Hey guys - new chapter!
I know its been a while. I was travelling for a month with no internet - It was amazing. I recommend it. And when I got back, I didn't really want to write. To be honest, there's been a cancer scare in my family. And I just didn't have the energy to write about a boy dying of cancer when there's a risk of the one person I care about more in the world having it. I couldn't do it - and I've read what I did write, and its considerably darker than the other chapters. It certainly is taking on my mood at the moment. I hope I don't disappoint.
Thank you for all the encouraging comments that spurred me to keep writing. This chapter is for you :)
I do not own Harry Potter - I am not making a profit from this story.
Chapter Thirty Eight - Just tell him
Mutters of a madman.
Draco growled to himself, flipping the page with a ferocity that surprised even him. It ripped, forcing him to snatch at the page quite frantically before shoving it back into its rightful place to repair it. That moment of horror, and dread, at a simple ripped page shoved Draco's fury towards boiling point. Where, he knew, it had sat steadily throughout the night.
And yesterday.
And the day before.
Three years. There had to be something in here to give him his three years.
He paused at the next page, eyes hovering over the two little words he always found himself returning to. Rid it. Rid it.
Rid what? The disease?
Those disgustingly vague words were scribbled in the corners of every page, a prompt for Harvey in case his crazed mind wandered off track. They were circled, underlined, one to the point that the quill had scratched through the parchment. It was important.
How?
Why hadn't the imbecile inscribed his fool errand? Why didn't he leave some sort of hint? A clue? A fucking arrow pointing at the right direction?
Draco had had daydreams of killing the idiot; shame he was already dead.
He forced himself on, instead staring at the two thoughtful words. Unicorn blood.
That could certainly be an option.
The blood of a unicorn was often used in potions for vitality. It was known for saving people from death; surely the cursed life wouldn't influence Harry. If he didn't know what he was drinking, would the curse still be in effect? What if the unicorn wasn't slain; donations, maybe? It would be enough to keep him alive if his magic decided to be particularly vicious.
Harvey had acquired unicorn blood three weeks before his death.
The coward had opted not to use it, according to the notebook.
Draco would have no qualms.
He snapped is eyes back to his bed as Harry tossed in his sleep, protected from embarrassment with Draco's silencing charm. Even from this distance, perched on Blaise's trunk across the room, he could make out the sweat beading down Harry's forehead, and the scrunch of his eyes.
Draco's nightmares had all but stopped; Harry's persisted.
Tonight's study came to a disappointing close. He had scanned the book every night since he had acquired it, and it still refused to yield an answer. He knew the answer was in here; every time he snapped it shut it felt as if he was letting Harry down. It was here, he was just blind not to see it.
Rid it.
Draco threw the book towards his side to the room, taking note it slid under his bed but making no move to retrieve it. He watched Harry twitch on his bed, twisting in the sheets, and occasionally thrashing.
He hoped Harvey was burning in hell for what he was putting Harry through. If he had scribbled his secret down like a fucking ordinary person, both Harry and Draco could be completing their N.E.W.T's together without another care in the world but when they were going to finally shag. Instead they had to avoid Harry's impending death.
Draco crossed to his bed, grabbed a flailing arm and pressed it into the mattress.
He hoped Harvey's death had been painful. He hoped his magic had ripped him apart before rendering him unconscious, and lifeless. And he hoped it had been exhausting.
Draco would find out later just how accurate this description was.
And he would smile.
.
.
.
Draco had never been a morning person.
There was routine in the castle, and it was monotonous. Despite this, he had never wasted a day, either. If he was awake, he was up.
Knowing that the available hours of daylight were trickling away each moment he sat lazily in bed had always left him with an insatiable itch; there was nothing substantial to do, but the insignificant motions of beginning the new day had to be completed all the same.
Regardless of this, he had no inclination to roll from bed.
And he hadn't since Harry had found himself a comfortable position taking up most of said bed.
It was a peculiar notion. Nothing had changed, really. The noises of his classmates shuffling about were no different to usual, and the monsters in the lake often drifted past the window curiously. The room was still chilled to the point to evade comfort. The itch still crawled over his skin, a reminder to begin his tedious routine.
He had not a single inclination.
Harry was sprawled across the bed, breathing deeply. The sheets were tangled around his waist, his shirt had rolled up sometime during the night to expose his stomach, and his arms were splayed in a manner that couldn't possibly be relaxing; he would wake without feeling in his arm.
He was the epitome of deep sleep.
What a bloody liar.
Harry woke earlier than Draco did; there was no possible way he would be asleep at this time. His stomach would rumble every few moments, betraying him. His eyelids were twitching. Who did he think he was kidding?
So Draco lay still, staring at the green curtains providing their little bit of solitude. It was oddly cathartic to stare at nothing. It allowed his mind to rest for a moment, to avoid the mess that usually haunted his thoughts. The others had left for breakfast a while ago, leaving a beautiful silence in their wake. The only bit of noise was Harry's controlled breathing.
It was peculiar that sharing his mornings with the Gryffindor git had calmed him. By all rights, it should have worsened his approach towards dawn. With Harry's limited time, they should be awake and accomplishing things as soon as daylight made it viable.
Instead, they rested in bed. Watching the minutes trickle past.
Draco glanced at the liar, smirking as the hairs rose at the back of his neck in response. What game was this?
"I don't want to wander down to breakfast in a towel, and unless you want to be subjected to Pansy's vanishing charms, neither do you. So, in the twenty minutes we have left until breakfast, we had best come to an agreement, shouldn't we?" It was almost comical how Harry's eyes snapped open. He sat up in an instant, haziness absent. "Why were you pretending to be asleep?"
The git shrugged in response, frowning at the sudden presence of conversation. Their soft voices seem much too loud in comparison to the quietness of the room. "The silence was nice." He mumbled, his frown deepening. "She wouldn't really vanish it, would she? She must have some kind of conscience."
"Your arse is going to be over the Prophet by lunch." Draco drawled. He was able to disregard the reality that he had been steadily ignored for the better part of an hour. "So. Going to release me from the penalty?"
"Course not." Harry didn't seem the slightest bit apologetic. Instead, he scoffed. "You deserve it."
