measure, estimating your height and weight and everything. Please accept it.
I was out of sorts for an hour. And then I saw the paper.
I suppose this is also for that time I left your office without taking your offered tea. It's also for leaving your flat last night. It's… as close to an apology as you're getting.
It wasn't me. I wouldn't. Believe me, please, though I would understand if you didn't.
Draco
The words were even, neat, but the signature was shaky.
Harry wished he could go back to sleep but there was too much to think about.
He sat at the table in his kitchen and lifted the mug to his lips. Tea, black, just as he took it—or perhaps Draco had done that to allow him to add cream or sugar to his taste… it was bitter, more than usual, on his tongue, but his headache did fade noticeably.
Harry sipped it slowly, trying to unravel everything that had happened. His emotions ran wild inside of him, though Harry tried to use every shred of professional judgement to organize himself.