The Bond of Brothers

A/N: Important. I edited the last chapter because I realized I forgot something essential to the plot. Basically, I added a few lines to Harry and Snape's conversation, explaining why Harry's Occlumency lessons are still being referred to as Remedial Potions when he didn't receive an O. Due to his 'special circumstances', Dumbledore made Snape admit him to the class, but I also suspect Snape wasn't wholly against the idea after learning who Harry really is ;) Anyways, that's all you need to know. Sorry I totally left that explanation out of the last chapter the first time.

Chapter Four:

With a sucking sensation, the memory faded to black, and Harry was expunged out of the pensieve, landing on shaky legs and breathing hard.

"Well, Potter," Snape drawled from his seat, a glass of what looked suspiciously like fire whiskey in his hand. "I suppose you have questions."

Questions? That, Harry thought, was the understatement of the century.

Numbly, he lowered himself back into the chair he'd previously occupied, his senses too overloaded to speak right a way. His mind was racing, his thoughts warring with each other, trying desperately to fit what he'd just seen into what he'd already known. But they didn't fit together, like a million square pegs and only a hundred round holes.

"I haven't got all night," Snape said, the traces of impatience not hidden.

Harry snapped his eyes up to his professor. "You knew my mother before Hogwarts?" It was not the most important question, he knew, but he couldn't stop himself from blurting it out. All this time, Snape had hated him for his father, but only now did he realize that not once had he spoken a bad word about his mother.

Snape's faced hardened. "Yes," he ground out, his lips barely parting.

"How did you meet? Why-?"

"Enough," hissed Snape. "You will not pry into my past, or I will throw you from this office and refuse to answer any of your questions."

He opened his mouth to protest, to argue that it was his past, too, since it concerned his mother, but he shut it a second later. He had many more questions, and he couldn't risk giving up the chance at answers.

"Fine," he conceded, plucking a different question out of the dozens. "Mrs. Malfoy… she truly doesn't follow Voldemort?"

Snape's black eyes were impassive. "No, she does not."

"And she was… friends… with my mother?"

"Obviously."

Harry was silent a moment, letting the absolute absurdity of his present situation sink in. Two days ago, if someone had told him that he'd be here, in Snape's private quarters, asking questions and getting half way civil answers about his mother and Narcissa Malfoy, he'd have thought they were as barmy as Trelawney and her mad predictions. His chest constricted, a dry, darkly humorous laugh clawing its way up his throat and out his mouth. The sound was weird in his ears and made his stomach hurt, but he couldn't seem to stop. He felt caught in the middle of a tragic comedy, just a clueless actor on a stage in front of an audience who already knows the sad, sad ending.

The sorcerer's stone, mistaken as the heir of Slytherin, his godfather framed for murder and betrayal, Cedric dying, being branded as a liar about Voldemort's return, being tricked and getting his godfather killed, his mother having secretly been friends with Narcissa Malfoy, wife of a man who'd tried to kill him and mother of a boy who despised him – it was fate's joke, and he was damn well going to laugh at it.

"Merlin, Potter, have you lost all sense?" Snape uttered, looking concerned for his mental stability.

This comment breached his tormented thoughts, and his laughter died in his chest. He looked at the professor with deadened eyes. "Does Dumbledore know about all of this?"

"No," was the short response. "And it would be better to keep it that way."

"But you said he knows about Malfoy's task…"

Snape inclined his head, his thin lips frowning. "He does."

"Then why-?"

"For her own reasons, Narcissa wishes her involvement to remain unnoticed," Snape said before he could finish his question. "As I'm sure you gathered by her memories, she and Lily went through a great deal to insure their friendship stayed in the shadows. I only learned the full truth a few weeks ago myself when she voluntarily shared it with me. She's putting a great deal of faith in you, Potter, much more than I recommended her, I assure you. It would be wise of you to respect her in this singular matter."

Harry thought for a moment, trying to discern any danger in doing so. Why exactly did Mrs. Malfoy not want the Headmaster to know that she'd asked for his help, or that she'd been friends with his mother? Did she have even more secrets she was trying to hide? Still, Dumbledore knew about what Malfoy had been assigned, that he was a Death Eater now, and that was the most important thing, he supposed. And he could always speak up later. Besides, he'd never been much for going to authority figures in the past, why start now?