Draco frowned himself, now. Why would he of all people deserve Pansy's antics? He had been forced to coexist with her for the past seven years, and barely managed it without cursing her. Why should he be punished? After all, hadn't he been nice lately? He hadn't implied a single insult against the Weasel last night, something he considered a great sacrifice.
"Nobody deserves to have Pansy unleashed at them."
"True." At least a smile had flickered past the gloom Harry displayed today. He had been perfectly content when going to sleep, hell, even pleased. Was the nightmare really to blame between such opposite dispositions?
Draco shot him a glance, withholding a sigh as Harry stared at anything possible as a substitute for returning the gaze; the sheets still tangled around his legs, his chewed nails, a notch staining the wood that surrounded their bed. Today wasn't shaping up to be a good day.
"You have creative reign, and the best you can do is mimic my penalty? Come on, there has to be something you want instead of my humiliation." It was supposed to entice him; to prod his enthusiasm. Draco regretted the words the moment they had escaped; Harry threw him a peek, challenge in his stupid eyes, and they both new what the hideous request would be.
"Fine."
"No. We're going with the towel."
"I have creative reign, don't I?" Harry replied easily, making an effort to unravel the sheets tangling his legs. The eyes had returned to the sheets. Bastard. "Twenty One. I want it completed."
Draco knew there was a reason he disliked mornings; they eventually led to complicated matters like this. "I thought we had agreed-"
"You agreed." He replied stubbornly, finally managing to untangle his legs. He hopped out of bed easily, as if he wasn't asking Draco to try to help kill him. "I need to complete it. Soon. That's my penalty for you losing at chess; I want to cross it off my stupid list, and move onto the next item as soon as possible."
Draco watched as Harry searched through his trunk for his uniform. The prat made sure to keep his back subtly turned away from Draco as he changed; he knew about the bruise that had appeared last night.
"Fine." Draco made no move to roll from his bed. He didn't particularly want to join the day, if it had started this terribly. Honestly, he was commanding Draco help hurt him. Unapologetically. If he moved from the bed, he might strangle the fool. "Do you wish me to remove yours, too?"
"Uh…sure." Harry paused in doing up his buttons; he had forgotten the same consequence had applied to him. He glanced warily at Draco, as he should. Draco's imagination was certainly more expansive, and would be undoubtedly more cruel. "What do you want?" He couldn't sound more apathetic if he had tried.
"Nothing."Draco shrugged, "I'm simply removing the penalty."
Harry frowned, slowly doing up his shirt again. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. There was a moment of silence wherein neither spoke.
Harry turned back to the trunk, before glancing again at Draco. He was waiting for the comment he knew was coming; he knew him too well to know it wasn't that simple.
"I could have chosen a variety of things." Draco continued only after Harry made to resume dressing, restraining the smirk at the irritated huff. "I could have demanded to you to explain for once and for all the exact circumstances surrounding the fucking cupboard, but I didn't. Because I know restraint in asking too much of a person I supposedly don't dislike."
"Supposedly don't dislike?" Harry repeated, snorting. "That's something new."
He was aloof. Disinterested. As if it didn't matter. Oh, how Draco detested that.
He shoved the sheets away, forcing himself to stand. It wasn't possible for the day to worsen, after this fantastic morning. Hell, the aurors could rock up to arrest him and it would seem insignificant in comparison. In fact, he would welcome them with wrists raised and readied to be shackled. He wouldn't have to hurt Harry if he was in prison, and it didn't matter that he hadn't done anything to merit an arrest.
"You forced me to meet Amanda Harvey." Harry muttered from the other side of the bed, focused on his shoelaces instead of Draco. "That was asking too much of the person you claim to not dislike."
What was wrong with him today?
Draco stared silently at the brunette that was usually brilliant; stubborn to a fault, would do anything for his friends, and surprisingly funny. It was as if he sought a fight.
A barb hung on his tongue, ready. A simple inquiry about how he slept would be enough to summon up the humiliation he knew Harry felt with every nightmare.
Harry's shoulders had hunched, waiting for the comment.
"We're going to miss breakfast." Draco said lightly, shrugging into his own robes. He could feel Harry's stare drilling into his back, but he refused to glance back at him. He wasn't going to fight Harry if he had woken up miserably.
If today was going to be a bad day, then Draco wasn't going to make it worse.
.
.
.
Ron shuffled into the hall, eyes drawn to the Slytherin side of the room. He skimmed the students quickly, going back for a second glance as he didn't catch anyone being noticeably mocked, or naked. Ah, there Harry was. Sitting in his uniform, head cocked to one side as he listened to the table talk. And there was Malfoy, sitting opposite him. The arrogant prick's back was to Ron, but he must have been talking because Harry's eyes were glued to him. There was no laughter today, when usually Harry's shoulders shook with it. He wasn't…it wouldn't be normal to be disappointed about not being forced into something humiliating, would it? Harry wasn't dissatisfied with the uniform… right?
For the first times in months, Ron felt…light. It wasn't an effort to head down for breakfast, and it wasn't exhausting trying to keep a neutral expression on his face.
A metaphorical weight had been lifted from his shoulders. One that he hadn't known existed.
He hadn't wanted to leave last night; it had been a challenge, and fun to boot, no matter how much he denied it when the other Gryffindors asked. Malfoy understood chess; he made it into maze of traps. And it was brilliant. Ron hadn't had a good game in years. He had finally found an opponent that was competent, even if he was a Malfoy.
But when Harry and the Ferret had started bickering…
He had no choice but to leave. He felt as if he was intruding on a private conversation. The teasing and grinning was downright uncomfortable. It was almost as if they were flirting, right then and there, in front of the entire table. Argh, it had been so awkward. He didn't really want to see Harry grinning like that towards Malfoy.
Ron winced as he remembered Harry's and his yelling matches during the start of the year. He had been so...Christ…bigoted. He had been so angry, so hurt. It was no wonder Harry didn't forgive him, if the rumours had been accurate and Ron's reaction was to enforce banishment.
The rumours floating around certainly had sustenance, nowadays.
That scene he had stumbled upon in the library. The downright teasing during the chess match. The fact Malfoy and Harry spent so much time together.
But…there was no major conspiracy like Hermione and Neville suspected; they were friends. If not more. And, really…
Did it matter?
Did Harry really deserve the exploding inkwells? The ignoring in the corridors? The removal of his belongings from the tower? Was one friendship worth the loss of another?
Harry's face had been relieved when Ron had curiously headed over to the Slytherin table. He had seemed happier in that one moment then Ron had seen in months.
And really, so had Ron.
He missed his best friend.
A hope of rekindling their friendship hovered expectantly in the air. He would brave putting up with Malfoy, if it meant he could spend a little time with Harry. After everything they went through last year…how could he have been so stupid to try to brush his hands of Harry? And why had Harry just let him?
No, it wasn't right. He had shrugged, thinking Harry would return when he was ready. Maybe it was up to Ron, for once, to be the brave one? He was certainly willing to try.
"Who're you searching for?" Neville asked, eyebrows raised. Though he sported an innocent, curious expression, it sang with lies. He would have to be an idiot not to guess who it was at the Slytherin table that gained Ron's attention, and Neville had never been an idiot.
"No one." Ron ended up shrugging, sliding into his place at the table. He pretended he was more interested in heaping large amounts of food onto his plate rather than the conversation. "Thought I saw something. Didn't."
He wasn't about to tell Neville that he was checking his mate wasn't forced to wear either nothing, or a towel, to breakfast. It would only start up the conspiracy theories again, and that wouldn't do. Neville seemed to be finally bored of them.
Hermione pretended she didn't care about her suspicions, but Ron often caught her staring after a Slytherin, as though she could read their minds. She had stopped her crazed theories, and instead focused on the impossible amounts of homework. Only after Ron had practically pleaded with her.
He had had to bring forth the tears. Humiliating, but worthwhile.
"Uh-huh." Neville had been quite hard to please recently. He either whispered in the corridors to Luna, or he stayed pretty much quiet. Ron had often caught him staring at Harry, shaking his head with obvious worry. But as long as he didn't restart the stalking or theories, looks were allowed. Neville had a lot on his mind, though.
"How's your Gran doing, Nev?"
"She's fine. Why?" Now he looked bewildered. Huh. Ron had thought for sure that she was in hospital, or was sick again. She was all Neville had. It would certainly explain the difference in his personality.
"Uh…never mind. Guess I was wrong, then." Ron tried to shrug it off, but Neville's blank stare was having none of it. Great. "I thought she was ill, or something. Ignore me, mate."
"Why would you think she's ill?" He should have never opened his big mouth! "Do you know something I don't?"
"Nothing like that. You've just been a bit quiet. Thought something was wrong, is all." Neville actually blinked at that, stunned. Didn't he think Ron cared about him? They weren't best mates, but they were still pretty good friends. "You ready for the Transfiguration test? How cruel is McGonagall? Placing a test in the middle of the week; doesn't she know we're drowning, here?"
Neville allowed the abrupt conversation change; he probably wanted to keep the reason for his moodiness quiet, and Ron was more than happy to agree to that. "You know, I actually thought I would have a bit of an advantage. You guys and a few others didn't attend school last year at all, and we did. Some of this stuff is supposed to be revision for us…and yet it's like we'd never been taught it. It's harder than it was last year, and we were learning under threats."
He shouldn't laugh at that, but it was too funny. He had left school for a year, and hadn't fallen too far behind. It was a bloody miracle.
"Just don't mention the test near Hermione. She thinks its an hint of how we'd go in our N.E.W.T's, and if she had her way, we'd all be studying at breakfast. No time for food."
"I won't say a word." He shuddered at the thought. Everyone in earshot did.
"Morning Neville. Morning Defector." Ron sighed, taking a bite from his toast instead of answering. Little sisters were made for the sole purpose of annoying the other siblings as much as humanely possible. It didn't matter what age they were; seven, or seventeen. They were created to aggravate. "Having a good morning?" Ginny didn't wait for them to reply. "So, how're your friends?"
"Which friends?" Ron replied warily, eyes still on the toast. She was unusually chirpy, which didn't mean well.
"You know. The Slytherins you've decided to hang out with. How are the little Death Eaters today?"
Ron exchanged a tired glance with Neville before facing Ginny. He had been through this last night, and didn't really have the patience for it now. "They look pretty happy. Thanks for asking."
Alright, he probably shouldn't goad her, if Neville's blank stare and her glare was anything to go by. But seriously, how much was he supposed to brush off? He had been practically interrogated last night, and everyone in Gryffindor gave him pointed stares whenever they caught his eye. Was it really any of their business to judge who he spent time with?
It was only for a few minutes, anyway.
And yes, he was aware of the hypocrisy. It made him feel sick, to be honest.
"They've probably cursed a couple first years, then." Ginny snapped, crossing her arms angrily. "I know that cheers them up."
Leave it. Let her have her little comment, and just leave it alone. Little sisters were rarely right, just give her the victory.
Nope. Couldn't do it. It was more the fact that Ginny was being purposely difficult rather than any indignation on the Slytherins' part that made Ron reply. He had no love for the sly house, but he couldn't let Ginny sprout her nonsense, either. First years looked up to her, and would believe everything she had to say.
Yeah, he was just doing his Prefect duty.
"Not everything that goes wrong in the castle-"
"Defending them, are we?"
"They're not all Death Eaters, either."
"Oh, don't try that bull with me." She hissed, "They've done their fair share of damage."
"They seem to be eating breakfast." Neville decided to add to the conversation, not fazed by the withering Weasley glare sent his way. "Oh no, I agree. Utterly damaging. I believe they're chewing with their mouths open; the horror."
"Don't trivialize what they've done, when you were here last year." She near whispered she was so furious. "They cursed us as if it was nothing. Did we curse them back? No, we stood our ground and got punished for it. They shrugged, and perfected their Unforgivables."
"I don't remember anyone being particularly good at it." Neville replied just as quietly, his eyes glazing. He was sick of the constant bullying. "And I seem to recall a wand being pointed at their backs, too. I don't love Slytherin, I don't even like them; but you can hardly hold a couple second years accountable for their actions with a real Death Eater standing behind them, wand raised."
"Malfoy is no second year." Was Ginny's answer to that, sniffing as she pulled her own breakfast towards her.
Ron watched her pour her juice as if the angry conversation had never happened; her anger was insatiable. It was like his during the beginning of the year, only it hadn't quelled. How was he supposed to help her, when all she was focussed on was petty revenge? How had he calmed?