"I won't say anything," he said, then stood up and turned towards the door.

"And where do you think you're going?" Snape called out, rising to his feet as well, his chair scraping against the stone floor.

Harry turned back around. "I'm tired," he said, and it was the truth. He didn't think he'd ever felt more tired in his life. "I'd like to go to my dorm."

"You will not have another chance to ask me questions, Potter," warned Snape.

"I know," he replied quietly, then slipped out the door before the professor could say anything else.

He started the long trek back to the Gryffindor common rooms, feeling numb and at the same time like he'd been hit in the head by a couple of nasty bludgers. He had so many more questions, so many more things he didn't understand, but he wasn't sure he could handle anymore answers tonight. What he'd seen in the memories, what Mrs. Malfoy had begged of him in Diagon Alley, all gave him much to think about. Not only did he have to sort out if he'd try and help Malfoy or not, he now had to come to terms with the fact that someone he had assumed beyond a doubt was as dark as they come was, in actuality, not so very different from him.

Mrs. Malfoy was a friend of his mother. His father had offered her and an infant Malfoy sanctuary in their home, even promising to take him in and protect him with their lives if anything happened to her. From what he knew of his parents, they were good people with their feet firmly planted on the light side. Based on this, he could imagine no circumstance where is parents would offer such words to Mrs. Malfoy unless she truly wasn't the witch he'd been led to believe she was.

Snippets of her words from her memories rang in his ears.

"Neither Severus or I think any less of you, nor will we… It's talent and skill that make a witch or wizard, Lily, not their family name."

"… the same family as your friend Sirius."

"I will not condemn my child to a life of servitude to a monster."

"My greatest fear is that Draco will take the mark like his father. The thought alone is almost too much to bear…"

He shook his head, trying to chase out her haunting voice. Coming to an abrupt halt, he realized with slight surprise that he'd made it back to the portrait hole, having been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed how far he'd walked. He stood awkwardly in front of the lightly snoozing Fat Lady, suddenly aware that he had no clue what the password was.

"Oh, bollocks," he muttered under his breath. "Just what I needed to make this day bloody perfect."

He was casting about for a way to alert Ron or Hermione so they could come let him in, when rescue to his plight came in the form of two returning seventh years. Both looked slightly disheveled, clearly having got caught up in the excitement of the first night back and had snuck off and gotten tangled up in a broom cupboard somewhere. They glanced embarrassedly at him, but Harry couldn't even bring himself to raise an eyebrow in response.

"Fortis et verum," the boy mumbled, waking up an irate Fat Lady who grumbled annoyingly as she swung open, and all three of them scrambled through before she shut sharply behind them.

Noting his friends huddled together in a far corner of the common room, Harry quickly bypassed them, making straight for the stairs that led to the boys dorms. Minutes later, he was safely tucked into his bed, the curtains drawn tight. He lay there, eyes wide open in the dark. What he'd seen in the pensieve played over and over, his thoughts swirling as he struggled with what he should do with the knowledge the memories held. When sleep finally took him in the early hours of the morning, when light was just beginning to crest the horizon, he had come to only one conclusion.

He needed to talk with Malfoy.

000

Barricading himself in a far corner of the library, Draco took a moment to relax. He'd only been back at school a week, but already he felt completely worn out. His evenings were spent in the library, alternating between researching a way to accomplish his task and doing his homework, while his days were, oddly and irritatingly, spent avoiding Potter.

At first, Draco had thought it was only his imagination, paranoia due to his new status and level of involvement in the war. But, after two days of the Golden Boy's annoyingly green eyes following his every move whenever they were in the same area, he knew that his uneasiness was not without warrant. For some reason, it seemed like Potter had taken it upon himself to document his every move. Of course, Draco could not allow this.

It was hard enough with the ever-watchful eyes of the Headmaster and the other professors, he didn't need to be hounded by the light's bloody savior as well.