"Do you know what he said to me the other day?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me." It was amazing how much Gin could resemble their mum, at times. And downright scary.
"He was strutting through the corridor like the ponce he is. Strutting. Some comment was made in passing, something along the lines of 'who did he think he was'? It wasn't even said to him, and he replied!" Ginny's face had drained of colour; she looked a little ill at the memory. "I'm the one fucking Harry Potter." She mocked, scrunching up her nose. "That's all he would say! 'I'm the one fucking-"
"Language, Ginny." Ron muttered weakly, ignoring her pointed stare. She hated being treated like a child, but…seriously, Ron didn't want that particular image in his mind. And…God, the image was in his mind! No! Christ!
…and surely Harry was too stubborn to be…uh…underneath? No, don't go there! Erase it!
"That's all you have to say? Language?" She threw a glare at Slytherin table, which went ignored. "Harry hasn't even broken up with me yet; he just cut off all contact! And now, to think that they're…it can't be true, right? I know there are rumours, but…"
So that's why she had singled them out; she never ate with her older brother. She had wanted reassurance, one that her friends couldn't give because they didn't know Harry.
"They're friends, Ginny. Malfoy was probably just trying to get under your skin. It's what he does." Except he hadn't last night. Malfoy hadn't made a single rude comment throughout the game. He hadn't sneered, or thrown Ron's lack of wealth into his face. He had sat quietly until the game was over, something that resembled a smile on his face (downright creepy!), and he had even acknowledged Ron's skill.
Malfoy was being less of a ferret than he usually was.
"I knew that." Sure. "I just needed to vent. Merlin, he makes me so furious!"
"It's a gift." Neville acknowledged, offering an olive branch to Ginny for their miniature squabble a few moments before. He didn't hold grudges, not anymore.
Ginny munched slowly on her own toast, frowning. She didn't seem too eased by their attempts at soothing her troubled mind. Mind you, it wasn't as if that was their single intention. Ron really just wanted to finish his breakfast. "Well, I came here to see if you were interested in a new prank we're going to pull. It's going to blow the Boggart out of the water…but since you two are so friendly with Slytherin, I don't think it's your cup of tea."
She mentioned it for the sole purpose of putting their backs up.
And she succeeded.
"Another one?" Ron sighed, frowning. "Haven't you had enough?" Students were being sent to the hospital wing daily, especially now that the Slytherins had started cursing back. They had seemed complacent in the beginning, almost as if they thought they had deserved the jinxes. Now, they were returning them with a vengeance. One couldn't walk to their next classroom without witnessing an odd spell ricocheting off the walls.
"No." She answered bluntly, and without remorse. Ron couldn't really hold it against her; she had had a terrible year, last year. But…all this anger. It seemed unwarranted. Anger for the sake of anger.
"Harry's not going to be caught up in this, is he?" Ron found himself asking, both regretting it and wanting to know the answer. He wasn't pleased.
"So what if he is? It's not our fault-"
"Don't you think he's been through enough this year?" Neville snapped, surprising them both. "Lay off him. Seriously, leave Harry alone."
"If he hangs out with the wrong crowd-"
"It's not up to you to decide how to punish him. If you're angry he hasn't properly broken up with you, break up with him. If you don't like his company, don't interact with them. Just leave him alone."
"We're not aiming it at Harry, anyway!" She hissed back, rolling her eyes. "Don't get your pants in a twist, Neville. If Harry gets in the way, he gets in the way. I don't see why you're particularly bothered, anyway. It's not as if he's your friend anymore."
But he was; distance didn't fade their friendship.
Fights could be overlooked despite a delay in apologizing.
…Right?
A glance at Neville showed he believed the same. They may not sit with or talk much to Harry, but he was still their friend. He wasn't an enemy, or someone to despise after a few clashes.
Ginny disagreed.
"He didn't even go to Fred's funeral! Our brother's funeral; like we should care about him anyway."
"He may have had an excuse-"
"Oh, don't turn into Dad, Ronald."
"I happen to know his excuse." Neville pipped up, unwavering despite both their shocked stares. Ron was sure his mouth had dropped open; Neville's glumness suddenly had reason. "And it's a damned good one. Just lay off, Ginny."
Ginny sat there for a moment, wide eyed and shocked. She hadn't expected enthusiasm from either boy, but neither had she expected outright disapproval. She looked as if she had been slapped; surely she hadn't anticipated a laugh or a grin?
Ron hadn't expected Harry to confine in Neville over himself. It…hurt.
"Seriously, what is wrong with the two of you?" Ginny muttered; she shoved her plate away as if she had lost her appetite "It's not like it's that bad-"
"You're justifying." Ron cut her off, a smidgeon of pride at the smart argument he managed to silence her with. He wouldn't be able to win an argument with Hermione, but he could definitely try with the other Gryffindors. "Which means, yes, it is that bad. And as a Prefect, it's my job to make sure nothing 'that bad' happens."
Ginny's eyebrows disappeared into her hair. "Excuse me?" Her voice was ice.
"Whatever you guys are planning to do." Neville was shaking his head slightly, wincing before Ron had even finished. "I forbid it."
Oh, he should have stopped whilst he was ahead.
"Oh, you do, do you?"
Her wand was in her hand, and a phrase was on her lips.
Ron snarled, jerking forwards to shove her hand away.
The jinx missed Malfoy…
…And Harry flung from the table, smashing into the far wall.
The hall watched in silence as he crumpled to the floor, coughing.
The Slytherins were all on their feet, their attention divided. Half stared in shock at Harry, the other half had taken it upon themselves to glare down the rest of the hall. Malfoy leapt over the table as the sound of retching filled the air; Harry had probably been eating when he was hit.
Ron didn't realise he was standing, too, until Neville had placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back to his seat. "They've got it." He muttered, staring sullenly at his food. After a moment, he pushed his plate away. Ron didn't blame him.
He glanced at his little sister, but didn't have to say anything. She was staring wide eyed, in shock. Her face was a pale with worry. Despite her tough words, she never had an intention to hurt Harry. Maybe this was the wake-up call Ginny desperately needed.
Her wand clattered onto her plate, and she made no attempt to retrieve it.
.
.
.
Harry was miserable.
He had woken this morning less than rested; the nightmares had prevented any sufficient sleep, and when he had jerked from the horrors that consumed his every unconscious moment… all he felt was shame.
He was eighteen, and had nightmares.
A child had nightmares.
He was sick of waking up with sweat coating his skin. Of not being able to catch his breath. Of that gut wrenching moment wherein he didn't know if he was awake, or if the dream was reality. And he was sick of Draco catching him in these weak moments. Yes, he had been through a horrifying war. Yes, he had an appalling illness. Surely the shock should have dwindled away by now? When was the supposed acceptance going to roll its way in? Every time he crumbled, an audience would gather for the premier of the display. It was like a bloody event.
Regardless of the nightmares, or the rather large bruise that decorated his back, which he would have to somehow get rid of before Draco noticed, he had stirred rather despondently.
He didn't have an explanation, and he didn't think one was warranted.
He had opened his eyes, and wanted nothing more than to lay there for the rest of the day.
What...
Seriously, what was the point?
His arms and legs were so weary they hurt. Hell, everything hurt.
He had woken sore, exhausted, and humiliated. There was nothing more he needed than to lash out a bit; a yell might give him some energy, or force him to shove his mortification aside. He had pushed and prodded at Draco's buttons; hell, he had ripped a few of the off! But Draco remained impassive, barely, and civil.
The first time Harry was calling on his temper was the only time he managed to control it.
Ron would have snapped at him.
…
God, he had to stop thinking about Ron.
Their friendship was over; hadn't he decided that at the start of term?
Despite this, he wondered if he could ever endorse another chess game between Ron and Draco. Probably not. Draco had been rather polite, but that could never last. And there was no reason Ron would consider approaching either of them.
What if he…?
No. It wouldn't happen.
There wasn't use in these fanciful thoughts. Not when he couldn't explain his absence and Ron would definitely demand justification.
Sometimes, when Harry's thoughts trailed along this path, he wished he hadn't kept it to himself.
Maybe this weight would alleviate if he wasn't carrying everything himself.
Of course, it was too late now. He had made his bed, and he would lay in it.
Stinging charms at breakfast be damned.
"You're going to the hospital wing."
"I don't think I am." Harry sighed again, holding his arms up and waving them about with more energy then he felt he had. His arms shook with the effort. He ignored that. "I'm fine. Not a scratch on me." Not true, but Draco didn't have to know that. Besides, it was barely a sore; a small scrape where his shoulder had connected with the stone wall. Inconsequential, considering no bones had snapped when the opportunity had provided itself.
"You were flung into the wall." Draco's voice was ice; he was balancing an odd combination of fury and apathy. He was failing. "You need to-"
"I'm fine." Harry repeated, this time jumping a little, arms wide. He let them fall to his sides the moment he thought the message had been received. "It was an Impediment Jinx; do they usually break bones? No."
Harry was rather proud he had managed to summon a lie as easily as that; and, more impressive, Draco didn't question it.
There wasn't an Impediment Jinx in sight at breakfast; it was too dangerous to cast, and no one was stupid enough to hit a random target in Great Hall. No one wanted to hurt a first year by mistake.
No, it was a simple stinging hex.
A spell had been cast on him, and his body had reacted in an impossible way.
Someone else's magic had touched him, and been rejected.
His innate magic had thrown him across the hall, and the presence of magic. It had changed the very essence of the intended spell. Was that even possible? Apparently.
Harry stared back as calmly as he could at Draco's judging gaze.
He really was going to die, wasn't he?
And right now, he hadn't the energy to care.
"You threw up." Was Draco's next argument. "If you're sick-"
"I had a lump of food in my throat; you fling across the room, and see if you can control your gag reflex." Harry sighed, shrugging.
Lies.
He had had a moment of clarity; an epiphany. And the fear had been so intense he had been violently ill. So not only was he weak when he was asleep, but also when he was in control and awake.
Tch, hadn't he proved that when he met the infamous Amanda Harvey?
"Aren't you even the slightest bit angry?" Draco snapped instead of procuring the next dispute. "You were attacked during your breakfast."
"I don't think it was aimed for me." How long was this going to go for? Harry had already acknowledged that the fight he had wanted wasn't going to happen; Draco was prodding and drawing out this conversation over something insignificant. If Harry wasn't allowed his fight, Draco certainly wasn't getting one now. "The hall seemed shocked, not pleased."
"Oh, you can decipher the emotions of the hall, can you?"
"Yup."
Harry sighed for perhaps the twelfth time since they had stumbled into the hall. He was exhausted, and to be honest, didn't want to summon the enthusiasm, or hell, even the boredom to associate with class. He had a full timetable today, and it was already promising to be hellish.
A wave of dread rushed at Harry; how was he supposed to enter his class? If it was a practical, and a spell neared Harry…would a similar commotion occur, or perhaps one more cruel? How was he supposed to learn, if he feared for his life at each mutter of a spell?
God, he was going to throw up again.
"You know what; I'm going back to bed." Harry decided, whipping around before Draco could claim hypocrisy. He needed to get away, before his limbs gave out, and before the horror rising up and suffocating him, curling it's cold fingers around his throat, inched its way to his expression. "I forgot to take my first potion, anyway. I'll see you later."
Lies.
.
.
.
Draco paced towards the Slytherin common room, footsteps echoing throughout the corridor. He had requested a bathroom break during Defence, and somehow found himself detoured into the dungeons.
Harry hadn't turned up for Transfiguration, Charms, or recess.
Of course, he had been in a bit of an odd mood since he woke. Snapping, sighing, and shrugging instead of answering a question. If he needed space, that was fine. Draco was perfectly able to give him space. It wasn't as if he was infatuated with the git; they had their own lives to fulfil.
There was no rule that implied he wasn't allowed to check up on him, though. He could claim to have forgotten his nonexistent homework, if Harry was exasperated with his appearance. Draco would take exasperated over broken.
But then, he wasn't concerned.
There would be no mad dash for Slytherin.
He strolled.
Briskly.
His little expedition would be for naught; he would arrive, find Harry catching up on his sleep, and hurry back to the classroom before the new professor queried why a simple trip to the bathroom took twenty plus minutes. He was already annoyed with himself for his naivety; Harry wasn't a helpless babe. He didn't need a babysitter, and Draco unquestionably didn't want to become one.