Still, he'd yet to come up with a solution to fix his predicament. He didn't think simply cursing or jinxing the Gryffindor would put him off, as he'd shown time and time again his absurd stubbornness. So, for the time being, he'd taken to ducking around corners, eating quickly, and spending all of his free time holed up in the library where he knew Potter rarely visited. He knew that eventually, his method of evasion would become inadequate and he'd have to face up to Potter, but he had more pressing matters on his mind. He'd just have to deal with the scar-head later.

Then again, he thought he would be able to avoid Potter for longer than a week.

This assumption blew up quite spectacularly in his face as, a few seconds later, the aforementioned Gryffindor appeared before him and sat down across from him, leaving Draco to stare wide-eyed and opened mouth in temporary shock.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Draco ground out, completely unprepared for the situation he found himself in.

"Sitting," replied Potter. "I would've thought that was obvious."

Draco wondered for a split second if he had accidentally fallen asleep and this was all a dream. "But why are you sitting here?"

Guarded green eyes studied him. "I thought we might have a little chat."

Not a dream, Draco changed his mind, I'm having a nightmare.

"Have you gone and addled your brains, Potter, or are you truly this much of an idiot?"

The Gryffindor didn't respond, instead, leaning back in his chair and assuming a more comfortable position. His expression remained closed as he finally spoke up, saying conversationally, "How was your summer?"

Not a nightmare, either, he concluded, I've completely lost my mind.

"Well," he sneered, "It was a tad lonely, what with you getting my father thrown into Azkaban."

"Oh, right," Potter's cheeks reddened slightly, for which Draco felt some small satisfaction. "Sorry 'bout that."

His eyebrows rose in astonishment, not having expected an apology of any kind. "Are you really?" he couldn't stop from asking, the whole conversation throwing him off center and making him feel unsure.

Not answering right a way, Potter seemed to be debating himself. Looking grim, he said, "No, I'm not."

Draco's first urge was to jump across the table and give the Gryffindor's head a good pounding, but that was too muggle. He second urge was to pull out his wand and try out a few new curses he'd found in an old dark arts book, but that would only result in bringing more attention on himself. So, he did nothing but study the face of his long time rival. Gradually, a grudging sort of respect surfaced. It may have been stupid to admit that he wasn't in fact sorry at all for landing his father in prison, but it wasn't as if Draco could really fault him for that. And, honestly, having someone speak the truth was refreshing when it seemed like everything lately consisted of falsehoods and thinly veiled threats.

"Very well, Potter, I'll play along," he said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"I'm not playing a game."

"Don't take me for a fool," Draco scoffed. "I've seen you watching me. You wouldn't be sitting here now unless you wanted something from me."

"Fine, you're right," conceded Potter. "I came to ask you a question."

Draco lifted a curious eyebrow, mildly intrigued, but kept quiet.

Potter took a deep breath, then resolutely met his eyes. "Why do you think we've never gotten on?"

There was silence, and then, "Are you daft?"

"I'm serious, Malfoy." And Draco could see the truth of his words written in the hard expression on Potter's face.

"You're a the boy-who-lived, and my father's a Death Eater." He felt like he was speaking to an incredibly clueless first year.

Potter shook his head. "That didn't matter on the train at the beginning of first year. Remember?"

And Draco did remember. He'd only gone to ask for Potter's friendship all those years ago for his mother's sake, but, when he'd realized that he'd actually already met the wizarding world's savior and had had a polite conversation with him, he'd wondered for the briefest of moments if they really could have been friends. That foolish thought was quickly squashed, however, as soon as Potter chose those pathetic Weasley's over him.

He sneered. "That was clearly a mistake. I still don't understand why my mother ever wanted me to offer you my friendship." Some emotion flashed in those startling emerald eyes, but it was gone before Draco could identify it. Nevertheless, he narrowed his eyes, watching the other boy more closely. "Then," he continued. "You were sorted into Gryffindor, and I to Slytherin."

"Is it really that simple?" Potter questioned. "Gryffindors are friends with Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, so why can't they be friends with Slytherins?"

"Because," Draco said, stammering slightly, never before having to explain the mutual hate and rivalry between their two houses to anyone. "That's the way it's always been," he finished somewhat lamely.