This trip was a waste of time.
An absolute waste of-
…
Draco stopped short at the door.
Harry certainly was seeking sleep. He was curled in a ball atop of the sheets, arms wrapped around his legs and head touching his knees. His expression was relaxed, serene. He wasn't tossing in his sleep, or thrashing. He was the embodiment of tranquillity.
Draco shrugged his robe off, and collected his wand silently. He flicked it at the broken toy, repairing the smashed Rubik's cube. It reformed with all sides matching; Harry had finally succeeded. He picked it up and placed it in Harry's trunk, where it wouldn't mock him when he woke.
He vanished the strange cohort of empty fire-whiskey bottles cluttered around the bed, and sent a quick cleaning charm at Harry's stained shirt. After a moment of deliberation, he cleaned the pillow, too. There were damp patches that looked incredibly like tears, and they had to go. He set about uncurling Harry's fist to remove the crumpled parchment he clung to; it was the bucket list. He dutifully crossed off number nine and twenty eight, placing it on the bedside table.
He pulled the sheets up to cover Harry, and set an anti-hangover solution next to the list.
Something was wrong, and Harry wasn't telling him what it was.
He would have to find some other way to help.
Perhaps he would threaten that first year that seemed to know so much.
.
.
.
Drink in school hours
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.
.
Complete a Rubik's cube
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.
.
Guilt had managed to worm it's way through Harry's mind, sitting quietly besides exhaustion and dejection. It whispered to him as he pretended to study, reminding him that Draco was within touching distance, and yet they spoke not a word. It taunted him during Potions as he inadequately hacked up legume nodules, devouring them into an unusable mess that Draco disregarded as he began to slice his own. Lunch was spent with Harry staring at his overfilled plate, moving his food aimlessly around the porcelain.
Draco didn't utter a word.
He had left an anti-hangover solution besides Harry last night. He had helped Harry stumble to the bathroom without a single comment about perving at him whilst he showered. He somehow produced homework, in a forged effort of Harry's hand, to submit to Slughorn.
Harry couldn't meet his gaze. The blonde would know in an instant what was troubling Harry, and that was terrifying. So Harry avoided looking at him, and Draco didn't pressure him to.
Silence enveloped the pair.
Allowing the guilt to weed its way into Harry's thoughts. He should tell Draco; what was the point of keeping it bottled up?
…
He didn't know how.
How could he look at the person that had given his useless life meaning, and tell him he was wasting his time? The words "It's getting worse" got stuck in his throat, choking him.
It's getting worse.
Hell, it's getting fucking worse.
They could have another month, or a day.
How was he supposed to say that?!
He didn't have the strength.
So he stayed silent.
They entered the Transfiguration classroom quietly, the usual chatter of the classroom somewhat diminished. The Slytherins had quietened as Harry and Draco had, almost as if they were afraid their cheerfulness would be rejected by the pair. They could be as happy as they wished, in Harry's opinion. They had everything to look forwards to. And Draco hadn't sent forth a glare in hours. It wasn't as if they were about to be reprimanded; they could talk all they wanted.
It seemed the awkward air that had manifested around Harry kept them hushed. Perfect; he was sullying their contentment, too.
The Gryffindors were similar echoes of themselves. Ron and Neville looked particularly glum, which had spread to contaminate the others, as unhappiness often did.
McGonagall had not yet appeared, late for the first time in months, and the eighth years did nothing to take advantage of this miracle. They all sat sullenly in their allocated chairs.
Harry felt miserable; it seemed his dissatisfaction at his approaching demise had affected the class. This was why they weren't to know. Mourning would pass; it was the wait that he despised.
He sighed, a common habit, and stared at the desk.
Twitching caught his eye.
Draco's hand was moving rather oddly. His fingers twitched, in spasm on the desk.
The shock made Harry force his eyes to the blonde's face, the first time in hours. And he wasn't impressed by what he found.
Draco wore an unmasked expression of pure fury. His limbs shook, thrashing across the table hap hazardously. He would have fallen from the chair if Harry hadn't grabbed his shoulder to steady him. It looked as if his body was moving erratically, and by his grimace, not by preference.
A large jerk almost unseated him again, leaving Harry at a loss to help. He couldn't heal Draco, he couldn't counter the spell, he couldn't even identify the curse.
Draco's eyes, which had been lolling around in his head, managed to snap to Harry's.
The fury in the grey soared through the green.
Harry spun to face the class, finding himself on his feet before he decided on the action. "Undo it." He snarled, "Now."
Silence answered him.
Fucking silence.
It had an eerie way of mocking him; everything did.
He could feel Draco's shoulder twitching beneath his hand. A thump indicated that his arm had flopped against the table. He had lost control of his limbs; it was sick. Worse than a stinging jinx, or an exploding inkwell. This bullying was vile.
No one lifted a wand.
Fine. Hard way it was.
Not Hermione, Ron or Neville; they weren't vindictive. It couldn't have been Seamus; he didn't have the wand proficiency to pull this off. It…
Dean.
Harry was across the room in an instant, twisting his hands in Dean's robes and hauling him to his feet.Now he heard clatters of chairs. What incredible difference were they seeing between the two, to recognize Dean needing more assistance than Draco?
"Unhand me, Harry."
"Undo the spell!" He hadn't meant to yell quite that loud. "Now!"
"Let go of me-!"
Harry shoved him back into his chair, fumbling for his fake wand. He could probably manage to squeeze some magic through the wood. His magic would do anything for chance to destroy him. "Undo the fucking spell!"
"What is going on here?" Harry ignored the huff of McGonagall, focused on Dean. He was going to remove the spell, or he was going to be throttled. "I can see I was a fool for trusting the eighth years to have some dependability and behave for five minutes! Mister Potter, return to your seat. Twenty points for violence against another student."
…
Was she joking?
Harry turned quietly, ignoring how the Gryffindors flinched and returned their gaze to the front. Ron was the only one that managed to hold his own, and even he wore an appalled grimace.
A flick of McGonagall's wand returned his limbs to their previous state. A glimmer of relief managed to squirm its way to the front of Harry's thoughts, before the fury and the disgust shoved it down.
"That spell," McGonagall continued, placing a large wad of papers on her desk, "is not to be used again at Hogwarts. Do I make myself clear? If I so much as hear a whisper of it, the students involved will face suspension. It is despicable, and I am very disappointed in all of you."
Nostrils flaring, she flicked her wand at the parchment pile on her desk. The pages went soaring to spread around the room, landing on the desks. "This disgusting matter is settled. Now, everyone take your seats. The test will go ahead as-"
"That's it?" Harry growled. The class, which was already silent, turned deafening. Everyone glanced between their Headmistress and Harry, no one wanting to miss their reactions.
"It's been settled, Mister-"
"You take points from me, for trying to stop them-"
"You were the only one intent on harming-"
"He was thrashing across the desk!" Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. They were able to curse Draco in her classroom without repercussions? "You're the Headmistress! Why don't you ever do anything to stop them!?"
"Harry." Harry's throat close obediently. Draco had turned in his chair, eyebrows raised. "I'm fine." Tch, he had the audacity to ask why Harry hadn't thrown a fit over a misplaced jinx in the hall yesterday, and yet whenhe was hit with one, it was fine. The hypocrisy was ridiculous.
"Sit down, Mister Potter." McGonagall's voice was ice. "And complete your test. Another word from you, and you'll be in detention for the rest of the year."
Well.
Fury crawled along Harry's skin.
He sat besides Draco, curled his arms against his chest, and stared furiously at his Headmistress.
.
.
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15. Intentionally fail a test
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.
.
It was a relief when Draco was asked to stay after Charms.
Harry gestured to the door, indicating he was going to wait for the blonde in the corridor. Draco didn't even acknowledge the glance; he collected his books and sauntered over to Flitwick with a bored expression on his face.
And he would be bored; there was only so much creativity a professor could place into the you're-throwing-away-your-future speech. They wanted him to complete his homework, and give a damn about the N.E.W.T's. With each teacher a different angle was used; none successful.
It had become common for Harry to make a snide comment as Draco eventually rejoined him, another push in the academic direction. Today, there would be no little remark.
Harry walked calmly for the first few metres, edging away from the open door. When he deemed himself far enough, he broke into a sprint. He had been worrying about how he was going to get there, and Flitwick had provided the perfect opportunity. A moment away from Draco.
He reached the bathroom with time to spare, panting. He tried to ignore his unease; he could usually run twice the distance without breaking a sweat. Now, he was leaning over a sink with a stitch running up his side. When had he become so weak?
It took a few minutes before he could straighten up, and take a good look around. Myrtle wasn't here. It was mysteriously quiet without the ghost's wailing; a little bit of heaven, usually. Today, it was stifling. Every step Harry took echoed off the walls, cruelly reminding him that he was indeed alone.
He ended up sitting on the vanity to wait, fiddling with the taps. He stared at the little snake etched into the steel; he was twelve when he had dived into the Chamber of Secrets, to face a basilisk and an echo of Voldemort (though he hadn't known it at the time). And yet, he wasn't nearly as petrified as he was nowadays. He had fearlessly jumped into a giant pipe to help Ginny. He couldn't even face Draco to tell him what was wrong. God, he was pathetic. Why hadn't he retained his courage?
"Braxton told me you were looking for some healing salves." Harry glanced up at the third year Slytherin, not realising he had entered the room. The boy stared at him with narrowed eyes. "You're not going to rat us out, are you?"
"Course not." What was the point of telling the professors that there was a miniature black market run through the school? Worried witches wouldn't receive their banned Blemish Blitzer, nervous seventh years wouldn't receive their Self-Writing Quills, and Harry wouldn't receive his Healing Potions. "That wouldn't help anyone."
He couldn't go to the Hospital Wing without Pomfrey staring at him with those huge watery orbs, and quite frankly, he didn't want her keeping tabs on him. Now that his magic had decided to snap his wrists without the use of a spell, Harry knew he had become a liability. He was a danger to himself. Simply being at school, and not the hospital, was putting his life on the line. What would happen if he decided to go to the loo in the middle of the night, and his lungs filled with water? What would happen if he decided to go for a walk around the grounds, and his limbs decided to fling apart? What if he was in class and his magic stopped his heart from beating?
It could happen anytime.
And as soon as Pomfry or McGonagall found out, he was going to be shipped back to the hospital. Even threats from the Slytherins couldn't prevent that. Once was a miracle. Twice? The teachers wouldn't assist him to his death.
So, he was avoiding the Hospital Wing like the plague.
He was given potions through the hospital, but he didn't want them clueing in, either. So what he wasn't given or didn't filch from the Hospital Wing had to be attained some other way. And Braxton had been all too keen to direct Harry to the Slytherin Black Market.
"Here, I got Bruise Removal Paste, and Star Grass Salve. The paste gets rid of a bruise within an hour, the salve soothes any wounds. You shouldn't take them too much; the salve smells a bit. It's a tad potent."
Harry opened the salve, taking a quick sniff. A bit potent? It filled the room in an instant.
"Eucalyptus." The kid continued with a grimace. "Can't stand the stuff, so don't go putting it on in our common room, right?"
"Course not." Harry pocketed the salves. "What do I owe you?"
If anything, the boy looked downright miserable at the question. He sighed, staring at the ceiling for a moment before reaching for his bag. Harry already knew what it was going to be; Braxton had been downright hysterical with laughter after overhearing him in the common room, and had run straight to Harry with the price. It was funny.
Harry waited in amusement as the Slytherin pulled out a copy of one of the many untrue biographies about the wizarding saviour. This one was titled Harry Potter and He Who Must Not Be Named: a History. Well, at least it was one of the more coherent ones. Pansy had taken to ordering them, and reading bits of Harry's life to him. Did you know you're actually 4 foot three? You wouldn't know, looking at you.
He sighed again, book held gingerly in his hands; he didn't even want to hold it. "I need your autograph."
Oh, this was brilliant.
Harry actually grinned. "Alright. Hand it over."
"It's not for me." The boy hurried, wincing at the grin. "It's for my little sister. It's her birthday next week, and she's obsessed with you."
"Sure it is." Harry nodded, grabbing a quill from his own bag and some ink.
"It's not for me!" He tried to throw a sneer on his face; it was softened by his humiliated scarlet shade, however.
"What's her name?" Harry didn't want to take pity on him, but his hands had started to twitch. If he reached for his wand, Harry couldn't very well disarm him, could he? Anyway, if he needed anything else, it would be bad form to irritate his supplier.