"Even the founders of our houses were friends in the beginning," pointed out Potter.

"And look how well that turned out."

"What if I wasn't in Gryffindor, would that make a difference?"

Draco couldn't hold back a short laugh. "As if you could be anything but a Gryffindor."

He was still caught up in the sheer hilarity of the thought of the boy-who-lived being in any other house when he realized that the other boy had gone strangely stiff. The laughter died from his eyes as he took in the strange expression that had stolen over Potter's face.

"The Sorting Hat didn't agree with you," said Potter, once again managing to thoroughly shock him.

"What?" he asked stunned, wondering what on earth had made the other boy divulge this information.

"It thought I'd do better in another house."

Draco swallowed, almost afraid to ask, but curiosity drove him and he couldn't hold his tongue. "Which house?"

Potter didn't say anything, but flicked his eyes down to the Slytherin badge stitched onto Draco's robes.

"No. Bloody. Way," he murmured. Draco wasn't sure if mirth or horror should be coursing through him at this revelation.

"Do you know why I asked not to be placed there?" A cold gleam settled into those green depths, and, suddenly, Draco understood exactly why the Hat had seen a Slytherin inside Potter. "Why I begged to go anywhere but there?"

Uncertain, Draco spoke, "…no."

Potter smiled, and it was the grin of a snake. Draco realized he didn't know the other boy at all. "Because I meant you."

He blinked. "Me?"

"Well, I suppose to be fair, it was you and Voldemort," Potter ignored his flinch at the name. "The man who murdered my parents, and the boy who reminded me so much of my spoilt, bully of a cousin."

"I don't understand," Draco said, in a voice much weaker than he intended.

"I didn't know anything about magic when I came here, let alone about the houses at Hogwarts. But then I meant you in Diagon Alley, and you told me you wanted to be in Slytherin. And then I learned that Voldemort had been in Slytherin as well. So when the Hat said that I'd do well there… I chose otherwise." Potter fell silent, watching him with those killing curse eyes.

A pit formed in his stomach, hot and uncomfortable. The way Potter talked, it was almost as if he was implying that he, Draco, was just the same as the Dark Lord. The thought made him want to be sick. And Potter had referred to the time they met at Madam Malkin's, when he hadn't even known he was talking to the boy-who-lived, when he thought they'd been having a perfectly civil conversation. Was he really that blind to his own behavior? Was his character truly that flawed that he couldn't see how his words had affected Potter that day? After all, he must have acted truly horrible to turn someone away from Slytherin just because he wanted to be in it.

Sudden movement from across the table drew his attention, and he jerked his head up as Potter stood abruptly and made to walk away.

"Wait," he called out, not really sure what he wanted to say, his thoughts jumbled.

The Gryffindor meant for Slytherin froze, turning back to look at him.

He opened his mouth, wanting to ask what he had done, wanting to ask why him, wanting to ask why Potter had told him any of this in the first place, but the question that fell from his lips was none of these.

"You had a choice?" he whispered, voice hoarse. Of all his questions, this one somehow seemed the most important.

Potter eyed him with scrutiny, then his face relaxed slightly, and a satisfied light chased the coldness from his eyes. "You always have a choice, Draco." He lowered his chin slightly, meeting his gaze, then glanced down to his covered left arm. Involuntarily, Draco gripped the covered Dark Mark tightly with his right hand.

A second later, Potter left him, and he sat unmoving for several minutes. The other boy's words rang in his ears, and Draco knew he hadn't only been talking about the sorting. His knuckles grew white as he squeezed the skull and snake brand under his clothing.

Potter knew.

000

He was sitting in the corner of the common room, idly flipping through the pages of the Half Blood Prince's potions book, not paying attention to either it or Ron, Hermione, and Ginny's chatter around him. Instead, the same thing that had preoccupied him for the last week, Narcissa Malfoy's memories and her request, was once again monopolizing his thoughts. It had been a day since his conversation with Malfoy in the library, and he still wasn't sure if he was going to try and help him as his mother had asked.