"Glinda." He sighed with relief, though his jaw remained locked. He glanced at the door, watching for trespassers. God, Slytherins and their priorities.
"Dear Glinda. I wish you all the joy and happiness you deserve on your birthday. Harry Potter. PS. I don't credit anything written in this book."
"She'll be thrilled." The boy snatched the book back quickly, shoving it hurriedly in his bag. Only when it was out of sight did he relax, and meet Harry's eyes again. "You know, Pomfrey would have plenty of salves. If you complained a bit, I'm sure she would give you some."
"Pomfrey and I aren't exactly friendly at the moment." Harry replied evenly, shrugging it off, as, he hoped, the Slytherin did. "Do you do potions, too?"
"Sure." He shrugged, "But I charge for the ingredients, and the cost of making."
"You make them yourself?" Harry was a bit impressed; he couldn't make potions now without blowing up a cauldron. That a third year was attempting them and selling-
"No, a senior makes them. You won't like who."
Draco.
It had to be bloody Draco, didn't it? But when did he find the time?
"Guess I'll stick to these, then. Thanks."
The boy shrugged, but didn't move. He stared quite openly at Harry, frowning slightly. "You're not how I thought you would be." He eventually said. The was it. No explanation, no further comment.
"Alright." How did one respond to a comment like that? "Slytherin isn't how I expected, either." And it wasn't; he had thought it would be taunting and ridiculing all the time. Well, it kind of was. He thought it would be centred around bullying. Apart from occasional disputes, everyone seemed to get along.
"Our utter brilliance is rather undervalued." What a cheeky sod.
Harry's chuckle ended abruptly. First, because he was in awe he had laughed. He hadn't felt content enough to laugh in days. The fact he had been in awe was rather depressing, and effectively summoned up the nasea that had been a common member of his day.
What's more, Goyle had just stormed into the bathroom.
"Oi, Pucey, where the fuck is my potion?" He snarled, stopping short as his small piggy eyes spotted Harry. His snarl deepened in disgust.
Great.
Harry briefly wondered how his body was going to mutilate this time, un-pocketing his fake wand. No abrupt movements; Goyle was like an animal. Too quick, and he would lunge for the throat.
"Don't you dare." Pucey Junior, apparently, warned, snatching the wand off of Harry and shoving it aside. He drew his own, however, swallowing nervously. "Malfoy'll kill me."
…
Did they all know he wasn't using magic?
Or did they know he was sick?
Neither option was particularly desirable.
Goyle stared at the wand, and then at the defenceless Harry. His mouth curled in an amused sneer; it was the first time Harry remembered seeing him smile. It was rather horrifying. "You think you can take me on?"
"I can try." His voice cracked at that; Harry had seen firsthand how vindictive the older Slytherin could be. By the sound of the third year, so had he. "But let me remind you, I'm the only one this year that's successfully brought in banned items."
"So?"
"So," Harry replied for Pucey Junior, "It wouldn't be a great idea to piss him off if you want something from him the future."
"You shut up." His entire face contorted. "Half-blood murdering-"
"I've only killed one person." Harry interrupted angrily, ignoring the flinch from Pucey, "And I'm not going to apologize for getting rid of someone that wanted to kill thousands."
"Vincent died!" Goyle bellowed, his angry voice echoing off the tiles. "Because of you!"
…
He believed it.
Harry stared at Goyle's furious, sad face. He was cruel, and vindictive. He was a brutal bully.
He missed his only friend, and he truly believed it was Harry's fault he was dead.
He hated Goyle, but it still hurt.
It concreted his fears. The Weasley's would never blame Harry for Fred, would they? No, they were too kind. But if Goyle believed it…
Luckily for the both of them, Goyle's shouting had summoned a few fifth years walking by. They poked their heads into the bathroom, taking in Harry standing awkwardly behind Pucey Junior, who had his wand raised defensively.
"What's going on here?" The girl, and obviously leader of the Slytherin group, asked bravely. She glanced at Pucey again, cocking an eyebrow. "You selling something, kid?"
"No." He seemed much more relaxed with backup. He faced Goyle with a straighter back, and head held high. Tch, Slytherins. "You're not getting your potion, because Malfoy's the one that makes the potions, and you keep injuring his boy-toy."
Harry ignored the sniggers from the fifth years; Draco had clearly specified that little message.
With four new wands about to be focussed on him, even Goyle knew he didn't have the odds in a fight. With another snarl, he shoved his way from the room. Christ, his anger was insatiable.
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. He had to do something about Goyle.
This little meeting would trail back to Draco, and he would become defensive again.
There was too much to worry…
Pucey was staring at the fake wand, a frown on his face. He spun it between his fingers a few times, before giving Harry a steady glance. He had probably tried to use it; a lot of people wanted to use the wand that had ended Voldemort's reign.
Harry held out his hand, shoving the useless thing back up his sleeve. He didn't spare it a glance; it was painful to even hold. "You know, don't you?" He sighed, watching calmly as Pucey Junior and the fifth years all changed their expressions to careful disinterest. They weren't nearly as convincing as Draco's.
"Know what?"
"I'm too tired for games." Harry replied truthfully, shrugging. "Just tell me."
They all exchanged glances; no one wanted to be the one to say it. What if they weren't supposed to? It wouldn't bode well to have an irate Draco on their tails. They would take on Goyle, but not Draco.
Harry sighed again, shaking his head. He didn't have the energy for this.
Hell, he didn't have the fucking time.
"…Anyone with half a brain can tell you're not well."
.
.
.
"Is everything alright?" Harry tried not to tense at the words. "You've seemed a bit on edge recently."
Now was the time to tell him.
It was a perfect opportunity; they were alone in the dormitory. The chances of them being interrupted or overheard where slim. Draco had brought up the conversation. A simple 'no,' would work. An 'actually, I have something to tell you,' would successfully bring about the awful tone of the topic; those words never boded well. 'The potions aren't working well anymore'. 'I'm being hurt without using magic'. 'I don't think I have long left'. 'I think I need another trip to the hospital'. Any of those. He had to tell Draco.
"I'm fine. Bit tired, I suppose."
Coward.
.
.
.
Four days until the next diagnosis.
God, help him.
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