He mentally replayed the scene. At first, he hadn't seen anything in Malfoy that made him believe there was a chance to save him from whatever fate awaited him with the Death Eaters and Tom. He'd seemed just as bigoted and arrogant as always. But then, for a reason Harry still didn't know, he'd decided to tell the grey eyed boy about what the Sorting Hat had said to him.

He'd seen the look in Malfoy's eyes as he told him what he'd thought of him that first time they met, when he told him that it was because of him and Voldemort that he begged not to be put in Slytherin. His words had truly shaken the boy, and, for the first time, Harry caught a glimpse past the pure-blood aristocratic mask Malfoy normal wore. And he'd seen that, underneath, the other boy was just as scared and unsure of what was coming as he was.

This revelation still shocked him nearly twenty four hours later. He'd instantly regretted how harshly he'd spoken, but he hadn't backed down, some small part of him taking a perverse satisfaction in seeing Malfoy knocked down several pegs. But then, he'd asked that damn question, the very thing that Mrs. Malfoy had wanted him to express to him.

So, he'd told him the truth. Everyone always had a choice.

And now Harry had a choice to make – help or walk away?

He sighed, shutting the book in his lap. There was ever only one decision he could make.

"Hermione, might I borrow some parchment?" he asked, interrupting his friends' conversation. All three of them looked at him with mild surprise, and he realized this was the first time he'd actually spoken to them today and not just answered their questions.

"Sure, Harry." Hermione fished a blank bit of parchment out of her bag and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he muttered, snatching up the quill Ginny had previously been using to write her Charms essay, ignoring he short protest. Quickly, he scribbled a few messy lines, making sure to shield his words from his friends prying eyes. When he was done, he folded it tightly and tucked it into his pocket. He stood up and made to go find Hedwig, leaving his friends to stare after him in confusion.

He was out of the portrait hole and half down the corridor when Ginny finally caught up to him, her cheeks lightly flushed from the short run to catch him.

"Hold up, Harry," she called, and he paused, looking to her.

"Gin, what are you doing?" he asked.

"Coming with you, wherever you're going."

He sighed, then continued walking. Not looking at her, he said, "Go back to the common room. I just need to send a letter."

"This late at night? What's so important?" she asked, falling into step beside him, blatantly ignoring his order.

Squashing down a wave of irritation, he snapped, "Nothing you need to worry about."

"Harry," Ginny said, her tone suddenly sounding very much like her mother's. "You've been acting strange ever since we got back. I know something's bothering you. Why don't you just tell me what it is?"

"It's nothing," Harry evaded.

Ginny was quiet for a few moments, their footsteps on the stone floor the only sound, and then, quietly, "This isn't about Sirius, is it?"

His stride faltered, but he quickly regained his composure. "No, it isn't," he replied, and surprisingly found that he was speaking the truth. He'd been so obsessed this last week with the Malfoys that he'd barely thought of his godfather at all. Guilt made his stomach churn uneasily. How could he have so easily forgotten about him? Was this what happened when you died, mourned for a short while, and then left behind?

"I don't think I believe you."

"That's your choice."

By that point they'd reached the Owlery, and the moment they stepped in, Hedwig fluttered down to met him. He thanked his luck that she hadn't been out hunting. He wanted to send his response as soon as possible. Now that he'd made his decision, it felt as if time was of the essence, every second essential, monumental, like a clock ticking down. To what, he didn't know, but he knew it was something terribly important.

"Wait here," he told Ginny, and was pleased to see her comply as he walked over to one of the large openings. When he was far enough away from her, he handed the folded parchment to Hedwig. "Take this to Narcissa Malfoy," he whispered to her. She bobbed her head, and in a flurry of white, she was soaring out into the night.

000

Mrs. Malfoy,

In honor of my mother's memory and your friendship with her, I will do my best to help your son.

Harry Potter

Narcissa read the letter three times before crumpling it in her hand. She tossed it into the fire, watching it turn to ash through tears of joy, relief, and painful longing.

000

End Chapter Four

As I'm sure you've noticed by now, I don't have a standard chapter length. Chapters are as long or as short as they need to be. My only stipulation is at least 2000 words. Sorry if this bothers anyone!

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